CHAPTER XLV.

THE GIFT OF THE RING.

The older man did not answer at once, and Lawrence, feeling as if he had

no right to listen, moved slowly backward till he touched the table.

Then he turned suddenly and looked down quizzically into Shirley’s eyes.

“You--understand?” he whispered gently.

She nodded swiftly. “What must you think of me?” she murmured a little

unsteadily. “I didn’t believe it at first, but they swore it--was true;

and, somehow, things--fitted in, and--and---- Do you think you’ll ever

forgive me?”

One hand stole across the table, and the strong brown fingers closed

over the tiny gloved ones.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t?” he questioned softly, gazing into her

wonderful eyes with an expression in his own which swiftly brought her

long lashes sweeping down on crimsoning cheek.

“Well?” he queried as she made no answer.

“I--I hoped,” she faltered.

It was the voice of the grand duke, weary, sorrowful, but full of an

unmistakable resignation, which broke the silence.

“I cannot blame you, Oscar,” he was saying quietly. “I have clung to the

old traditions because there seemed no other way--perhaps I lacked the

courage to do what you have done--and my life turned to dust and ashes.

I love you too well ever to wish to see that happen to you. Have you

any--plans?”

“Heaps of them, uncle,” the prince answered jauntily. “I’m going to

become an American citizen. I think I’ll buy a big place in the South

and turn farmer. I’ve money enough.”

The two at the table saw the old man wince slightly, but in an instant

he had recovered his composure.

“What a thoroughbred he is!” Barry whispered admiringly. He had

apparently forgotten to release Shirley’s hand, but she seemed too

absorbed to notice the lapse.

“There will be no difficulty on that score,” the duke remarked. “Your

estates belong to you personally, and their sale should net a million or

more.”

Suddenly he gave a start and arose swiftly to his feet.

“I beg your pardon, Oscar,” he ejaculated, in chagrin. “My preoccupation

has made me forget entirely my desire to meet your--wife. This lady----”

He glanced at Shirley with a courtly inclination, just in time to see

her snatch her hand from Barry’s grasp and spring to her feet with

blazing cheeks. The prince saw it, too, and his eyes twinkled.

“I have not the honor,” he said quietly. “My wife is just recovering

from an illness which has been the cause of most of these complications.

Mr. Lawrence, will you be so good as to present us?”

With swiftly recovered composure, Shirley acknowledged the introduction

with a naïve dignity; and, when they had all seated themselves again,

the prince begged for a recital of Barry’s adventures.

“Extraordinary and most diverting,” he said when the tale had been told.

“Perhaps a little more amusing in retrospect. My dear Mr. Lawrence, I

feel more than ever indebted to you for what you have done. When I

started the ball rolling last Monday morning I had no conception of the

strenuous experiences I was bringing upon you. You see, I had left

Ostrau secretly with only Watkins, my American secretary, who has been

with me for years, but I was almost certain of being followed. I hoped,

however, that we should succeed in losing ourselves somewhere in the

South or West before our trail was picked up. I should explain, perhaps,

that my wife and I were married in Paris, where she was spending the

winter. She was Miss Isabel Patterson, of Baltimore. We sailed under

assumed names; or, rather, under a name I used in England during our

exile----”

“I beg your pardon,” Lawrence put in, “but was it Nordstrom?”

“Why, yes. How did you know?”

“I met a friend of yours who had known you at Cambridge. He was an

Englishman named Brandon.”

“John Brandon!” exclaimed the prince. “Of course! We were great friends

during my university days, but I haven’t seen him in years. You see, Mr.

Lawrence, our family was exiled from Ostrau until the timely revolution

three years ago which restored my father to power. I was brought up in

England, and, as we were very poor, indeed, I went through Rugby and

Cambridge under the name of Nordstrom, which is one of our family names.

It would have been absurd for a poverty-stricken individual to be

strutting about as a prince. What times we had!” he sighed. “I think

they were the happiest days of my life--until now. But I am digressing.

Unfortunately for our plans, my wife was taken ill just as we were on

the point of leaving New York. I knew that the pursuit would be keen,

and, unless attention was diverted from us to another quarter, we would

be hunted out no matter how carefully we hid ourselves in New York.

Considering my wife’s health, I was most anxious to avoid anything of

that sort until she was recovered.

“I was at my wit’s end,” he continued, “and could think of nothing until

one day, while waiting with Watkins in the Pennsylvania Station for a

physician from Philadelphia, whom I knew well, and who had promised to

come on, I suddenly caught sight of you. I was simply stumped, of

course; then, like a flash, I realized that here was the way out, which

I had hitherto been searching for in vain. It took but a moment for me

to outline a plan to Watkins, arrange my bill case, and place the ring

in it. You see, that had been given me by the Rajah of Sind when I

toured India two years ago, and I had scarcely had it off my finger

since then. If an added mark of identification were needed, that would

amply suffice.

“The plan worked to a charm. When Hager, my father’s chief of police,

arrived, he was completely taken in. He kept on your trail day and

night, and my purpose was accomplished. We had taken rooms in what I

considered the most out-of-the-way locality in New York. When I went out

it was always after dark and wearing a semidisguise. In spite of every

care, however, fate seemed to be against me, and caused Hager to choose

this very house for the culmination of his little drama. My rooms are

just back of this. Through the door I heard all that passed; and, when I

found that my uncle was expected, I realized that the better way would

be to end everything at once and be free from further persecution. I can

only close, Mr. Lawrence, by offering my most sincere apologies for the

annoyance to which you have been subjected.”

“There is not the slightest need of that, your highness,” Barry returned

hastily. “I am more grateful to you than I can say, for without your aid

I should probably have missed--the greatest happiness of my life.”

“You are good to say that,” the prince said simply. “I am very happy.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Lawrence asked, as they arose.

The crown prince looked slightly puzzled. “I’m afraid I do not

understand.”

“This,” explained Lawrence, drawing the emerald ring from his finger and

holding it out. “It belongs to you, you know.”

“Not at all. That is yours. It is part of the bargain, and I am sure you

have earned it.”

“But it’s worth a king’s ransom,” Barry protested. “I really can’t take

it. You have given me more than enough without that. Besides, it is much

too rare a jewel for me to be wearing.”

The prince darted a mischievous glance at Shirley Rives.

“Perhaps there is some one else who might be willing to relieve you of

its care,” he murmured, his fine eyes twinkling.

There was no mistaking his meaning, and the girl dropped her lids, while

a rush of color crimsoned her lovely face. The next instant, however,

she lifted them again and looked bravely into Barry’s questioning eyes.

“Perhaps--some day,” she murmured.

THE END.

RUBY LIGHT.

By BURKE JENKINS.

CHAPTER I.

QUICK ACTION.

At a quarter to five in the afternoon, when the thing really began as

far as I myself was concerned, I happened to be swinging my legs from

the stringpiece of the town dock of Port Washington. How and why I had

been sitting there some two hours, in a hot, summer sun, will develop in

due course. Sufficient now to state that my frame of mind was one of

general disgust at the world’s handling; this coupled to a dark-brown

ennui.

Quite listlessly I had been running my eye over a trimlined launch of

the “day-cruiser” type that was moored, bow and stern, to a float below

me. For the most part, I love boats far more than people; so it must

have been something out of the ordinary that made me shift my attention

suddenly from the craft itself to the two men who manned it.

One, a clean-limbed, undersized man of about forty, much spattered with

gilt braid and buttons, I sized up as the captain. He stood on the float

alongside the diminutive wheelhouse, steadying the slight roll of the

craft with his left hand, while his right constantly sought his watch in

nervous consultation of the exact time.

“A precise and pompous bit of a fool!” I remember grunting to myself.

But my gaze happened that instant to travel toward the other.

This fellow hadn’t quitted the boat, but busied himself lumbering, I

thought, about the engine, which was situated in the after cockpit. A

loosely knit chap he was, whose fingers were all thumbs.

And I, who fairly caress a bit of machinery, wondered how in thunder

such a clumsy cuss could ever have got the position as engineer of so

trim a little vessel.

But the little skipper again caught my attention, for he suddenly

snapped his watch case and quickened to attention. His gaze never left

the road that led to the wharf, which, by the way, was the way to the

railroad station.

An auto, quick-driven and skidding slightly in the dust, rounded the

turn by the shore hotel and took to the wharf’s planks.

Now, how it was that my eyes whirled from this decidedly new interest

back to the heavy man in the boat I don’t know; but I am certainly glad

now that I did glance that way on that particular second.

For, with a furtive look at his little chief, the fellow made a quick

step forward and to starboard. It was but a second that his hand groped

under a locker; but, when he withdrew it, his face lighted to a grin. He

checked it quickly, though, as he slid back to his old position before

the flywheel.

The car groaned to sharply applied brakes directly alongside the gangway

that led steeply down to the float, for the tide was low.

Immediately a man popped from the limousine, and handed down a closely

veiled woman; then he slipped a coin to the chauffeur, who forthwith

made off.

Somehow or other, I was getting mighty interested by this time; though,

of course, none of it was any of my business.

The woman wore a dream of a little, high-heeled boot, which showed

prettily enough in her terror of the sharply sloping plank. But the man

steadied her firmly to the float, where he nodded curtly to the little,

gilded captain.

“Well, we made it, Stevens,” I heard him say.

Then he called his own bluff at being the gentleman, for he lighted a

cigarette, drawing his match across a polished mahogany panel of the

wheelhouse. I could see the little skipper fairly writhe. He had my

sympathy; for, owner or no owner, right is right.

“New rich, and thinks he’s the real thing,” I muttered to myself, little

realizing how soon I was to assume another rôle.

With but a moment’s delay, the girl reached a seat on a transom of the

midship half cabin; and, just before joining her, the man drew out a

handsomely jeweled watch.

“No time to spare, eh, Stevens?” he inquired, a bit anxiously, I

thought.

Stevens deftly cast off the moorings and took his position at the wheel.

“I’ll get there,” said he, as he jangled the bell for “ahead.”

The lumbering engineer leisurely grasped the starting lever and drew her

up to compression. The coil buzzed viciously, but no cough told of

explosion.

His surprise was a fine imitation of the genuine as he cranked once

more, but without result. The engine lay dead. Then I saw a sharp look

of dismay flash across the features of the man I reckoned to be the

owner.

“What’s the matter?” he snapped, in a tone far removed from his former

easy one.

“Don’t know,” grumbled the engineer surlily. “She wuz runnin’ all right

comin’ over.”

He went on with his futile cranking. Then the girl leaped to her feet

with a little cry, the wind whipping aside the veil a moment. Her face

decided me. If there was anything I could do to take away that look of

anxiety, almost terror, I’d do it. And, furthermore, I was pretty sure I

could. I knew I’d be taking a chance; but I didn’t believe it was much

of a one; and, besides, I like to take chances.

By the time I had reached the boat’s side, Stevens had thrust aside the

burly fellow, and was trying to start the balky machine himself, while

the owner chafed in bitterest impatience.

I caught his eye.

“I think I can start her,” I said simply.

He must have read something in my tone that conveyed more than the usual

talk of the “butter-in.”

“You understand engines?” he queried sharply.

“Enough to know that they need gasoline to run with,” I replied; and,

before even the engineer knew what I was up to, I entered the cockpit,

and strode quickly over to the tank locker, where I found my guess

correct. I was no longer taking any chances.

A stopcock which I had counted upon finding there was there, and turned

off.

“I saw him turn it off a moment before you arrived,” said I.

I know now I should have been a trifle more diplomatic, and I might well

have regretted it; for the fellow had me nicely by the throat in the

time you could count three.

But aid came speedily.

With a neatness and dispatch with which I would never have credited his

build, the owner shot out a white-knuckled fist, and caught the engineer

prettily beneath the cheek.

There’s a spot that effects the result nicely.

Grip relaxed, he toppled over the rail. The next second he bobbed to the

surface, gurgling stertorously.

I had regained my breath from the strangle by this time.

“Here, quick!” said I, springing for the stopcock and turning it on

full. “I’ll run her for you.”

I had caught the glitter of a constable’s star in the small crowd that

had collected on the dock from nowhere. I realized that explanation

would delay.

And little Skipper Stevens proved a man of quick action, too; for this

time the bell jangled with a result.

I threw her over, and she caught on the first spark.

Two minutes after, we shaved the angle of the channel and headed

straight for Plum Beach Point.

That engine, given fuel, certainly was a sweet-running piece of metal.

CHAPTER II.

A BIT OF ACTING.

For the next ten minutes I was too busy tuning the launch up to her best

performance to pay much attention to the others, or even to realize the

oddity of my position.

I refilled the grease cups, which I found had run pretty low, screwed

them down to a good tension, and gave a look at the sight tubes of the

automatic oiler.

Of course, the engine, new to me, was a bit of a problem. Twice she

choked--not to a stop, but enough to make Stevens cast an apprehensive

eye back at me. A quarter turn of the needle valve did the trick,

though; and, as though she were chortling at a mischievous prank, she

settled down to a steady, mile-eating gurgle.

Finally--it was just about as we were quitting the harbor for the open

Sound--I found time to flop myself down upon the engineer’s transom and

size up the situation.

Stevens, the skipper, was no problem at all. I had him right on my thumb

nail. His like are to be encountered the yacht world over. A

punctilious, efficient commander of any kind of a pleasure vessel from

two hundred feet to twenty overall length. No great head on him, but a

perfect wonder at taking orders and obeying them. And dumb as a bivalve.

The owner bothered me far more; partly, as was natural, from the fact

that I didn’t get one really fair-and-square look at him. He stood

squarely beside Stevens at the wheel, his watch in his palm, and his

eyes never off the water ahead. This I did notice, though: his head, in

the intensity of his gaze, had a trick of settling forward and down. Not

a crouch, but buzzardlike and scouring.

Somehow I caught myself fancying that I’d recognize that attitude when I

saw it again. Events, however, will prove that I wasn’t quite as smart

as I thought I was.

But it was as though I had been saving up for the verdict that hit me

fairly between the eyes when I finally settled covert attention upon

the girl. Sudden is no name for it.

Once clear of the harbor, and with the freshing, southerly breeze

whipping smartly, she flung aside the disgusting veil with a pleasure as

apparent as my own at having her do it. And, eyes dancing to the delight

of it all, for a bit of spray was flying, she fairly made me a comrade

with the smile of a gleeful child.

Now I’m not going to waste any words as to whether such things ever

really do happen or not. I’m not even going to slack up my yarn,

describing the how, when, or where.

The fact remains; and it was real fact. I dug it then and there from

somewhere ’way down in some inner chink of me where I’m only half awake.

But I never yet was fooled from that quarter.

That little girl there on that plush-covered transom was born to be my

wife.

And the funniest thing about it all was that it seemed to be the most

natural thing in the world. There was an “of-courseness” to it that was

fairly delicious; and the fact that she herself hadn’t waked to it quite

yet was immaterial.

The bell brought me back to machinery, and suddenly. I checked her to

half speed, and peered ahead for the cause of it. We were just abreast

Stepping Stones Light, just to north’ard of it, and with plenty of clear

water ahead. I saw nothing to justify any change in speed, especially

since up to this time both men had seemed most keen to get every

revolution possible out of her.

I noticed, however, that they were scanning closely a column of black

smoke that was slowly moving along the farther side of Throgg’s Neck.

Finally a long puff of white steam showed against the darker smoke, and,

some seconds thereafter, the hoarse toot of a whistle told me that a

steamer, whose hull was invisible beyond the land, was approaching the

turn at Fort Schuyler.

Stevens and the owner whispered a moment, then the little skipper

jangled the bell once more for full speed. But even then I didn’t tumble

to the thing. I don’t believe yet that I am much to be blamed for

stupidity on this score, however; for the next few minutes certainly

were crowded with the unusual.

I have often since marveled at the nicety with which Stevens had

calculated the relative distances. He certainly knew his book when it

came to helmsmanship.

For, at the moment that the bluff bows of the steamer, rounding the

point and keeping to the channel, straightened out to lay a course to

Execution Rocks, then it was that Stevens edged our course sharply to

port.

This, in turn, he followed by a frantic pawing of the wheel’s spoke to

starboard. It was some of the finest acting I had ever seen; and no one

in the world would have suspected him of being other than a distinctly

panic-stricken helmsman whose steering gear had suddenly gone all to

pot.

And it really was dangerous. I can still see that black wall of steel

plates towering above us; for he had actually had the nerve to whirl the

launch within ten feet of the steamer.

In the glance I shot up to the vessel’s rail, I could see the frightened

eyes of several passengers; and, above them, in the farther distance of

the bridge, an officer was fingering a bell pull hesitatingly.

Whether the owner saw his indecision, I don’t know, but his action

seemed to point to that effect; for he suddenly grabbed our whistle

cord, and sent shriek after shriek in a perfect panic of nervousness.

And all this time Stevens was clawing the wheel. Then suddenly he gave

me “full speed astern.” It was enough to wrench the gears’ bearings

apart; but I swung her to it. And we groaned and churned astern.

Then it was that the officer on the bridge did signal his engine room,

and he sang out in clear bass:

“What’s the trouble? Can’t you work clear of me?”

I could well understand the disgust that was only slightly veiled; for

yachtsmen certainly are a nuisance to the professional seaman,

especially the new-fledged power boatmen.

But it was an imperative tone that met him.

“The steering gear’s clean gone!” bellowed Stevens, in a volume I could

never have credited to his diminutive frame. “Drop us a ladder.”

And, without so much as a hint of hesitancy, the little fellow shoved a

boat hook back at me with the word to keep by the steamer, which had not

yet quite lost her way.

I believe it was really because he caught sight of the girl, who was

naturally terrified. Anyway, the officer shot out a sharp order, and

next instant the coils and rungs of a rope boarding ladder came swaying

down to us.

“Come on, Stella,” chuckled the owner, taking her arm and trying hard to

repress his gleeful satisfaction at the way things were going. “Keep a

stiff upper lip, girl, and hold tight. There’s really no danger, and you

are as spry as a monkey. Up you go!”

And up she did go with an agility and grace that only a man who knows a

rope ladder could appreciate.

The owner followed her immediately; and, the instant he was fairly on

his way to the deck of the steamer above us, I got my next surprise.

“Shove off!” snapped Stevens, in a sharp whisper to me.

Almost mechanically I did so; for I was in that particular daze of

unreality we are all familiar with.

“Full speed ahead!” came the next quick command; and I threw the gear

from the “neutral.” The cogs caught nicely, and we gathered instant

motion.

And in less than a minute thereafter we were speeding away, the steering

gear working like new.

In my day I have known more conventional ways of taking passage to

Portland, Maine.

For I read the steamer’s name on the stern. I had sailed on her once

myself.

CHAPTER III.

BY CHANCE.

Not one word could I get out of that tight-mouthed little cuss, Stevens.

He didn’t even deign to look my way till we had rounded the couple of

points, and he was approaching the float of a hotel dock that ran

alongside the ferry slip at College Point.

But what he did say then was rather complimentary, and I liked the smack

of it. We had come alongside the float; and both of us, at his nod, had

quitted the launch; and he stood there steadying her with his left hand.

“Well,” said he heartily, as he stuck out his right for a shake, “you’re

a good man at obeying orders.”

I felt something crumple in my fist as I withdrew it. A crisp twenty it

proved to be, and I realized that I had served my purpose.

“That yellow boy was pretty easy earned; eh, lad?” said he, with a

chuckle. “And with a little excitement thrown in, eh? But a closed mouth

spills no mush. So I guess I’ll run her back myself.”

And blow me if the little, old rascal didn’t pop right into the craft,

start her with the skill of an old hand at the game; and, steering with

the side lever with which the boat was fitted, he sped away, directly

retracing the course we had just covered.

I strolled shoreward along the wharf toward the hotel porch, where I sat

myself at one of the tables and ordered a steak. And, while it was

cooking, I tried to dope out a little of the mystery.

Fifteen minutes of hard concentration brought me but one point; and that

point, as I have already said, had already flashed to me on an

intuitional second. I mean about the girl. Beyond my sudden love for

her, nothing showed up to me at all. I simply couldn’t make head or tail

to a thing that had transpired since I had been sitting with my grouch

back there on the town dock at Port Washington.

And now, perhaps, it’s the best time to explain the reason for the

grouch, and let out how I happened to be there at all.

Briefly stated, I had been discharged the day before. Fired,

canned--call it what you will; and for what I now recognize to have been

an entirely good and sufficient reason.

But in the hot-headed asininity which I had not the sense to master in

those days, I had flared up to the quiet, but firm, remonstrance of my

chief. It had been a case in which I had exceeded my orders, and I

thought he ought rather to have applauded my zeal.

So that; in that blurting, blubbering fashion of the man who can’t keep

his temper, I had let out a string of heated nonsense.

Whereupon Chief Garth’s tone had raised not a whit.

“Well, Grey,” said he slowly--too slowly, “I’m sorry, though I was

afraid it would have to come. I had hoped it wouldn’t; but I simply

cannot brook such repeated displays of inability to control your temper.

I might waive the personal note; but I must not lose sight of the fact

that such a trait, unmastered, makes you less a man to be relied upon.”

I started to interrupt him, but a gesture checked me.

“You remember,” said he, holding his same evenness, “that I told you the

very first day you entered the detective service that orders were

orders, and that I was distinctly a martinet. Now, I like you, and I’m

not chary of admitting that you’re a very valuable man to me in many

ways. But----”

And here I had been fool enough to whirl into my usual, youthful burst

of independence. As I look back upon the scene, the chief was too

moderate; though I did flounce from his office finally, with my pay to

date and walking papers.

But now--what a change one look into certain eyes can make--I sat there

on that hotel porch and realized what an ass I was. And, by the way,

such a realization proved most salutary.

For, next instant, I made up my mind to eat “humble pie.” I wouldn’t

waste a minute in finding the chief. I would make a straightforward

apology and ask him to reinstate me.

Of course, it was long past office hours, but I decided not to let my

resolution cool.

I knew where Chief Garth lived, and could count pretty well upon his

being at home; for that little wife of his held him snug enough by her

whenever he wasn’t personally engaged on an important case.

So I bolted my meal, and caught the ferryboat which landed at East

Ninety-ninth Street. I even took a taxi to his house, so firmly did my

new resolution grip me.

Finally we whirled the last corner, and brought up sharp before Chief

Garth’s house, which was brilliantly enough indicated by a Welsbach

light in the vestibule.

It showed the number plainly, and, just as I stepped from the cab and

paid my fare, it showed more. For, at this moment, the door opened. I

heard a word or two exchanged; then the door closed, and a man came down

the stoop as hurriedly as a slight limp would let him.

He passed close by me as I was about to mount the steps, and I

experienced that uncomfortable sensation of having seen him some time,

but no more. Such a haunting inability to spot my man is one of my worst

points as a detective.

“Anyway,” thought I, “whoever he is, he’s in about as bad a temper as

I’ve ever seen ’em.”

With that I rang, and was admitted by a negress. It wasn’t another

minute before I was ushered into the chief’s den.

He was pacing up and down, puffing violently at a fat cigar. From his

first word, I knew him well enough to know that he was anything but

displeased at my showing up.

“Well, Grey,” he grumbled, “what’s the lay now?”

Five hours before I would have snapped back a sharp retort and seen him

to the deuce, but things glowed different now.

“Why, chief,” I replied, with a laugh, “I just came back because I think

you’ll want me now. You see, I’ve sworn off--losing my temper.”

He stopped short before me and shot me a glance.

“You mean it?” said he. “Because if you do,” he went on, “I believe you.

The one thing that has always struck me about your past offenses

is--that you never have promised to do better in the future. And,

strange as it may seem,” he chuckled, “that’s the very reason I put up

with you so long.”

“Well, I mean it now,” said I simply.

My tone must have carried complete conviction, for his manner abruptly

changed.

“Sit down,” said he suddenly, and we faced each other over his broad,

flat-top desk. “It just happens at this moment that I do need you, Grey;

and need you pretty bad, too; for I’ve just been put in line with a

thing that already got beyond Pawlinson, of Washington.”

“Yes?” said I, catching fire at the interest.

“The affair was important enough to warrant Pawlinson taking the trail

himself; and it certainly has led him a pretty dance during the two days

he’s been at it.”

I had never met Pawlinson personally, but his position among us was the

byword of efficiency. I glowed to the compliment the chief was

indirectly paying me.

“What’s the exact nature of the case?” said I.

“That’s just it,” muttered Garth disgustedly. “What we’ve got to go on

is the slimmest ever. Pawlinson’s so cursed secretive that he hasn’t

even let out what the fellow’s wanted for.

“Fact is, Pawlinson was here; just this moment gone. You must have

passed him coming in. But for all he’s been pretty definitely shaken off

the trail, he won’t let out but this much:

“A man answering this description”--here the chief tossed me the usual

paper of height, color of hair, et cetera--“arrived off quarantine

aboard the _Benzobia_ yesterday at daylight. Pawlinson had one of his

men waiting for him when the vessel docked; but in some outlandish way

the chap managed to get the skipper to let him go over the side and into

a gasoline launch that hove alongside while they were slowing down just

abreast of Liberty.

“Now Pawlinson gets kind of hazy as to just what happened directly after

that,” continued the chief; “nor does he give me any particulars as to

how he ever managed to get a berth as engineer of the little launch. But

how he lost the job he told me fully enough; and he sprinkled the

narrative with plenty of cuss words. It seems that while the launch was

waiting for the fellow at the town dock of Port Washington, Long Island,

that----”

“Port Washington!” I cried sharply.

“Why, yes--know the place?” He, of course, couldn’t understand my

excitement.

“And do you mean to tell me that it was Pawlinson himself whom I saw

that fellow shoot so prettily over the rail with a punch that would do

your heart good?” Things were fitting together for me now. But they

certainly were not for the chief.

“What the deuce are you talking about, anyway?” he said. “I hadn’t told

you about that yet.”

“I know, I know,” I jumbled on; “but what does Pawlinson say of the

girl? What had she to do with the thing, anyway?”

“The girl? For Heaven’s sake, Grey, how much do you know about this

thing?”

But he got little satisfaction from me then, for a sudden realization

swept over me.

I caught up the paper describing the man who was wanted, and crowded it

into my pocket.

“Explain later, chief,” I blurted, making for the door. “I’ll wire you

the minute I’ve got him located. Meanwhile wire me money when I call for

it, will you?”

“Aye, aye, boy!” agreed the chief, understanding thoroughly that even

his curiosity must wait. He was a big enough man to know when to play

second fiddle.

So I caught the midnight train to Boston which connected with the

Portland express.

CHAPTER IV.

TWO PANETELAS.

Upon quitting Chief Garth’s door and trotting down his stoop, I walked

briskly westward in the direction of a square which I counted upon

getting another cab; for, expecting no further use of him, I had

dismissed my former driver. I found two cabs, both taxis, and

immediately stepped toward the nearest.

“Grand Central Station!” said I to the fellow dozing on his seat.

He came to with a start just as I was yanking open the door.

“Hold on a minute, mister,” stammered the man, “I’m engaged.”

I glanced at his “clock.” Sure enough, his “vacant” sign was down. He

was waiting for somebody.

“Bill, yonder, ain’t got no fare,” offered the driver, thumbing in the

direction of the car beyond. “He’ll carry ye.”

And next minute I had given directions to “Bill,” who cranked forthwith;

and, speed having evidently showed in my attitude, we turned the corner

almost on two wheels. But my ear caught the whir of the first car as it,

in turn, was started.

I might have saved myself some anxiety had I stopped to think that, near

midnight as it was, the streets were free from traffic. There is

something in me that delights in speed, and that ride was a little slice

of joy in itself. We reached the station in plenty of time for my train.

I broke the twenty-dollar bill I had so easily earned that afternoon,

and secured my berth before boarding the Pullman.

Some impulse prompted me to turn my head just as I was passing through

the gate entrance to trains; and the station, at this hour, was deserted

enough for me to note the fact that another man stood before the Pullman

ticket window, his back toward me. Once aboard the sleeping car, I

slipped a quarter into the eagerly expectant palm of the dusky

attendant, and said: “Make up number seven, George,” and then passed up

the aisle into the smoking room.

I had been on a steady and momentous jump since the minute I had clapped

my eyes on the launch at a quarter to five. I must run over things a

bit; and I reasoned that the two dark-hued panetelas that still remained

unbroken in my upper vest pocket would help.

What I wondered at was my own attitude in the matter of this chase.

Where did I stand? Here I was, without any data whatever as to what he

was wanted for, virtually throwing myself into the chase of a man who

had shown himself closely related in some way to a girl whom I had, in a

most freakish and outlandish manner, fallen in love with. Why?

Honesty with myself soon told me that it wasn’t alone professional duty

that was whirling me toward Portland.

But what of Pawlinson? It must be big game, or he wouldn’t be connected

with it, let alone personally engaged in sleuth work.

Then, again, how was I going to figure with Pawlinson when he discovered

that I, who now was engaged as his own hireling through Chief Garth, was

the selfsame man who had just thwarted him by having him punched

prettily over the side of a launch?

I was really not much to blame in this; for I had done the thing

unwittingly enough; but such things aren’t easily brooked. In spite of

myself, though, I couldn’t help chuckling at the memory of the incident.

I had never seen Pawlinson before; but I stood in as much awe as the

rest of the cubs at his name; and it did me a bit of inward good to

think of the merriment I could make in recounting the thing to them

later.

I knew little of the history of the man; but the little I did know was

out of the ordinary.

To begin with, nobody had ever heard that such a man existed until a

short three years before; but then he had suddenly sprung into the most

dazzling limelight.

At that time the entire country had been bewildered and infuriated by a

succession of daring safe-crackings. To make it worse, these jobs were,

in nearly every instance, characterized by what appeared to be the most

useless bloodshed. The perpetrators had seemed to go out of their way to

use pistol and dirk.

Watchmen were found viciously stabbed; clerks, working late, had been

murdered; and all these crimes had been committed in small communities

and upon small dealers.

From chagrin, the public had quickly turned to indignation and storm;

for the detective force had proved themselves absolutely powerless and

inefficient.

Then had come Pawlinson.

He entered Washington headquarters one day, and quietly informed the

chief there that he wanted to enter the detective service. Asked his

credentials and former experience, he as quietly stated that by the end

of that week he would bring in the entire gang that was puzzling them

all.

And he did. Since which his place had been established, a place not a

little enhanced by the very mysteriousness of him; a mysteriousness

which I had heard he was at no pains to explain or eliminate.

“Well”--I concluded my soliloquy finally--“here I am mixed right up--and

closely, too--with Pawlinson himself.”

But my duty was clear enough. I had told the chief I would wire him when

I had located the man; and so, not only my own word, but his, as my

chief, was out.

“That much I can do, anyway,” I grunted to myself, dropping the end of

my second cigar into the cuspidor. “Beyond that we shall see what we

shall see.”

With that I quitted the smoking room and sought my berth. As I lurched

at a rolling gait down the aisle toward my number, for we were hitting

up a lively clip, I noticed that all the berths had been made up by this

time.

Then I seemed to recall that, in my abstraction, I had been vaguely

conscious of a stop some half hour before; and I now reasoned that it

was Stamford, Connecticut, or thereabout.

In the aisle I stripped off coat, vest, collar, tie, and shirt; then,

just before ducking under the heavy curtain for the berth, and for no

real reason that I yet know, I happened to sweep my eye up and down the

car from one end to the other. And I could vow to this day that I saw

the curtains of both number nine and number three drawn vigorously in

toward the respective berths.

But really, down deep, I am of a care-free nature, and I was asleep in

three shakes.

TO BE CONTINUED.

CAUGHT IN THE COILS.

The following adventure which befell Speke, the great explorer, forms

one of the most thrilling episodes in a life full of perils and escapes.

Captain Speke himself tells the tale.

It appears that he, with his comrade Grant, left the camp together one

day to hunt game for their supper. Their first victim was a fine young

buffalo cow.

Soon after, they had a prospect of still better fortune. An enormous

elephant with particularly fine tusks was observed within range. Speke

quickly brought his rifle up to his shoulder, took a careful aim, and

fired.

A moment after, as he was watching for the effect of his shot, he heard

a startled exclamation from the attendant negroes, and looked round.

To his horror, he saw a huge boa constrictor in the very act of darting

down upon him from a branch overhead.

In less than a second--indeed, before he had time to stir a muscle to

spring aside--the beast had shot out of the heavy foliage and caught him

in a coil. Speke put out all his strength to get clear, and at the same

instant, glancing round for help, saw Grant standing a few paces away,

with rifle leveled.

“In a moment,” he continues, “I comprehended all. The huge serpent had

struck the young buffalo cow, between which and him I had unluckily

placed myself at the moment of firing upon the elephant. A most singular

good fortune attended me, however, for, instead of being crushed into a

mangled mass with the unfortunate cow, my left forearm had only been

caught in between the buffalo’s body and a single fold of the

constrictor. The limb lay just in front of the shoulder, at the root of

the neck, and thus had a short bed of flesh, into which it was jammed,

as it were, by the immense pressure of the serpent’s body, that was like

iron in hardness.

“As I saw Grant about to shoot, a terror took possession of me; for if

he refrained, I might possibly escape, after the boa released its folds

from the dead cow; but should he fire and strike the reptile, it would,

in its convulsions, crush or drag me to pieces.

“Even as the idea came to me, I beheld Grant pause. He appeared fully to

comprehend all. He could see how I was situated, that I was still

living, and that my delivery depended upon the will of the constrictor.

We could see every one of each other’s faces, so close were we, and I

would have shouted or spoken or even whispered to him, had I dared. But

the boa’s head was reared within a few feet of mine, and a wink of an

eyelid would perhaps settle my doom; so I stared, stared, stared, like a

dead man at Grant and at the blacks.

“Presently the serpent began very gradually to relax his folds, and,

after retightening them several times as the crushed buffalo quivered,

he unwound one fold entirely. Then he paused.

“The next ironlike band was the one which held me a prisoner; and as I

felt it, little by little, unclasping, my heart stood still with hope

and fear. Perhaps, upon being free, the benumbed arm, uncontrolled by

any will, might fall from the cushionlike bed in which it lay! And such

a mishap might bring the spare fold around my neck or chest--and then

farewell to the sources of the Nile!

“Oh, how hard, how desperately I struggled to command myself! I glanced

at Grant, and saw him handling his rifle anxiously. I glanced at the

negroes, and saw them still gazing, as though petrified with

astonishment. I glanced at the serpent’s loathsome head, and saw its

bright, deadly eyes watching for the least sign of life in its prey.

“Now, then, the reptile loosened its fold on my arm a hair’s-breadth,

and now a little more, till half an inch of space separated my arm and

its mottled skin. I could have whipped out my hand, but dared not take

the risk. Atoms of time dragged themselves into ages, and a minute

seemed eternity itself.

“The second fold was removed entirely, and the next one easing. Should I

dash away now, or wait a more favorable moment? I decided upon the

former: and with lightning speed I bounded away toward Grant, the crack

of whose piece I heard at the next instant.

“For the first time in my life I was thoroughly overcome; and, sinking

down, I remained in a semiunconscious state for several minutes. When I

fully recovered, Grant and the overjoyed negroes held me up, and pointed

out the boa, which was still writhing in its death agonies. I shuddered

as I looked upon the effects of its tremendous dying strength. For yards

around where it lay, grass and bushes and saplings, and, in fact,

everything except the more fully grown trees were cut quite off, as

though they had been trimmed by an immense scythe.

“The monster, when measured, was fifty-one feet two and a half inches in

extreme length, while round the thickest portion of its body the girth

was nearly three feet, thus proving, I believe, to be the largest

serpent that was ever authentically heard of.”

POWERFUL BEGGARS.

The Chinese are more charitable than they have been given credit for.

They give freely, especially on occasions of public or private

rejoicing.

Beggars are numerous everywhere, and are organized into a sort of union

or guild, with a master at the head, whose word is law to his mendicant

subjects, and whose laws are as unchanging as those of the Medes and

Persians. No man can be buried without a large share of “funeral baked

meats” falling to the lot of the beggars’ guild.

No person is allowed to marry by this powerful union unless he or his

friends pay a tribute to the king of beggars, in the shape of a big

feast and a sum of money.

The last varies from one to five hundred dollars, according to the means

of the tribute payer. The feast must consist of as good food as is

served to the wedding guests.

On this the beggar king and his cabinet dine, with as much gusto, if not

as much ceremony, as the Emperor of China when feasting his ministers.

In almost every city you will find a beggars’ guild. The subjects of any

one king vary in number, according to the size of the city. These kings

of China’s submerged millions, whose territories consist of streets,

gutters, bridges, and doorsteps, and whose subjects have been won for

him by poverty, accident, vice, and disease, exercise a patriarchal sway

and dispense a rough and primitive justice. The office is not

hereditary, but elective, and tenable for life.

The beggar king lives in a house that is almost a palace, compared to

the miserable shelter that his subjects have to be contented with. Not

infrequently he grows rich from the tribute paid him by the people of

the upper crust of society. He has powerful means of enforcing his

demands. He has means of annoyance which the police are unable to put a

stop to.

Suppose a man about to marry refuses to recognize the claim of the

beggar king. His wedding procession will be blocked by thousands of

lame, halt, and leprous beggars, who will ease their minds by

imprecations such as are unfit for a bride to hear, and will be sure to

bring ill luck on the married couple. Else this unseemly rabble will

besiege the house of the unlucky bridegroom, and go through a similar

performance. It is worth a large sum to be rid of such pests.

Even the magistrates, autocrats as they are in their own realms, respect

the office of the beggar king, and never offend him if they can avoid

it.

Ordinarily beggars go from house to house and from shop to shop with a

bowl in hand, into which is poured the handful of rice, or is dropped

the copper coin of charity. They are irrepressible, and will not take

“no” for an answer.

QUEER THINGS TO EAT.

At the department of agriculture in Washington, hidden away in an

obscure corner, is an odd sort of exhibit of queer foods eaten by

out-of-the-way people. There is a loaf of bread made from the roasted

leaves of a plant allied to the century plant. Another kind of bread is

from a dough of juniper berries. These are relished by some tribes of

Indians, while others manufacture cakes out of different kinds of bulbs.

The prairie Indians relish a dish of wild turnips, which civilized

people would not be likely to enjoy at all. In the great American desert

the “screw beans,” which grow on mesquite bushes, are utilized for food.

Soap berries furnish an agreeable diet for some savages in this country,

while in California the copper-colored aborigines do not disdain the

seeds of salt grass. Also in California the Digger Indians collect pine

nuts, which are seeds of a certain species of pine--sometimes called

“pinions”--by kindling fires against the trees, thus causing the nuts to

fall out of the cones. At the same time a sweet gum exudes from the

bark, serving the purpose of sugar. The seeds of gourds are consumed in

the shape of mush by Indians in Arizona.

In addition to all these things, the exhibit referred to includes a jar

of pulverized crickets, which are eaten in that form by the Indians of

Oregon. They are roasted, as are likewise grasshoppers and even slugs.

These delicacies are cooked in a pit, being arranged in alternate layers

with hot stones. After being thus prepared, they are dried and ground to

powder. They are mixed with pounded acorns or berries, the flour made in

this way being kneaded into cakes and dried in the sun. The Assiniboines

used a kind of seed to stop bleeding at the nose. Among other curious

things used for food are acorns, sunflower seeds, grape seeds, flowers

of cattails, moss from the spruce fir tree, and the blossoms of wild

clover. The exhibit embraces a number of models representing grape seeds

enormously enlarged. It is actually possible to tell the species of a

grape by the shape of the seed. There is a jar of red willow bark which

Indians mix with tobacco for the sake of economy. This, however, is only

one of a thousand plants that are utilized in a similar fashion.

WHY HE WHISTLED.

Old Lady (to grocer’s boy)--“Don’t you know that it is very rude to

whistle when dealing with a lady?”

Boy--“That’s what the boss told me to do, ma’am.”

“Told you to whistle?”

“Yes’m. He said if we ever sold you anything we’d have to whistle for

our money.”

THE NEWS OF ALL NATIONS.

Honor for German Heroes.

The German kaiser has conferred on the pioneer company of a Lorraine

battalion the right to wear the skull and crossbones on the cap, a

distinction monopolized by the Death’s Head Hussars. The action was

taken at the instance of the crown prince, who reported the valor of the

pioneers in building bridges and constructing earthworks under dangerous

circumstances.

Austrians and Germans Foes.

Until recently the Austrians and German prisoners of war were kept

together, but the Russian authorities had so much difficulty in

preserving order among these nationalities that to prevent fights they

have separated them in the hospitals. In Saratoff the Austrian wounded

petitioned the authorities to separate them from the Prussians.

Mystery Man Fights for Estate.

“J. C. R.,” the man of mystery, whose case has puzzled the country since

he was found at Watseka, Minn., in June, 1907, has stepped from a

comfortable home in Chicago into a tragic drama, the central figure in

which is a wealthy rancher of near Dickinson, N. D., whom he claims as

his father and from whom he is seeking to obtain $100,000 as his share

of the estate.

No stranger story has ever been told than that of “J. C. R.,” the man

who couldn’t remember. In 1900, it is now claimed, he was Jay Allen

Caldwell, obstinate son of a former Chicagoan. Then he was struck on the

head with a spade.

For a dozen years thereafter, without memory, without knowledge of his

own identity, and without means of caring for himself, he wandered

about, known only as J. C. R.

A few months ago a Chicago woman identified him as her missing son, Earl

Iles, and J. C. R. gained a name and a home at the cost of his quondam

fame. Bereft of his chief attributes of interest, the man and his little

tragedy dropped from sight.

The suit which his lawyers filed early this week against A. J. B.

Caldwell, whom he claims as his father, has been dismissed, but the

lawyers say this was permitted in order to get more evidence, and it

will be filed again within a few weeks.

Dispatches from Dickinson, the scene of the tangle, disclose the fact

that seventy-five residents of the town, former neighbors of the

Caldwells, identified J. C. R. as the missing son three months ago.

Caldwell reiterates his charge that J. C. R. and his Chicago backers are

conspirators, but Caldwell’s daughter has identified the man of mystery

as her brother.

Mrs. H. E. Pitkin, 895 East Oakwood Boulevard, Chicago, who identified

J. C. R. last summer as her long-lost son, Earl Iles, has disappeared

from her home.

And to complete the complexity of the enigma, J. C. R., the mute object

of the whole identity tangle, is being kept in hiding by those who are

backing his claims for $100,000 worth of North Dakota farm lands now

held by the supposed father.

Friends of the elder Caldwell alleged that it was Mrs. Pitkin’s early

knowledge of Caldwell, junior, that gave her the information on which

she satisfied the authorities with her identification of the man as her

son. They charge that it was through this information that Mrs. Pitkin

gained the custody of the man, which later resulted in the promotion of

his fight for the $100,000.

It appears that for the last couple of months the mystery man has been

in Dickinson. In the first part of that time he was busy asking

questions of old residents--or, rather, writing them, for, along with

his other afflictions, he is a mute.

The answers to the questions seemed to satisfy J. C. R. He filed suit

against Caldwell. Simultaneously papers were filed making it impossible

for Caldwell to transfer his lands in whole or in part.

Dickinson rubbed its eyes and sat up with a start when news of the suit

filtered through town. The “dummy,” who had been going up and down Main

Street with his pencil, his paper, and his ever-increasing questions

about old times, had come into the open and announced himself as no

other than Jay Allen Caldwell, old man Caldwell’s son.

No one who was willing to admit the fact knew what had happened to Jay.

He had just disappeared one day. Not a word did he send home in all the

ensuing months and years. His father, after waiting what seemed a decent

time, produced notes aggregating $70,000. The notes were signed with the

name of Jay Allen Caldwell and were drawn in favor of his father, who

went into court, got judgment, and took his son’s land in satisfaction.

Londoners Get “Zeppelin Neck”.

“Zeppelin neck” is the form of malady now prevalent in London. This is

the popular term for stiff necks, commoner than ever now because so many

Londoners are craning their necks scanning the heavens for the enemy.

Westminster Abbey has been insured for $750,000 against damages from

air-craft attacks.

Schoolboy Makes Record With Corn.

The largest per-acre yield of corn ever grown in Becker County, Minn.,

of which Detroit is the county seat, was raised during the season of

1914 by a thirteen-year-old schoolboy. Becker is one of the most

northerly of Minnesota counties, and its farmers have always declared

that it was useless to attempt corn-raising because of the cold climate

and short seasons. But thirteen-year-old Hilmer Carlson, who lives on a

farm three miles from Detroit, grew an acre of corn this year that

yielded 96¼ bushels to the acre.

It was the first experiment for the Carlson boy in corn-raising. He was

induced to enter by a prize offered by the Minnesota Society of

Agriculture to the boy who should grow the most bushels of corn on an

acre of ground. Without the experience of father and friends, who never

had grown corn, the boy followed the instructions of the agricultural

society, planted the Minnesota No. 13 variety, and grew a field of

stalks that were twice as high as his head. It husked 95 bushels rough

measure. When the farmers of the community heard of the yield, they

declared it could not be true; that some deception had been practiced.

An expert of the State Agricultural College then came to the Carlson

farm, measured both field and yield and found the exact yield to have

been 96¼ bushels per acre. State authorities declared the yield to have

been by far the biggest per acre ever grown in the county. Ten Becker

County boys went into the acre-yield corn contest. The boy who took

second place grew 74 bushels to the acre.

Indicating the unpopularity of corn-growing in Becker County, the State

board records show that of over 160,000 acres crop area in the county

only 4,880 are given over to corn.

Veteran Fulfills Vow.

Sixty years ago, when, a lad ten years old, he fell from the limb of a

giant tree and broke a leg, forcing him to spend his birthday in bed,

Carl Grossmayer, of Evansville, Ind., vowed that on his seventieth

birthday he would blow the tree from the ground. Grossmayer, now a

veteran of the Second Regiment of Indiana Civil War Veterans, kept his

vow by blowing from the ground the stump of the tree.

When he met with the accident, Grossmayer lived on a farm of 180 acres.

Now that area has shrunk to a house and three lots. The elderly

veteran’s only relative, a son living in St. Louis, came to this city to

see his father keep his sixty-year-old vow. A stump was all that

remained of the oak, but Grossmayer drilled under it, and, with a charge

of dynamite, blew it from the ground.

Placer Mining in Heart of City.

The gold-mining industry, both placer and quartz, in most instances has

been for long so closely associated with the wilderness that the average

man instantly conjures up pictures of ice-bound mountain passes, or

glaring, sun-scorched stretches of desert, when he thinks of it. To such

places his imagination turns where men daily and hourly must face

hardship and danger in order to win the precious metal.

Yet in the city of Edmonton, Canada, since the outbreak of war, some

thirty “grizzlies” have been at work on the banks of the Saskatchewan

River. Here, within half a block of the city’s main street, and always

with the sound of its traffic in their ears, nearly a hundred men daily

shovel and sluice for gold.

The bars of the Saskatchewan River in the early days and as late as 1900

were worked. Many prospectors at that time made from three to ten

dollars a day. Of late years, however, mining of this kind has been

abandoned, though a large dredge, working the bars of the river, has

proven a paying proposition.

The river runs directly through the city. With the outbreak of war and

the possibility of large numbers of men being out of employment, the

city council suddenly turned their attention to gold mining, which

offered returns right in the heart of the city. Within its gates are

to-day a large number of old mining men. Men who, after going through

the Klondike rush, settled here. Most of them are to-day wealthy and

retired. But some half dozen of them offered their services as tutors.

A number of grizzlies, so commonly used in the working of river bars and

other placer-mining propositions, were constructed and for a while they

gave instructions as how to work them. About a hundred men soon went to

work. Though the highest daily clean-up so far has been seven dollars,

the majority of the workers are making from one to two dollars a day.

The workmen are from all classes of society. Old-time sourdoughs work

next to new-come English immigrants. Two college students, working their

way through a nearby university, put in their off hours shoveling and

panning. An out-of-work literary man and an out-of-work actor here are

working a claim together.

The mining game has always been marked for its tragic side. The stories

of men made suddenly rich overnight by some fortunate strike has been

told in a hundred stories; but seldom is the other side mentioned, the

story of quick-flung-away wealth that went almost as rapidly as it came.

Working slowly, toilfully, with the mark of old age upon him, in this

diggings within the heart of the city is at least one man who is a

living representative of this sad side of the game. His name is Tim

Foley. Ten years ago he sold his third interest in a quartz mine in

northern Ontario for $40,000. To-day he toils strenuously on the river

bank, his great hope, as he himself expressed it, to clean up three or

four dollars a day.

Stage Lines Still in the West.

It has been many years since stage lines were the chief mode of

transportation across Kansas, and had regular time-tables and rate

schedules, as the railroads have at the present time. But there are

still several stage lines in Kansas, and the railroads are publishing

the schedules for these lines in their regular list of connections, as

they do in the more Western States, where stage transportation is still

common.

Along the Union Pacific and the Rock Island lines in northern Kansas,

the Missouri Pacific through the center of the State and the Santa Fe in

southern Kansas, there are still connecting stage lines which operate as

regularly as the railroad trains. The building of the railroad from

Garden City north to Scott City on the Missouri Pacific and then to

Winona on the Union Pacific has caused several stage lines to go out of

business. The building of the Colmor cut-off in southwest Kansas has

caused the abandonment of several stage lines that reached the towns in

the railroadless counties of the State.

There are two regular mail stage lines operated in Shawnee County, one

connecting Dover with the Rock Island and another connecting Auburn with

the Santa Fe. Both are only eight or nine miles long, but they carry

mail and passengers to the railroads.

The Santa Fe “connecting-line” table shows stage lines connecting with

its trains at Syracuse, Lakin, and Coolidge to points in the extreme

southwest corner of the State not reached by rail. The Union Pacific has

half a dozen stage lines listed in its tables in Kansas. These lines

connect with the Missouri Pacific on the south or the Rock Island, or

another branch of the Union Pacific on the north, touching several

inland towns and saving traveling men long detours if they attempted to

make the trip by rail. From Grainfield to Gove City there is a regular

stage line, as Grain field is on the railroad while Gove City, the

county seat, is twelve miles away.

The stages have comparatively low fares and haul almost as much baggage

free as does the railroad. The stage trips in Kansas are no longer the

picturesque outings of former days, as there are none of the old

stagecoaches left with a six- or eight-mule team and a driver with a long

whip and a fine command of “mule-killing” language. All the stage lines

in Kansas are motors now, one or two in the southwest part of the State

having real motor trucks for baggage, express, and freight, and the trip

is made almost as rapidly as the trains, unless a tire blows up.

Life-term Prisoner Gains Freedom

When C. J. Livering, life-term prisoner, sent up on the charge that he

poisoned his wife in Louisville, Ky., eight years ago, walked out of the

Eddyville State’s prison under parole, it was to enter his own

manufacturing establishment, made possible by his own industry and

incentive genius, as he invented a patent while in prison that may net

him a fortune.

His parole followed the declaration of the judge who sentenced him of

his belief in Livering’s innocence. Honorable H. S. Barker, president of

the State University, was the court-of-appeals judge at the time. In

addition to the judge’s opinion, Commonwealth Attorney Huffaker, of

Louisville, says he believes that if a man who filed an affidavit had

been called, he would have testified to hearing Mrs. Livering threaten

to take her own life.

An effort was made at the trial to show that a woman was in love with

and jealous of Livering and was responsible for the story that Livering

had fixed up a suicide note in imitation of his wife’s handwriting, had

given his wife strychnine tablets as medicine and then went to his farm,

hurrying back in time to place the suicide note and poison before

calling any one to the scene.

Livering testified that he was on his farm, twenty-five miles away, when

his wife phoned him to come home, and that he found her dead. A druggist

testified that Mrs. Livering bought strychnine tablets. The suicide note

was found on the dresser. The coroner’s jury returned a verdict of

suicide.

It was two years later when the woman’s story resulted in Livering’s

conviction.

Machine Comes to Telegrapher’s Aid.

Telegraph operators throughout the country are showing keen interest in

a device perfected by Walter P. Phillips, of Bridgeport, Conn., for the

purpose of rapidly handling commercial messages and press reports.

Phillips is an old-time telegrapher and newspaper man and an inventor of

wide fame. He was the originator of the “Phillips Code,” used by

newspapers. Operators from all parts of Connecticut gathered at

Bridgeport to watch the demonstration of the new device.

It was shown that the invention will allow an operator receiving

messages or news dispatches to regulate the incoming flow of telegraphy

as fast or as slow as he may desire; to stop it altogether and go out to

lunch, resuming business at increased speed upon his return, and

catching up with the machine upon which the messages or news has been

continually recording itself in impressions of dots and dashes on a tape

awaiting reproduction. What the invention will do is to double or treble

the number of words that can be sent over a single wire and do it

without requiring that the operators learn anything more than they now

know.

The result is brought about by adding to each office a set of very

simple instruments. At times when there is no need of hurrying matter

forward on the wires, the rapid system can be cut out through shifting a

plug. The wires are then used in the ordinary way, sending messages

directly by the key. As a result it is considered that the system is one

of value principally to telegraph companies or those using leased wires.

The general public, however, will benefit through the prompter sending

of messages and doing away with the delay so often experienced when

there are wire troubles and capacity is reduced below normal.

In the new system the messages or reports to be sent are recorded in

raised telegraphic characters on a strip of paper. This paper is run

through a reproducing machine, the sounds being repeated at the other

end of the wire and being taken down by typewriter or hand. The sending

operator is able to vary the speed to suit himself, is able to stop it

at any point and pull it back, if there is need of repeating. The

superiority of the invention over the old system is said to lie in the

reading and sending. It is in this, telegraphers say, where the greater

number of mistakes occur. The ear of a trained operator is found to be

more accurate than the eye and also faster.

What a German Officer Saw.

From the diary of a German petty officer who is fighting in France,

these extracts, as his own experience, are made:

“On all sides and in front, as well as below in the valley, the red

breeches can be seen swarming in the underbrush. Thus both divisions of

our tenth company find themselves facing apparently overwhelming

superior forces. I myself make a run to where the captain should be. On

the way a trumpeter transmits this order to me: ‘Third column deploy and

continue firing, or, if possible, attack!’ I never ran so fast as I did

then over those stubbles.

“‘Third column, up! up! Fix bayonets! Right turn, forward, double-quick!

Follow me!’ I cried. Out comes the shining steel from its sheath. I

catch a glimpse of an opening in a garden wall. “This way, through!

Occupy the hedge! Cut loopholes!’

“‘What range?’ the men call.

“‘Range seven hundred! Half right, straight ahead in the poplars,

hostile infantrymen! Range seven hundred! Fire!’ was my reply.

“Just as we opened fire the enemy comes charging from out the poplars.

Only a few steps they run, and then, as if thunder-stricken, the whole

line of red breeches sinks to the earth. Our aim was good. How quiet the

fallen Frenchmen lie! But soon the hellish racket begins again. In front

of us a machine gun goes ‘tap, tap, tap.’ Whizzing and whirring, the

bullets fly about us.

“Through an opening the men swarm through to the left! The bravest hurry

on in advance. Five or six hang back till their leader roughly grabs

them and kicks them through the hedge opening. There must have been 800

rifles or more! A withering fire tells us that the enemy has discovered

our movements. But we return his fire as we run. Many of our men fall.

But, lo! presently the enemy’s fire begins to dwindle and soon dies down

almost completely. There, what is that? In the midst of the enemy’s line

of fire a tremendous pillar of smoke.

We saw how the French were blown yards high. A terrible thunderclap

reaches our ears. Hurrah! Our artillery!

“Shell after shell buries itself, as if measured with extraordinary

exactitude in the very midst of the French infantry lines. We follow

this up with our own fast rifle fire.

“Now we charge forward to where we can plainly see their faces. The

panic of the enemy was indescribable. Our fellows mow them down. And now

a new hail of shrapnel beats down upon them. Again the red breeches

surge back in wild flight. We fire on the retreating enemy in a

cornfield beyond. Many Frenchmen can be seen falling in the gold

cornfield beyond, never to rise again.”

Works Sixty Years on Propeller.

At the age of seventy-four years, James Henry Miller, of Albany, Ore.,

believes that the ambition of a lifetime is about to be realized. Sixty

years ago, when he first saw a river boat with a stern propeller, Miller

made up his mind to construct a propeller which would not strike the

water with such resistance. He says that his invention, now virtually

completed, will revolutionize river and ocean navigation throughout the

world.

The propeller has eight blades, each six feet long and twelve inches

wide, and each working on ratchets, so that the edge of the blade

strikes the water as it enters, falls into propelling position while in

deepest water, and continues to adjust itself as the wheel turns, so

that it emerges from the water edge first. The flat side of the blade

never strikes the water. As the wheel turns, the blades enter and leave

the water with as little resistance as a feathered oar.

New Farming in South.

One Southern landowner has a plan for diversification of crops that

might be followed by many others. He has divided his land into tracts

that rent for $100 a year each. This is about equivalent to two bales of

cotton under the old tenant system. But hereafter no cotton will be

accepted as rent for these tracts. Instead, it will be required in food

crops, according to this schedule:

50 bushels of corn $50

15 bushels of wheat 15

3 bushels of peas 5

100 pounds of meat 15

15 bushels of potatoes 15

----

Total rent $100

The landowner in question, realizing the novelty of his plan, proposes

to cooperate with his tenants in getting selected seed. If the scheme is

successful, it will merit a bulletin by the department of agriculture,

to be widely distributed.

Florida Sharks That Nurse Their Young.

The curious piglike habits of the nurse sharks of Florida have been

brought to the notice of the North Carolina Academy of Science by E. W.

Gudger. A third of the circumference of Boca Grande Cay, a small coral

sand island twenty miles west of Key West, is bounded by a gently

sloping rock bottom, on which the water half a mile from the shore is

not more than four or five feet deep.

On this bottom great numbers of the sharks gather in the sun, play, and

possibly feed. With seldom less than a dozen visible, as many as

thirty-three have been in view at one time.

They are broad, sluggish, so little afraid that a boat may touch their

fins before they will move, and they lie piled together in a confused

herd, like well-fed pigs in a barnyard. Sometimes three or four swim

aimlessly about.

They are harmless, with small mouths filled with small pointed teeth,

and, though they are vegetarians to some degree, their chief food seems

to be the young oysters, clams, crabs, and various other crustaceans.

Ostrich Farming as a Business.

James H. Reece, of Joplin, Mo., who has been in California studying the

“ins and outs” of the Pasadena ostrich farm, with a view of giving the

business a try-out in this vicinity, has returned, and has considerable

to say on the subject of the profitable raising of the big birds.

“Unless you have money to start with,” said he, “you shouldn’t attempt

to go into ostrich farming in the United States for profit. Still, there

are a number of ostrich farms in this country, and not all are failures.

The first ostriches were brought here in 1862 from South Africa, and

between that date and 1886, 120 birds were imported. We have now about

10,000 ostriches with us, nearly all of them American bred.”

“And,” he continued, “Arizona is the leading ostrich-farming section,

though there are farms in California--the one at Pasadena being probably

the best known of all of them--Texas, Arkansas, and Florida. Something

like two millions of dollars is invested in the industry, not counting

the value of the land. The business pays if the climate is all right and

the birds receive proper care, for the ostrich, though tough, must be

looked after carefully.

“An acre of alfalfa will support four ostriches with no other food than

gravel and ground bone. A cow will require the same amount of alfalfa,

but at the end of five years she is worth forty or fifty dollars, while

the four five-year-old ostriches are worth a thousand dollars. A bird

will yield a hundred dollars’ worth of feathers a year, besides the

eggs, which, even if they are not productive of little ostriches, bring

a good price as curios.

“Ostrich plumes vary in price, from ten to one hundred and fifty dollars

a pound, so you see it is worth money to the ostrich farmer, not only to

have good birds, but to keep them in the best condition, for the better

the bird the better the product.

“It costs about ten dollars a year to keep a bird; that is, to feed it.

The ostrich farm at Pasadena is one of the show places there, and

thousands of tourists visit it every year. Another good feature of the

ostrich is that he lasts so long. None in this country has died of old

age yet, and it is supposed that they will live seventy-five years.”

French Story of Bravery.

A French battalion occupied Mezieres in order to guard the bridges over

the Meuse River. One detachment had hardly arrived at the railroad

bridge when its officer, Lieutenant de Lupel, was informed that a German

patrol was hidden in the station. The French at once attacked and drove

the Germans here and there among the heaps of coal and the buildings.

The French officer followed the German officer into the roundhouse,

revolver in hand, and caught sight of him crouching behind a tender. The

two men looked at each other. Mutual respect and a tacit understanding

sprang up. With fifteen paces between them, each took up a dueling

position. “Kindly fire,” cried the Frenchman, just as his ancestors had

cried at Fontenoy under similar circumstances. The German fired and

missed. Then the Frenchman slowly raised his arm and fired, killing his

opponent.

He returned to his men, aided them to overcome the Germans’ last stand,

and walked away coolly at the head of his battalion.

Nail Snaps from Box to Eye.

Joseph R. Henderson, proprietor of an Egg Harbor, N. J., poultry plant,

was opening a box when a nail snapped from the box and entered the

eyeball. He was taken to the Atlantic City Hospital. At this time it is

not known whether he will lose the sight of the eye.

Woman’s Throw Hits Mark.

Mrs. Dervin Shumaker, of Jackson township, Pa., noticed a large hawk

feasting on her chickens. Picking up a stone, the woman threw it at the

intruder. The stone struck the hawk on the head, killing the bird. She

took the hawk to a justice of the peace and received forty cents bounty.

Man and Dogs Fight Rattler.

The biggest snake ever encountered near Watonga, Okla., was killed by

Jeff Saunders seven miles north of that town. Mr. Saunders was hunting

coyotes in the cañons when his dogs ran on to the snake, and started the

fight which lasted an hour. After the battle, in which one dog was

killed, the snake was hacked to pieces. Mr. Saunders gathered up the

rattles which had been torn off. There were thirty-six of them.

The snake showed a disposition to ignore the dogs and fight Mr.

Saunders, and several times he barely escaped being bitten. Mr. Saunders

brought one piece of the snake home with him which measured 6 feet 9

inches in length, and there were several smaller pieces left on the

battle ground.

Honoring the Hero of Peace.

Sixty-nine acts of heroism have just been given recognition by the

Carnegie Hero Fund Commission, at its annual meeting, through the

distribution of medals and pensions. The commission has awarded silver

medals in fifteen cases and bronze medals in fifty-four cases. Thirteen

of the heroes lost their lives.

Among the number receiving silver medals is Miss Phoebe Briggs, of

Sacramento, Cal., a student at Vassar College, Poughkeepsie, N. Y. Miss

Briggs saved four girls from drowning. She was walking across the campus

at the college when a toboggan carrying five of her fellow students

coasted onto the ice on Vassar Lake and broke through. One of the girls

came up under the ice and was drowned, but the others grasped the edge

of the ice. Miss Briggs crawled toward the hole, pushing a small sled

ahead of her. Two of the girls in turn grasped the sled and were pulled

to safety. Miss Briggs went toward the hole a third time, but the ice

broke and she fell into water nine feet deep. She pushed the sled down,

and it remained in a perpendicular position, resting on the bottom. She

then got her feet on the sled and supported the other girls several

minutes until a man took them all to safety.

A silver medal has been awarded to the father of Henry West, a negro, of

Chapel Hill, N. C. West, aged thirty-four, a crossing watchman, died

saving Judson A. Haviland, aged nine, and Charles W. Jones, aged eleven,

from being run over by a train at Asbury Park, N. J. The boys were

driving a pony toward a track on which a passenger train was

approaching. West, who had only one arm, waved a warning to them and

then ran across the track and grabbed the harness beneath the pony’s

head. The pony turned aside and West lost his hold, falling. A step of

the engine struck him, causing injuries from which he died. Neither of

the boys was injured.

A bronze medal has been given to the father of Henry L. Wyman, of

Moorestown, N. J. Wyman, aged twenty-four, a painter, died attempting to

save G. Allen Seltzer, aged twenty-five, from drowning in Rancocas

Creek, at Boughter, N. J. Wyman waded and swam thirty-five feet to the

distressed man and caught him under the armpits. Wyman kept Seltzer’s

head above water for a time, but both men sank and were drowned.

To the dependents of three heroes the commission granted pensions

aggregating $1,980 a year and the dependents of seven others who lost

their lives were granted sums totaling $4,700, to be applied in various

ways. Besides the money grants, in twelve cases sums aggregating $21,000

were appropriated for educational purposes, payments to be made as

needed and approved. In forty-one cases awards aggregating $41,000 were

made, to be applied toward the purchase of homes and to other worthy

purposes.

Big Turtle Attacks Southern Fisherman.

Henry Simmons, of New Orleans, went fishing in Bayou Bienvenue, Miss.,

and had the unusual experience of being attacked by and afterward

killing, in terrific battle, a large water turtle. He was fishing from a

pirogue in ten feet of water, and the monster, a hundred-pounder, caught

his line.

It came to the surface, and bit at the boat, tearing away a large piece

of the prow. It continued to bite at the small craft until it almost

turned over.

Simmons then reached for his shotgun and shot the monster’s head off. He

carried it to New Orleans, where, with the bitten boat, it is now on

exhibition.

Just before he shot it, the turtle had raised a heavy paw to strike him.

The experience of having such a vicious monster suddenly rise to the

surface and peer into one’s eyes with such evident determination to

fight to the death, is an awful one, says Simmons.

Can a Pup Inherit a Kink in His Tail?

Deciding that a pup could inherit a kink in its tail from a similar

peculiarity attached to its father, no matter if the wagger did happen

to receive its twist through an accident after the “dad” had reached his

majority, District Court Judge Frank Smathers, after most careful

consideration of the unique problem, awarded Elmer D. Sooy, of Atlantic

City, N. J., a rabbit-hound pup, to which both Sooy and Thomas Hudson,

of Pleasantville, claim ownership.

During the hearing of the case, Sooy trotted in a putative papa hound,

which had an odd curl in its wagger. Under cross-examination he

testified that the peculiar kink was there because a third-rail trolley

had run over it. The pup happened to have a similar Marcel to its tail.

Hudson, on the other hand, led in another supposed pop hound, which had

blotches on its flanks identical to those that marked the pup, and said

it was this dog’s offspring.

It was too much for the court to decide in one sitting, but the next

day, after his honor had spent his evening at home, pondering over

canine spots and tails, Sooy got the pup.

The animal is worth fifty dollars, but the two men have spent more than

three times that amount in their dispute over it, and Hudson says he

will appeal and spend as much more, if necessary, to win.

Gypsies Travel in Auto.

Nomads of the old days would probably have refused to believe their eyes

if they had seen a gypsy caravan which has just arrived at Worcester,

Mass., from Denver, Col. Instead of traveling in the familiar wagons,

drawn by worn horses, the tribe mounted the wagon tops on big automobile

trucks. On the top, sides, and rear of the two wagons were the tents,

pots, and others things inseparable to gypsy camps, and the dogs

followed as best they could. Needless to say, the journey was made in

record time.

Mother’s Appeal Granted.

Mrs. Mathilda Zoll, of Washington, D. C., is happy in the thought that

when she dies, her final resting place will be beside the body of her

son in a soldier grave in Arlington National Cemetery. Her earnest plea

that permission to this effect be given was granted by Secretary

Garrison, although it is a rule that only the widows of army men may be

buried in Arlington. Mrs. Zoll’s son died a few weeks ago and was laid

at rest in the national cemetery.

When Mrs. Zoll first made her request, it was refused, but her friends

told Secretary Garrison she did not ask that her name be placed on the

headstone, but would be satisfied to have her body cremated and the

ashes placed in an urn in her son’s grave. The secretary then issued the

necessary orders.

Devil Worm Has Eight Horns.

Mrs. J. B. Lamb brought to the _Leader_ office, at Fulton, Ky., a

formidable-looking worm which she captured on a tree in the back yard of

her home on Carr Street. This monster worm is nearly six inches in

length and longer when in motion. It has eight horns on its head,

curving backward, and is a scary-looking object. It is more than one and

one-half inches in circumference, and is green in color. A little boy

called it a “devil worm,” and, for the lack of a better name, we will

let it go at that.

Rancher Bags Bird Maimed in June.

While mowing hay last June, Abe Bruger, a Cathcart, Wash., rancher,

surprised a mother pheasant and her brood in the tall grass. One of the

flock was overtaken by the mower, which amputated both of its legs. It

escaped to an alder thicket.

While hunting recently, Bruger winged a pheasant. When he recovered the

bird, both of its legs were missing, a fact which recalled the accident

of the early summer. The bird had become full grown, was in perfect

condition, plump, and, in fact, larger than the average of this year’s

birds taken in the locality.

The wounds had completely healed, and, nature, in the process of

healing, had developed a substitute for claws in the form of hard scales

at the extremities.

Off Year for Peace Prize.

A report from Christiania says that the managers of the Nobel Institute

have decided to give this year’s peace prize, which amounts to about

$40,000, to the Netherlands government, to be applied toward the support

of Belgian refugees in Holland.

Stallings a Brick Mason.

The Waycross, Ga., _Herald_ is authority for the statement that George

Stallings, the “Miracle Man” of baseball, used to be a brick mason, and

a mighty good one, at Thomasville. Hence, it is not so hard to

understand his remarkable ability to “build up” a team.

Missourian’s Strange Pet.

There are many strange pets in the world, but the one belonging to John

Barnes, of Maysville, Mo., is perhaps as strange as any. It is a giant

blue racer, five feet long, and as large in the middle as an average

man’s arm. Mr. Barnes keeps the snake for the purpose of freeing the

place of mice and other pests. It never molests any one and seems

perfectly tame.

War Correspondents’ Troubles.

Who wants to be a war correspondent? Two American correspondents arrived

at Rouen, France. They had been shifted around the country for days.

They had hay in their hair and sleep in their eyes, and they hadn’t

eaten for years, it seemed to them. Every hotel and boarding house and

joint in Rouen was filled to overflowing. They found their way to

headquarters and placed their journalistic cards on the table.

“Thank goodness, we’re here at last!” they said. “Tell us----”

But the major wouldn’t tell them. He wouldn’t even listen to them.

“For your impertinence in coming here,” he said severely, “you shall

sleep in jail to-night.”

The correspondents smiled happily and shook hands with each other.

“It began to look as though we’d sleep under a bridge,” they said to the

major. So he found out about their plight.

“That being the case,” said he sternly, “you shall not sleep in jail

to-night. You shall take the train for the coast. There are no places

left in the train, but that makes no difference. You shall take it, just

the same.”

When they got back to London they went to a Turkish bath and slept for

twenty hours before reporting at the office.

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The Nick Carter Stories

ISSUED EVERY SATURDAY BEAUTIFUL COLORED COVERS

When it comes to detective stories worth while, the =Nick Carter Stories=

contain the only ones that should be considered. They are not overdrawn

tales of bloodshed. They rather show the working of one of the finest

minds ever conceived by a writer. The name of Nick Carter is familiar

all over the world, for the stories of his adventures may be read in

twenty languages. No other stories have withstood the severe test of

time so well as those contained in the =Nick Carter Stories=. It proves

conclusively that they are the best. We give herewith a list of some of

the back numbers in print. You can have your news dealer order them, or

they will be sent direct by the publishers to any address upon receipt

of the price in money or postage stamps.

692--Doctor Quartz Again.

693--The Famous Case of Doctor Quartz.

694--The Chemical Clue.

695--The Prison Cipher.

696--A Pupil of Doctor Quartz.

697--The Midnight Visitor.

698--The Master Crook’s Match.

699--The Man Who Vanished.

700--The Garnet Gauntlet.

701--The Silver Hair Mystery.

702--The Cloak of Guilt.

703--A Battle for a Million.

704--Written in Red.

707--Rogues of the Air.

709--The Bolt from the Blue.

710--The Stockbridge Affair.

711--A Secret from the Past.

712--Playing the Last Hand.

713--A Slick Article.

714--The Taxicab Riddle.

715--The Knife Thrower.

717--The Master Rogue’s Alibi.

719--The Dead Letter.

720--The Allerton Millions.

728--The Mummy’s Head.

729--The Statue Clue.

730--The Torn Card.

731--Under Desperation’s Spur.

732--The Connecting Link.

733--The Abduction Syndicate.

736--The Toils of a Siren.

737--The Mark of a Circle.

738--A Plot Within a Plot.

739--The Dead Accomplice.

741--The Green Scarab.

743--A Shot in the Dark.

746--The Secret Entrance.

747--The Cavern Mystery.

748--The Disappearing Fortune.

749--A Voice from the Past.

752--The Spider’s Web.

753--The Man With a Crutch.

754--The Rajah’s Regalia.

755--Saved from Death.

756--The Man Inside.

757--Out for Vengeance.

758--The Poisons of Exili.

759--The Antique Vial.

760--The House of Slumber.

761--A Double Identity.

762--“The Mocker’s” Stratagem.

763--The Man that Came Back.

764--The Tracks in the Snow.

765--The Babbington Case.

766--The Masters of Millions.

767--The Blue Stain.

768--The Lost Clew.

770--The Turn of a Card.

771--A Message in the Dust.

772--A Royal Flush.

773--The Metal Casket Mystery.

774--The Great Buddha Beryl.

775--The Vanishing Heiress.

776--The Unfinished Letter.

777--A Difficult Trail.

778--A Six-word Puzzle.

782--A Woman’s Stratagem.

783--The Cliff Castle Affair.

784--A Prisoner of the Tomb.

785--A Resourceful Foe.

786--The Heir of Dr. Quartz.

787--Dr. Quartz, the Second.

788--Dr. Quartz II. at Bay.

789--The Great Hotel Tragedies.

790--Zanoni, the Witch.

791--A Vengeful Sorceress.

792--The Prison Demon.

793--Doctor Quartz on Earth Again.

794--Doctor Quartz’s Last Play.

795--Zanoni, the Transfigured.

796--The Lure of Gold.

797--The Man With a Chest.

798--A Shadowed Life.

799--The Secret Agent.

800--A Plot for a Crown.

801--The Red Button.

802--Up Against It.

803--The Gold Certificate.

804--Jack Wise’s Hurry Call.

805--Nick Carter’s Ocean Chase.

806--Nick Carter and the Broken Dagger.

807--Nick Carter’s Advertisement.

808--The Kregoff Necklace.

809--The Footprints on the Rug.

810--The Copper Cylinder.

811--Nick Carter and the Nihilists.

812--Nick Carter and the Convict Gang.

813--Nick Carter and the Guilty Governor.

814--The Triangled Coin.

815--Ninety-nine--and One.

816--Coin Number 77.

817--In the Canadian Wilds.

818--The Niagara Smugglers.

819--The Man Hunt.

NEW SERIES

NICK CARTER STORIES

1--The Man from Nowhere.

2--The Face at the Window.

3--A Fight for a Million.

4--Nick Carter’s Land Office.

5--Nick Carter and the Professor.

6--Nick Carter as a Mill Hand.

7--A Single Clew.

8--The Emerald Snake.

9--The Currie Outfit.

10--Nick Carter and the Kidnapped Heiress.

11--Nick Carter Strikes Oil.

12--Nick Carter’s Hunt for a Treasure.

13--A Mystery of the Highway.

14--The Silent Passenger.

15--Jack Dreen’s Secret.

16--Nick Carter’s Pipe Line Case.

17--Nick Carter and the Gold Thieves.

18--Nick Carter’s Auto Chase.

19--The Corrigan Inheritance.

20--The Keen Eye of Denton.

21--The Spider’s Parlor.

22--Nick Carter’s Quick Guess.

23--Nick Carter and the Murderess.

24--Nick Carter and the Pay Car.

25--The Stolen Antique.

26--The Crook League.

27--An English Cracksman.

28--Nick Carter’s Still Hunt.

29--Nick Carter’s Electric Shock.

30--Nick Carter and the Stolen Duchess.

31--The Purple Spot.

32--The Stolen Groom.

33--The Inverted Cross.

34--Nick Carter and Keno McCall.

35--Nick Carter’s Death Trap.

36--Nick Carter’s Siamese Puzzle.

37--The Man Outside.

38--The Death Chamber.

39--The Wind and the Wire.

40--Nick Carter’s Three Cornered Chase.

41--Dazaar, the Arch-Fiend.

42--The Queen of the Seven.

43--Crossed Wires.

44--A Crimson Clew.

45--The Third Man.

46--The Sign of the Dagger.

47--The Devil Worshipers.

48--The Cross of Daggers.

49--At Risk of Life.

50--The Deeper Game.

51--The Code Message.

52--The Last of the Seven.

53--Ten-Ichi, the Wonderful.

54--The Secret Order of Associated Crooks.

55--The Golden Hair Clew.

56--Back From the Dead.

57--Through Dark Ways.

58--When Aces Were Trumps.

59--The Gambler’s Last Hand.

60--The Murder at Linden Fells.

61--A Game for Millions.

62--Under Cover.

63--The Last Call.

64--Mercedes Danton’s Double.

65--The Millionaire’s Nemesis.

66--A Princess of the Underworld.

67--The Crook’s Blind.

68--The Fatal Hour.

69--Blood Money.

70--A Queen of Her Kind.

71--Isabel Benton’s Trump Card.

72--A Princess of Hades.

73--A Prince of Plotters.

74--The Crook’s Double.

75--For Life and Honor.

76--A Compact With Dazaar.

77--In the Shadow of Dazaar.

78--The Crime of a Money King.

79--Birds of Prey.

80--The Unknown Dead.

81--The Severed Hand.

82--The Terrible Game of Millions.

83--A Dead Man’s Power.

84--The Secrets of an Old House.

85--The Wolf Within.

86--The Yellow Coupon.

87--In the Toils.

88--The Stolen Radium.

89--A Crime in Paradise.

90--Behind Prison Bars.

91--The Blind Man’s Daughter.

92--On the Brink of Ruin.

93--Letter of Fire.

94--The $100,000 Kiss.

95--Outlaws of the Militia.

96--The Opium-Runners.

97--In Record Time.

98--The Wag-Nuk Clew.

99--The Middle Link.

100--The Crystal Maze.

101--A New Serpent in Eden.

102--The Auburn Sensation.

103--A Dying Chance.

104--The Gargoni Girdle.

105--Twice in Jeopardy.

106--The Ghost Launch.

107--Up in the Air.

108--The Girl Prisoner.

109--The Red Plague.

110--The Arson Trust.

111--The King of the Firebugs.

112--“Lifter’s” of the Lofts.

Dated Nov. 7th, 1914.

113--French Jimmie and His Forty Thieves.

Dated Nov. 14th, 1914.

114--The Death Plot.

Dated Nov. 21st, 1914.

115--The Evil Formula.

Dated Nov. 28th, 1914.

116--The Blue Button.

=PRICE, FIVE CENTS PER COPY.= If you want any back numbers of our

weeklies and cannot procure them from your news dealer, they can be

obtained direct from this office. Postage stamps taken the same as

money.

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 79-89 Seventh Ave., NEW YORK CITY