The Vaudevillists

By HELEN VAN CAMPEN

DINNER is in progress at the Maison De Shine, West 52nd street, New York.

THE LANDLADY: Make out you don't notice the Laffertys are settin' apart, Imogen. They've split again, alack!

THE SLAVEY: Putattas, Mis' Lafferty? They're fresh b'iled.

LORENA LAFFERTY (of the Laffertys' Society Iron-Jaw act): Oh, I don't care what I have, Imogen! I wish I was dead!

SAM LAFFERTY: If she used nay hoss sense, she'd be all right; but that's the way in the show business—a guy's always bein' accused.

PANSY: XYLOPHONE (of the musical xylophones): I think table arguments are terribly bad taste. People should remember who they are.

HENRY XYLOPHONE: Dried pear pie again? I thought this was a cake night.

THE SLAVEY: But we got floatin' island for next Sunday. Stewed corn or peas?

LORENA LAFFERTY: No tea, Imogen: I'm tremblin' too much to hold the cup. And Papa's act is playin' Brooklyn this week, an' he was comin' over to catch our new turn—now I gotta tell him my husband is false.

The LANDLADY: Well, I never knowed real relief till me an' De Shine ended, Lorena,—an' the truth is professionals are better unwed. The life's too tryin'.

SAM LAFFERTY: If she wouldn't go askin' every dame on the same bill for advice, we'd bee two happy kids. I give my word I don't know who the party in the stage box was, an' my reward was insults! Pass them spuds.

BIRDALINE BERESFORD (the Southern Songbird): If you mean me, I seen the lady from the peephole, and when your act was on she never took her eyes form you.

THE LANDLADY: They don't do it if they ain't encouraged; but never mind, deary. You done your duty to him, an' if you must part, simply forget it.

THE PROPERTY MAN: Aw, leave 'em alone, can't you? Sam's one of the most forbearin' performers ever played our showshop. I've saw him shiftin' his own scenery, an' tippin' the boys just the same.

SAM LAFFERTY: Listen, girly! Eat sumpin', or you'll be faintin' in the big trick to-night. Can't we go up to the room an' discuss this thing quiet?>

LORENA LAFFERTY: No! An' people whose hearts are breakin' can't eat, Mr. Lafferty; though here an' now I tell you that I'm workin' with you in that turn. When blonde parties in blue in stage boxes enter my life I quit!

SAM LAFFERTY: Listen! I say she's a complete stranger ot me. She was leanin' out, admirin' a clever dumb act, that's all. Dud I ever answer a mash note yet? Why don't I ever answer a mash note yet? Why don't you be honest? You know I never. It was you only.

BIRDALINE BERESFORD: Don't give in, dear. They're all alike.

THE PROPERTY MAN: Wal, my idear is that omen got too many lady pals city-editin' their business. They'd make up if they was left in peace.

LOREN ALAFFERTY: No, Imogen, no! I'm too feverish for tea. Will you deny informin' me blue made me look sallow, an' after you was at the peephole I said pale blue was nice, wasn't it, an' you made a dreamy face an' said swell?

SAM LAFFERTY: I agreed 'cause I thought you was jumpy again, deary. You're always askin' questions, an' if I don't reply careful, you'll ask the same thing right over.

THE LANDLADY: Imogen, pass them cakes more rapid. My stars, on seven a week pastry can't be gave ad lib, which the thinkin' mind oughta realize it!

THE PROPERTY MAN: I e't 'em absentminded; for I was reflectin'.

MRS. BRACKETT: And at this end we can't get anything.

THE LANDLADY: Lorena, try just one cake, dollin'?

LORENA LAFFERTY: I'm tremblin' too much to hold it, an' he—he—the Dickens set is his, an' I'll take the big suitcase while he takes the trunk, an' papa gave me the electric toaster— I'm goin' tonight, an' he better look out if he meets my father!

CHALRIE FOGARTY: (the German comic): These partings are awful. I remember how I felt. I had to cancel half a week, I was that broke up. I hate to see it. What was you tellin' us about seein' things when you don't, Pansy?

PANSY XYLOPHONE: It would have been a hypnogagic illusion if there was no woman in blue in the box, you see.

CHARLIE FOGARTY: I got you. Lorena, a medium would show you it was your subliminal self seen that blonde. You thought she was; but nay! Now why not be friends?

BIRDALINE BERESFORD: Don't you do it: you'll draw as much salary as a single. I'm headlinin' on the big time, an' if I had a partner he'd keep me back.

PANSY XYLOPHONE: It was grabbin' most of Bonnie Murphy's material did it for you, Birdy. My! it seems like yesterday when we were passing in the sleeper, and saw you riding in a wagon show, headed for Red Bud, Iowa, where you played in a tent.

BIRDALINE BERESFORD: An' last year I had the London time; although you gave parties to Eddie Banks of he Syndicate Bookin' Office, an' you're still doin' three shows a day, ain't you?

MLLE> MARIGNY: She had to get on her knees to agents, and take oath not to yell about her spot on the bill or she wouldn't been booked at all.

PANSY XYLOPHONE: I scorn you both. Also if the Xylophones would descend to hiring press work done they'd got London; but our notices are real, and Henry can hand you what the Duluth Bazoo said,Ôthat my cornet work was compelling in it artistic appeal!

HENRY XYLOPHONE: I must a left it in my other suit.

BIRDALINE BERESFORD: Appeal! Her playin' is absolutely metallic an' forced.

THE LANDLADY: Girls, cease immejut! It's just one argument after another, an' lookit poor Lorena sobbin'! My grief! what devils men is!

LORENA LAFFERTY: I washed an' dyed our tights after every performance, an' gave up havin' new hats, so we could have a home on Long Island! Now all is o'er!

CHARLIE FOGARTY: Start fresh, Kid. It's so lonesome after you split.

THE PROPERTY MAN: Sure, they must stick together. Us fellers could tell you what a fine guy Sam is, little one. Make up wit' him.

PANSY XYLOPHONE: My advice is for her to merely forget him and rehearse a new turn. You needn't sneer at me, Miss Beresford; an I may be metallic, but I was the last musical sensation of Jones' Harlem last week, and we were moved from second position to closing at Olean, holding the audience by the sheer force of our personality, and Henry had a terrific cold.

THE SLAVEY: How would you regard some toast?

LORENA LAFFERTY: Imogen, I thank you, but I can't. Oh, when I think how I wore two-bit lisle stockin's to save!—an' for what?

THE LANDLADY: I've saw the child buyin' three-dollar silk for Sam, too.

LORENA LAFFERTY: He need 'em for a front, 'cause the agents don't notice performers unless they look like money.

THE LANDLADY: Vaudeville warps the male viewpoint, dollin' an' you made a god out a him, which they can't stand too much pettin'. Don't I know?

CHARLIE FOGARTY: You're wrong there, Mis' De Shine; for us men are just lookin' for a few kind words. No sensible gink wants to stick around wid a bunch when he can be king in his own little joint. I never stayed out.

MRS. BRACKETT: Life is an appalling thing! Pass the jell—this cake is so dry.

THE LANDLADY: Beefin' as always, I note, Gertie; which why don't you go elsewhere instead of havin' my best room at a cut rate?

MR. BRACKETT: She's only kiddin': she's the best hearted girl alive. Did you hear Pedro the Juggler was cut ten minutes when he opened in Flatbush? The White Rats may take it up. Of course he's a hick act, at that.

THE PROPERTY MAN: They ought to be cut.

PANSY XYLOPHONE: Performers can buy material, and then waste it, I presume? Although if people refuse to buy Mr. Johnson's brand of cold cream and grease paint, he has no use for them; and to his face I say it clogs, while henry was positively a sick man from the lily of the valley scent in it.

MLLE. MARIGNY: His cream is grand!

PANSY XYLOPHONE: Of course, as you play his house next week!

THE LANDLADY: Girls, are you comencin'? Imogen, aid Lorena upstairs. She's cryin' sumpin' fierce, poor lamb!

SAM LAFFERTY: Hon, can't I square it some way? I'll swear she was nothin' to me!

(The door-bell rings, and the curtains move from a sudden draft).

A VOICE: Sam an' Loreny still at supper, Imogen? Tell Loreny it's Pop.

LORENA LAFFERTY: papa! Oh, papa,—let me get by!

ANOTHER VOICE: Mercy, I'm nervous! But then the children both saw me: They were starin' at the box the whole of tehir turn today. Still—stepmothers, Edward! I'm scared!

THE SLAVEY: Her father's married Madum Zaza, the bareback rider!

MADAME ZAZA: Samuel and Lorena, will you kiss your new momma? And you got the sweetest act! Did you hear me when I leaned out of the box and clapped?

LORENA LAFFERTY: It's—the—blue—lady! Oh, Sammy!

CHARLIE FOGARTY: Gee! I feel like weepin' myself!

THE LANDLADY: All kin'ly folla the bridal pair to the first floor rehearsal room, where coffee an' such will be served with best wishes for long lie; though pers'nally I gotta lay day, for the scenes we get start paplitatin'. Imogen, don't breathe when passin' my door an' don't you call me unless a headliner wants board!

My Breakfast with Sarah Bernhardt

By ARTHUR ROW

I HAD heard much of those famous breakfast parties of Madame Bernhardt. Friends of mine had been distinguished by an invitation to them, and now I myself was to have an opportunity to discover their peculiar charm and fascination.

Breakfast with Sarah Bernhardt is much more than a meal: it is an institution, an event covering two hours or more.

Beginning late,—for, in common with all stage folk, she dedicates the early morning hours to rest,—it lasts sometimes till almost noon. In a room banked so deep with flowers that the walls are almost hidden, the most wonderful woman of the stage cheers her mind and renews her energies, drawing deep upon the sympathetic understanding and appreciation of her close friends.

Her Dependence on the Public

OF all artists in the world no other is so dependent upon what we call "response" as Sarah Bernhardt. Without it she would be unable to go on. I do not mean to imply any silly vanity or false pride. No; I mean the assurance from the audience that she has been heard, sympathized with. And the evidence of response that pleases her most is a bunch of flowers.

As we passed into the breakfast room two shabbily dressed women stood waiting at her door, each clutching a tiny bouquet, each face illuminated with the fervor of a devotee at the shrine. And the smile with which Bernhardt received them paid for all their pilgrimage. It helped us to understand why she is called, not "Sarah of the divine voice," but "Sarah of the divine heart."

She Likes People Who "Do Things"

THERE must be no "wasters" at her breakfast parties, no mere idlers, no gilded favorites of fortune. Her joy is in men and women who do things, and it is they who are favored with her companionship. Perhaps it is just as well that she limits her invitation to the strong; for breakfast with her is no mere diversion. Her vitality makes all those about her stand on their mental tiptoes to keep up. She rushes from subject to subject with the unquenchable energy of a dynamo.

Her Biggest Single Motive

"WHAT single motive has been most vital in your life?" I asked her. "Ambition, or enthusiasm, or art, or love?"

She hesitated only a moment, and then answered decisively, "Maurice, my son. It is he for whom I have worked; he has been the inspiration that has never failed."

I remembered then how a friend who had visited her in the hospital after a severe operation remarked that the only "unnecessary" thing in the room was a tiny baby's coat hung at the foot of the bed. It was the coat her boy had worn in his babyhood.

One Day of Her Life

FOR us the breakfast passed all too quickly, and yet we separated, I think, with the feeling of being almost used up, so intensely had she whirled our minds about among a world of subjects. But there was no suggestion of weariness in her; indeed, there could not be, for think of the day that lay before her! The previous morning she had breakfasted early, in order to give a concert to the prisoners at the State penitentiary. In the afternoon and evening had come her regular performances. After the matinée she attended a reception, and following the evening performance there was a dinner at which she entertained a number of guests.

Days like that demand almost superhuman vitality—and Bernhardt, even at seventy and more, brings to every new day all the wonderful vigor and freshness, and the almost childish happiness and expectation, of a girl of eighteen.

Fifty Dollars Down and No Questions Asked

MARY BOYLE O'REILLY is the person who took the baby out of the expression "baby farm." A few years ago, a girl dying of consumption to Boston sent for her and begged her to find an illegitimate child that had mysteriously disappeared from the baby farm at which she had left it. The girl said the woman in charge refused to tell where it was or anything about it.

The baby farm woman had disappeared from the address the girl gave. Miss O'Reilly, hoping for a clue, placed an advertisement in a Boston newspaper, offering fifty dollars to any one who would take a baby off her hands. She received twenty-six replies.

In her investigation she posed as a woman anxious to place a baby for a friend. This is her story of the first baby farm she came to:

"The house was a five-room cottage, isolated and desolate. The slatternly woman in charge said that if fifty dollars were paid there would be no questions asked, and if the Lord took the baby she 'wouldn't trouble no one.' I asked to see the babies. 'Oh, that ain't never allowed,' she said. I insisted that I wouldn't be satisfied with that. 'Oh, you'll come back fast enough,' she said.

"She was right. I went back—with the police. We found a seventeen-year-old boy who was a feeble-minded degenerate in a room with three little girls. We found five babies, sodden with opium and brandy, in dirty cribs. A doctor pronounced four to be dying."

At another baby farm, the proprietor said she was "taking care of the little cherubs until God called them." Cemetery records showed a death a week from this place.

It was due to this investigation that New Hampshire, where the worst cases were found, passed a law putting an end to such farms, and child experts of the whole country became interested in the need of protecting these unwelcome little strangers.

It was Mary Boyle O'Reilly who began the great movement to take orphaned and neglected children out of Homes with a big "H" and place them in private homes, at State expense. The first experiment was made by closing a Home where there had been three hundred children. Within the first year the death rate fell fifty per cent.; skin diseases among the children were eliminated; the expenses were no greater.

There is a successful young high school teacher living in an Eastern city. Her father kicked her mother to death in a drunken fit. As a child, she was placed in a good home instead of in a Home. Eventually she went to college. Imagine the difference that was made in that life because the State placed her in a real home.

At present Miss O'Reilly is in Poland, organizing relief work in the wake of the contending armies. Not long since she was in London, starting cost tea-rooms for the women of the lower classes who, "on account of the war," were by way of drowning their sorrows in stronger drink. Just before that she was in Belgium, where the King himself decorated her in gratitude for her relief work in the early part of the winter.

In Boston there is a statue of John Boyle O'Reilly, Irish patriot and poet. There is also a club, composed of some of the most prominent men in the city, which bears his name. You will find his works in the public library. He enriched the community in which he lived for many years; and not the least of his gifts to it is the woman to whom he passed on in so full a measure his fiery ardor and passionate idealism—his daughter, Mary Boyle O'Reilly.

She Would Like to Reform Editors

MAY WILSON PRESTON is an illustrator with a sound, trig, upstanding philosophy about her craft.

"An illustration," she says, "should illustrate, and it should do nothing else. It should sharpen and heighten the point of the story. It should by no means be able to stand alone. When I hear that some illustrator has sold his original for a fabulous sum something tells me that, while it may have been a good picture, even a work of art, it was not an illustration.

The American Public Wants Humor

"All of this pernicious Pretty Girl vogue which has been devastating honest illustration inside and out of books and magazines is of course the aftermath of the really lovely types that Gibson created fifteen years or so ago. But I do not believe that the hand of the tired traveling salesman, for whom, apparently, most editors buy their covers, moves instinctively toward the silliest pretty girl on a newsrack. I think that what he wants most is something doing. While of course he wants to be pleased, he also wants to be distracted, interested, amused. He wants something with a punch in it, 'pep'; in other words, an idea.

"But what the American public wants most of all in illustrating, as in everything else, is humor. And I believe that it is capable of appreciating a far higher quality of humor than it is given credit for.

"Of course the public will always laugh at slapsticks and drunken men. It will always howl with joy when the chair is pulled out from under the innocent fat man just as he sits down; but, on the other hand, watch how the really fine superhumor of the lion in Shaw's 'Androcles' gets across, or see how joyously a very 'average' audience gets Beatrice Herford's humor, which is the most gentle, delicious, subtle brand of funniness anywhere about to-day.

"While I by no means believe that women have a better sense of humor than men, it happens that just now women are contributing much to the fun in art—and, at that, there is precious little of it these days. We need a renaissance of humor of the Gilbert and Sullivan kind, the Lewis Carroll kind. Where are the humorists whose every line is funny, as John Leech's was, and Charles Keene's?

"Women like F. W. Cory, Ethel Plummer, Helen Dryden, and Rose O'Neill have real humor. Mary Heaton Vorse would have contributed to humor in illustration if she had not turned from painting to writing.

"There must be more people that have it, if only editors will let them give their fancy free rein, and the public will voice the demand which I know it feels."

All of which very sound talk is doubly interesting; for Mrs. Preston's illustrations are one of the rib-tickling joys of magazine editors and readers to-day.

No Other Woman Does This

PROBABLY the only woman in the United States engaged in the ostrich industry is Mrs. William Tracy, who now is the proud owner of a troop of ninety-three birds, kept on an alfalfa ranch at Buttonwillow, twenty-five miles west of Bakersfield, California. She not only cares for the birds herself, but she also oversees the manufacturing of feathers. Recently Mrs. Tracy made the discovery that the bird's hide will tan as beautifully as alligator skin.

How She Came to Do It

WHEN asked how she first became interested in this unique work, she said that her attention was attracted to it by a paragraph on the agricultural page of a newspaper, setting forth the fact that the industry is in its infancy in the United States, and that, although our climate is favorable, we are producing but four per cent. of the feathers required for home consumption. The fact that Kern County has a climate favorable to the requirements of the ostrich led directly to the importation from Arizona of the pair of birds that became the foundation of the Tracy Ostrich Farm.

You Can Buy One for $50

IT was very difficult to obtain birds when I undertook the work in 1907," Mrs. Tracy remarked. "Now you may be able to buy them for from $50 to $100 each; but then only after corresponding with every ostrich farmer of importance in the United States was I able to find one farmer, in Arizona, who could be induced to part from a pair of eighteen-month chicks for $500. In due time they were shipped in strong crates by express, and they were the first I had ever seen. Ostrich chicks are not downy little things. These weighed 300 pounds each, and the express bill was $55. The birds were nervous, and so was I, and, not knowing what else to do, I kept them for several days in a close building and fed them through a small opening. The time came when they must no longer be treated as prisoners if Kern County's ostrich farm was to flourish, and the birds were set free.

"Young ostriches are fed and cared for much the same as young chickens. It is a pleasant duty to care for a brood of ostriches here where they do so well. The young birds weigh two and three quarter pounds when first hatched (each egg weighs three and a half pounds), and grow about a foot each month until they are as large as the parents. This requires from six to eight months. A mature bird will weigh from 300 to 450 pounds, and stands about eight feet high; but it can reach ten feet when standing erect.

"The male is rather vicious during nesting time; but as soon as the chicks hatch he becomes very docile, and takes full charge of the brood, hovering them at night. The solicitude of the male in making the nest, in disciplining his mate if she does not use it, in taking turns with her during the forty-two days of the incubation period, the care he takes of the little ones, and many other things, are all most fascinating features of the pursuit.

What One Earns at It

"WHEN you consider that it costs only about $10 a year to keep an ostrich (an acre of alfalfa will keep four birds) and that the yield is from $25 to $50 in feathers alone, it is surprising that more people do not engage in the business.

"I consider ostrich farming in this climate an ideal occupation for women," Mrs. Tracy avers. "The work of incubating and caring for the chicks is both pleasant and interesting, and they need just that attentive, thoughtful care which it is woman's nature to bestow. And any woman who enters the ostrich industry for profit will find as much pleasure in watching a brood of these queer-looking, two-toed chicks tumble into the sunshine and begin to grow as she finds in wearing their gorgeous feathers—the only feathers not under the ban."

Keeping House in a Refrigerator

ALEXANDER GRAHAM BELL, the venerable inventor of the telephone, works all summer at his home in Washington, D.C., in an atmosphere of 65 degrees. His study is actually a refrigerator, built on the principle that cold air is heavier than warm air.

"The application I have made of the principle of house refrigeration," says the inventor, "is somewhat crude; but its correctness is absolutely proved. It furnishes a basis upon which a feasible and economical scheme will presently be worked out. Cool your air with some kind of ice stove such as I have, force it into the lower part of your house, stop all leaks, and the answer will be summer comfort in hot countries."

Dr. Bell maintains that there is not a house in the world so built but that scientific principles may be applied to keeping it cool in hot weather. "It is just as easy as filling a bucket with water and having it remain full," he says.

Dr. Bell has a natatorium in the lower part of his house. "This was built to hold water," explained the scientist. "I am now causing it to hold cold air. I run my cold air into it just as I did my water. The cold air displaces the warm air just as the water did, and steadily rises in the tank. There are no apertures through which it can run out. It mixes with the warm air at the top and a bit of it is heated; but this does not take place very fast."

One walks down a flight of steps into the former swimming tank. In the eight feet of descent there is all the effect of a change of climate that would have resulted from climbing 5,000 feet up a mountain. The thermometer shows that the temperature is sixty-five, which, Dr. Bell says, is scientifically regarded as ideal heat. In the middle of the room is a desk, where he works in comfort while the city swelters at ninety.

"This old natatorium," says Dr. Bell, "makes an ideal receptacle into which to pour my cold air. Of course I must find a way to cool the air. This I do by means of an 'ice stove' (of which I am not the inventor). I find that somebody has gone part way toward working out this problem ahead of me. An ice stove is a big icebox from which I lead a pipe into the bottom of my swimming pool. In the pipe I rig a fan. When I start the fan it draws the air through the ice stove, where it is cooled, and forces it into the natatorium. The size of the icebox and the force of tile fan may be regulated in accordance with the amount of cold air needed. The principle should be adaptable to all city houses. It would not be surprising if it were worked out in the near future.”

Two in a Tent

By HOLWORTHY HALL

ON the point at issue the local ordinance was specific. More than that, at the bottom of the hill the Town Council had caused to be placed an enameled signboard, with white letters on a blue ground, so that no educated transient could fail to note the three clauses of warning: speed limit, twenty miles an hour; cut-out prohibited; dangerous curves ahead. On all three counts, then, the defendant was found guilty as charged in the indictment; and thrown upon the mercy of the court, which is public opinion.

His name was Eginton; by birth a gentleman; by profession a lawyer. This last is a damaging admission; for the barrister's oath pledges him to uphold the majesty of Legislatures, and Parliaments, and Town Councils, even to the extent of obeying local ordinances. Eginton, however, was a man who went to the bar with reluctance, and took his vacations like an ordinary citizen. He was young, he was mentally and muscularly alive and healthy; and when, on a fresh June morning, he sat behind the wheel of a capable little roadster, he was more interested in the rush of wind on his cheeks, the warmth of the sun, and the invitation of woods and fields than in the temporary injunctions laid down by enameled signboards.

So Eginton went up the hill at twenty-five miles an hour, and the muffler cutout was wide open. And as he sped round the last of the dangerous curves [out?] upon the tableland, he came sharply upon a grocer's delivery wagon attached to a frightened horse, which had taken to the wrong side of the road, and was looming up in the foreground on a dead run.

Off to the right was a level plain,—lawn, to be exact,—unencumbered by trees and rocks. That was as much as Eginton had time to observe. He swerved his car to the right, off the road, and the delivery wagon proceeded on its way without let or hindrance. Eginton threw out his clutch, applied his brakes, and came to a standstill. And it was at about this period of his life that he first noticed where he was, and what he had done.

The little roadster stood, panting, in a flower bed. The rear wheels had churned a number of excellent plants into unrecognizable condition, and the front wheels rested comfortably upon a newspaper, which had evidently been unfolded to serve as container for packets of seeds, and sprouts.

A hundred yards distant a very pretty colonial house lay smiling in the sun. Almost within reach of Eginton's hand a very pretty girl in a garden frock also sat in the sun; but she wasn't smiling. She was poising a trowel over a carefully selected location—and if she had set down the immature geranium a moment sooner, Eginton's car would have planted it for her. Altogether, she was as thoroughly startled a young person as Eginton had recently encountered. Her attitude, her eyes, the instinctive parting of her lips, bore witness to the fact that she hadn't been expecting him.

AT first, and for an appreciable space, they remained motionless, regarding each other in the impersonal, dissociated manner of any two people in an emergency. Following this, they both relaxed slightly; and while Eginton, embarrassed, admiring, was searching for the fit apology, the girl dropped her trowel, dusted her hands, brushed a stray lock of gold-brown hair out of her eyes, and gave her head a quick and spirited little nod of impatience.

"Well!" she said.

"This is awful!" said Eginton ruefully.

"Well, why did you do it?" she demanded. "Can't you control your car? You could have stopped shorter by a mile! You didn't need to touch the garden!"

Her voice, in spite of its iciness, was lyric.

"There was a horse on the wrong side of the road," he stammered.

"Yes—you frightened him with your cut-out! And you must have been driving too fast, or you could have stopped in time. And so you came tearing across our flower beds!" Her cheeks were growing pinker and pinker with indignation, and her eyes snapped.

"I didn't even see them. It was a question of getting out of the road; so I got. I'm sorry—"

"It was stupid!" she cried, stamping her foot. Eginton had to grin; for she stamped inadequately into soft loam. "It was stupid!"

"Hold on a minute!" said Eginton warmly. "It's all right for you to be angry, of course; but rather than take a chance of smashing up a man in a wagon, I'll take a chance on spoiling anybody's garden! You'd do the same thing yourself. I said I'm sorry."

"If you knew how to run a car, you could have stopped. I suppose it's quite immaterial to you that you almost ran over me! Well! Will you kindly back out, with as little additional damage as possible?"

Eginton flushed. "I've told you that I couldn't help it—"

"You could have helped driving so fast, and you could have helped scaring that horse, and you could have helped ruining our garden—if you'd had your wits about you!"

"I'll admit that I wasn't crawling up that hill. As a matter of fact, the cutout was open. Perhaps that was what frightened the horse, and perhaps it wasn't. Anyway, I can't take it back now. I beg your pardon."

"Please!" said the girl, motioning toward the highway.

ACCORDINGLY, and with still further devastation to growing things, Eginton went over the course in reverse. The girl watched him, and winced at the execution of each individual flower. When he had the roadster in its proper environment once more, Eginton dismounted, and went across the seared lawn for the final ceremony.

"Now, then," he began, "how much shall I pay you for this accident?"

"Pay me?"

"Exactly. You see, when people refuse to accept an apology in cases of this kind, they're generally making a memorandum of the number of the car, and all that sort of thing. I'd rather settle it right now."

"You don't need to add insult to your—your incompetence."

"You won't let me pay for the damage?"

"It isn't necessary."

"And you won't accept my apology?"

"For what?"

"Why, for digging up your plants."

THE girl looked at him unconciliatingly. "I think not," she said at length. She turned, and hesitated. "If you had ever been a gentleman," she added, "you might have apologized for coming within an inch or two of running over me,—you might have apologized for that,—and you might have shown some interest in going down to see if anything happened to the man in the wagon. As it is," she indicated the ravaged flower beds, "your apology for that is rather ridiculous!"

Eginton waited unconvinced until she had gained the colonial house and disappeared without a backward glance. Then he sighed, lighted a cigarette, and rejoined his roadster. Twenty minutes later he was shaking hands with the hostess of his house party, and narrating the single adventure of the morning.

At his faithful description of the heroine Mrs. Bostwick was perplexed. "A tall girl," she puzzled. "Very dark, and very lovely—did you notice her eyes?"

"I couldn't do anything else," he admitted.

"Brown? Still there are, several colonial houses— Wait! Did you see her do this?" Mrs. Bostwick caught an imaginary lock of hair, replaced it, and gave her head a curious and spirited little nod.

"Absolutely!" said Eginton. "Just like that! Do you know her?"

"Know her!" said his hostess, aghast. "Well—rather! That is the girl I told

---

you I wanted you to come out here to meet!"

When Eginton was dressing for dinner it occurred to him that this morning he had never expected to see her again, and that now he would probably see her within the hour. And he looked forward with lively anticipation to the meeting. Mrs. Bostwick had found occasion to detail her essential desirability, and Eginton himself was satisfied as to her attractiveness, and her youth, and her engaging disposition.

Recalling his judgment of the first moment of their acquaintance, he confirmed it—in normal moments she would be inspirational. Eginton liked vivacity; he preferred dash and animation to placidity of nature, and he wasn't at all offended by her exit speech. She had inferred that he wasn't a gentleman, and he thought he could prove to her that she was in error. Besides, it was refreshing to find a person so entirely ingenuous and sincere. He decided that if she ever resolved to like a man she would like him very much indeed, and not be afraid to let him know it.

ALTHOUGH he was fully prepared for the second encounter, it arrived with the suddenness of the first. He was talking with one or two of the earlier guests when Mrs. Bostwick, just behind him, spoke his name; and, turning, he beheld the girl of the garden frock.

So far he hadn't visualized her in evening dress, and his amazement might have been flattering to a less prejudiced object of it. Hers was the simplest gown imaginable—a dainty creation of soft apple-green, with little sleeves of white chiffon. She appeared to be not more than nineteen or twenty; but her poise was disconcerting, and her beauty was staggering.

Eginton said something conventional; she replied in kind; the hostess smiled indulgently, and went on, leaving them together.

"Ever since I found out who you are," said Eginton abruptly, "I've been waiting for night to come."

"You found out?" she inquired indifferently.

"Yes—Mrs. Bostwick told me. You wouldn't believe how anxious I've been to see you again."

"Yes?"

"You see—I don't particularly care to be misunderstood—particularly by you."

"Is there any good reason why you shouldn't want to be misunderstood—especially by me?"

He realized that she was intentionally complicating his reparation. "Why, you're a friend of Mrs. Bostwick's," he blundered. "And—"

She laughed infectiously. "My dear Mr. Eginton," she said, "I don't misunderstand you in the least. On the contrary, if I'd happened to be homely and freckled, and not a friend of the Bostwicks, you wouldn't be half so eager to keep on apologizing."

"There's an untenanted corner—I wish you'd sit down and let me persuade you."

"Of what?"

"My character and attainments. Will you?"

"I know them already."

"Only from this morning," he argued.

"No—Mrs. Bostwick is devoted to you. I've heard an exhaustive biography."

"If you had known who I am," he persisted, "would you have forgiven me this morning?"

She weighed the evidence, and found against him. "I think not. I was perfectly furious, of course. I still think you were most careless. And you never said one word about grazing me—"

"But what can I do?" he asked. "How can I show you that I am sorry? You won't take my word for it. And our social system is mighty deficient in these matters. If we were in the Middle Ages, now, I could go out and unhorse a few knights, or capture a couple of Saracens, and that would be proof—"

"Don't be silly!" she said.

"Miss Graves—"

"My dinner escort seems to be looking for me. You're honored with Mrs. Bostwick, aren't you?"

"At least," he begged, "I may have two or three dances afterward? And perhaps you'll sit out one of them?"

She smiled over her shoulder as her partner carried her off in triumph; but Eginton wasn't reassured by the smile.

"TELL me," said his hostess, "did you make up? Are you friends?"

"I am," he conceded gloomily; "but she isn't."

Mrs. Bostwick eyed him sympathetically. "Eleanor's an unusual girl," she explained. "She either adores you or loathes you. I never saw any one else like her. And after she's once made up her mind about anything, whether it's a man, or a dog, or a new putter, it generally takes an explosion of dynamite to shake it. But she's trying to like you."

"What makes you think so?" he inquired, glancing down the table.

"I telephoned her this afternoon,—it wouldn't have been fair for her to come upon you unexpectedly at my house after your little passage at arms,—and, in strict confidence, she said that all the time she was sorry that such a nice-looking man could be so stupid."

"That's something," he grudged; "but not much."

"She certainly is mercurial," said Mrs. Bostwick. "If you really want her to be friendly, I'm afraid you'll have to hunt the opportunity. The most extraordinary and one of the most delightful things about her is that she always says whatever happens to pop into her mind. If she begins to like you, she'll probably say so. No one ever worries about Eleanor's subtlety."

"I can easily believe that," said Eginton. "But a girl as pretty as she is doesn't need to he subtle. Personally, I'd be willing to look at her indefinitely, without feeling that she had to say anything at all."

"Oh, but she has a mind!"

"I know—but that's largesse!"

"You dance with her," advised the hostess confidentially. "I know how you can dance—you'll do splendidly. And after that she may relent a little. She's much too good a dancer for most of our men, and the comparison won't do you any harm. It'll be all right—and I do want you to like each other."

BUT, in spite of Mrs. Bostwick's prediction, it wasn't all right. It so fell about that later in the evening, before he had ventured to claim the privilege he longed for, Eginton was discussing social ethics with a vividly pink matron interested in small talk.

"Why," said Eginton, "it seems to me that there are so many well bred, congenial people in the world, so many who don't object to exchanging minds with you, that it's an utter waste of time to try to play with those who won't meet you halfway—and as for this metropolitan incivility, I won't grant it a second! I don't believe in chasing boors. I think the only way any one—of course I mean a man—can get along in this present scheme is to make up his mind that he's a pretty decent fellow, and that he's fairly well eligible for almost anything. Then if people won't take him at his own valuation, he's a fool if he loses a minute trying to argue with 'em. Life's too complex for that."

There was a distressing silence, during which Eginton recognized the unpleasant fact that several of the guests had been listening to his exposition. The sound of the orchestra was a welcome relief. Eginton looked for Miss Graves, and discovered that she was one of those within earshot. Mutely he asked her for the dance. She shook her head. Observing that the pink matron had acquired a new listener, Eginton pleaded his cause in person.

"The next one, then?"

"No, not the next one."

"After that?"

The girl replaced a fugitive lock of the gold-brown hair, and shook her head in the characteristic nod of impatience. "Do you think it's consistent with your principles?"

"What?" His perplexity dissolved suddenly. "Why, I didn't mean that for you!" he faltered.

She smiled quickly over her shoulder. A stripling from Andover edged through the crowd, and whisked her away.

"Oh, thunder!" muttered the lawyer.

He was stalking moodily to the smoking-room when Mrs. Bostwick waylaid him.

"Why aren't you dancing?" she asked in astonishment.

"I've sprained my ankle," he lied savagely.

Mrs. Bostwick, who had known him very well almost as long as she had known him at all, put her hand on his arm. "Oh, I'm sorry!" she said. "Just go in and smoke—luckily we've two extra men." She squeezed his arm affectionately. "But be sure it's all well by Monday afternoon," she adjured him. "Eleanor's coming over to play tennis with us."

ON Monday afternoon Eginton sat for an hour under the big marquee, and watched Miss Graves demonstrate her skill at tennis. She played remarkably well; so well that no combination of partners at mixed doubles proved satisfactory, for the men were all of equal ability, or disability, and Miss Graves was fully equal to the task of taming any of them.

"I'm really sorry for Eleanor," Mrs. Bostwick confided to Eginton. "She'd be ever so much more clever at the game if she only had a chance to practise with better players than she is. Why don't you take her on for a set or two?"

"Ask her," said Eginton.

All the others agreed to an intermission, and Miss Graves was apparently willing to play with Eginton.

"I do hope you play well," she said to him as they strolled out to the court.

"That depends on the standard," he commented dryly.

They had halted at the net. Miss Graves toyed with her racket, and finally looked straight into his eyes.

"Look here!" she said frankly. "You've seen me play—you know about what I can do. If you can beat me, I want you to. I mean—some men try to let a woman win, you know—"

"Don't worry," said Eginton grimly. "This is tennis!"

Afterward she said that during that match she saw the ball only when she served. Eginton was a demon in white flannel; he covered an enormous amount of ground; and he possessed the uncanny faculty of diagnosing where Miss Graves intended to hit the ball before she herself was quite certain of it.

At the end of the first set, which was a love set, she said as they changed courts, "This time I'm going to get two games!"

"You're not going to get two points!" laughed Eginton; but he was wrong. She got three.

AT the conclusion there was no applause. There was none for Eginton, because he was so immeasurably superior, and there was none for Miss Graves, because she had shone so little. And the majority of those present thought, as spectators in similar matches so often think, that the man was a trifle unsportsmanlike.

Not so Miss Graves. As she sat on the table in the marquee, and drank lemonade through a straw, she expressed herself as ingenuously as Mrs. Bostwick had prophesied.

"That's the first time in my life," she said in appreciation, "that I ever played against a man who honestly tried to win. I like it. Only we'll never do it again."

"Why not?" he asked, sipping his own lemonade.

"You're too good for me. It isn't fun for either of us. And if you try to be polite, and say the same old thing about the pleasure of playing with me, I'll take back the compliment."

"Then I won't say it. And, strictly between ourselves, I don't remember when I've enjoyed an afternoon so little."

"Why—the same here!" she echoed.

They put down their glasses simultaneously, and smiled together.

"Listen!" she said. "Nobody around here plays much—I can beat all the girls and most of the men, and they talk about it a lot. Some of 'em say I ought to go in for the championship. Now, I don't know; I haven't had a very catholic experience in tennis, and you act like a man who has. Now, honestly, do you think I'd have any chance? Of course I can't play against you; but I mean, how do I stand compared with other women?

"The truth?"

"Certainly. That's what I asked for."

"I have two girl cousins," said Eginton. "Either of 'em can take one game a set from me. Both of 'em played in the championship last year, and both of 'em lost in the first round, and both the women who beat them were beaten three straight in the second round. That's enough of an answer, isn't it?"

"Jiminy!" exclaimed Miss Graves. "Am I as bad as all that?"

"Deliver us from our friends," said Eginton piously. "I've even been told by those who like me that I drive a motor rather well."

"I suppose you do," she admitted thoughtfully.

"What?" said Eginton.

Her cheeks were burning; but she exonerated him bravely. "I measured that place yesterday. I figured out how fast you must have been going. You must have had to give her a lot more gas to get over the little embankment by the side of the road—"

"I did," he verified.

"Well, if you'd put on your brake, much harder than you actually did, you'd have turned turtle."

"I know it."

"So—you might have stopped a few feet sooner, but not enough to keep you out of the garden."

"That's the way I saw it myself."

"And altogether I was very rude to you, and I hope you'll forget it, and let me be as sorry as I want to be."

"My dear girl, you've nothing to be sorry for—"

"Lots of things. One of them is about Saturday night."

"Oh!" said Eginton.

"You're not very much like other people. I thought you'd come and ask me again—I thought you'd explain—"

"I'll explain now," he offered promptly.

"No, it isn't necessary. I found out all about that later. And I was dying to dance with you, too! Do you know why I'm telling you all this? Because you beat me: no, not so much because you beat me as because you played the very best you could. A man who could do a thing like that, and stand what some of these people are probably thinking about you, is all right! That's about all!" She gave him her hand, and he took it gratefully.

"I wanted us to be friends," he said.

"Well, so did I. I gave you every chance in the world, didn't I? I measured that place, and I asked Mrs. Dean what you'd been discussing—"

"But why," he demanded, "should you go to all that trouble?"

"Well—you're a friend of Mrs. Bostwick's—"

"Wait a minute! That's exactly the answer I made to a certain question of yours Saturday night. Don't you remember it?"

Miss Graves looked away. When she returned to him, her eyes were dancing. "I knew I'd like you!" she said impulsively. "It's a perfect shame we've wasted so much of your time out here. When are you going back?"

"To-night—late."

"To-night! Why, you can't!"

"Why not?" he asked, amused.

"Why, you can't go until Wednesday. Mrs. Bostwick invited you for three days."

"I've been here three days, haven't I?"

"Have you?"

"No, you're right—I've been here approximately twenty minutes. But I'll have to pike along for the city just the same."

Here the hostess sauntered up to them,

---

and requested a professional opinion on the lemonade.

"Julia," said Miss Graves breathlessly, "he says he's going home to-night! When are you going to ask him up again?"

Mrs. Bostwick surveyed them cheerfully. "Saturday?" she suggested.

"Saturday?" said Miss Graves to Eginton, with a rising inflection.

"Saturday," said Eginton.

OF the three remaining week-ends in June he spent three with the Bostwicks, and of the four in July he spent four. Toward the end of this summer campaign he became accustomed to Mrs. Bostwick's habit of lifting her eyebrows in interrogation each morning.

"I can't make her out at all," he protested to his hostess on the afternoon before her Red Cross garden party. "I knew her just as well that first weekend as I do now. We were just as good friends. We don't seem to get anywhere."

"That's very like her—but she thinks a great deal of you, I know."

"I'd never suspect it. I mean, she's precisely as nice, and intelligent, and sweet to me as she is to everybody else."

"I know she admires you, if that's any consolation."

"Not a lot. Personally I admire a good many people who incidentally bore me to death. By the way, she wouldn't tell me what she's going to do to-night; but you will, won't you?"

"Oh, I can't! That wouldn't be fair!"

"I think it would. I know so much about it already."

"For instance—" said Mrs. Bostwick.

"Well, the dancing pavilion is above board—we'll omit that. Then all there is left is booths and tents where the prettiest girls you can find are going to sell us flowers and candy and all sorts of miscellaneous junk at about eleven times the market price."

"Is that all?"

"That's all you've told me."

"There'll be a surprise for you," she assured him. "Take the big tent by the tennis court—there you'll find a one-ring circus. Naturally, the performers want to be disguised."

"Is she in that?" he asked, somewhat appalled. "Well—she rides awfully well—I shouldn't be surprised. Is she?"

Mrs. Bostwick smiled knowingly. "Over by the fountain," she continued, "is a gipsy who'll tell your fortune for a dollar. Naturally you can't know who she is."

"That might be Eleanor—she's clever enough."

"Next to that is the big tent, where there'll be selections from grand opera by a special cast—two performances. I assure you, it will be screamingly funny. Admission will be fifty cents."

"Well, she might even be in that—she sings mighty well."

"You don't know about the solo dancing, either?"

"That's Eleanor!" he exclaimed. "You'd have to have her in that."

"Are you sure? Don't you imagine she'd be better in the Hawaiian tent? Mandolins, and songs? You know, she can play a mandolin. If you want to for the small sum of one dollar. Come in, make sure, you can pay another fifty cents, and look over the Hawaiians."

"How many of these masqueraders are there?" he demanded, aggrieved.

"Oh, about a hundred," said Mrs. Bostwick carelessly. "They thought it would be fun—none of their friends know what shows they're in. So, if you want to find out, you'll have to go the rounds, and give about six dollars apiece to the Red Cross."

"And you mean to say I'll have to spend half the evening hunting her up?"

"If it takes you that long, you don't deserve to find her."

"I'll find her all right," he promised confidently.

But at nine o'clock, when the lawn swarmed with laughing guests, and every booth and tent was crowded to capacity, he hadn't yet found her. One glance at the solo dancers was enough, one bar of grand opera in black-face, one session of the society circus. The Hawaiian minstrels held him for two numbers and an encore, because there was a girl who had possibilities; but after angling for recognition for half an hour he discovered that she wore a wedding ring.

Then it occurred to him that neither Miss Graves nor Mrs. Bostwick had guaranteed that she would be in costume at all; so he squandered thirty precious minutes in accumulating roses and confectionery and hopelessly trivial knickknacks, without once catching sight of the elusive Eleanor.

It was ten o'clock when, weary and disgusted, Eginton found himself near the fountain and the tent of Madam Zuzu, the mysterious palmist of the Nile.

Madam Zuzu, resplendent in robes of red, decorated with the usual insignia of royalty, held forth amid Oriental cushions and hangings. Her paraphernalia consisted of a crystal ball, a black cat tethered to a tent peg by a tire chain, a pack of cards, carefully greased with pure leaf lard, and a choice assortment of charts, each showing the human hand affected by some ailment resembling the plan of a model city. Madam Zuzu, masked, jingled coins on a soap-box, and invited a trial of her skill.

"No, thanks," said Eginton. "After tonight the Red Cross'll have more of my money than I have."

"For the small sum of one dollar," persisted the palmist hoarsely, "Madam Zuzu tells past, present, and future. Advice in business, home affairs, and love. All for the small sum of one dollar. Come in, or Madam Zuzu will haunt you!"

EGINTON laughed dispiritedly, and went in. He crossed the lady's palm with a dollar bill, and presented her with his hand.

"Aha!" said Madam Zuzu. "You are a lawyer!"

"How do you know that?" he wondered.

"The itching palm," she told him, with a terrific croak.

"Go ahead," said Eginton. "Hurry up and tell me about crossing the water, and the long journey, and the money I'm going to get from somebody's will, won't you? I'm sleepy."

"Hurry me as you will," retorted the gipsy pro tem., "you can't hurry the Fates."

She detected a lock of hair in the act of escaping, and imprisoned it.

Eginton sat up and stared.

"I'll tell you," he suggested. "You say you give advice on business and home affairs and—and other things."

"Not—other things—to a lawyer," she parried.

"Indeed? Then kindly give me my money back. I'm sure you don't want to do that: it's for charity, you know."

"I—what do you seek?"

"I seek information. I want you to read my hand, that's all." She had released it; so he held it out insistently.

"Omit the past and the present—let's hear about the future."

Madame Zuzu took his hand reluctantly.

"You will be very happy," she began.

"Please be a little more definite. How shall I be happy?"

"The—the cards fail to say."

"You haven't looked at the cards! What's in my hand?"

"The lines I see—"

"Yes?"

"—are—are contradictory."

"Madam Zuzu," said Eginton gently, "you're a fake!"

She started in amazement.

"I've paid a perfectly good dollar," he told her, "and I want a good reading. Here—you've forgotten my hand."

"I—I can see it quite well from here."

"That isn't professional. There, that's better! Now, if you aren't sure of the future, we'll talk about the present. Please tell me all about myself."

"The lines I see—say that you're—very jolly, and—and kind—and thoughtful—"

"Yes? And beyond that?"

"Why, nothing beyond that—"

"But there must be! You'll have to be very explicit, because, as a matter of fact, I do need that advice. Do you see anything there that looks like a girl coming into my life?"

"There might be—" She was speaking in her own voice now, and it wasn't altogether so sure as he had heard it.

"There is! Can you tell me anything about her?"

"She's—she's short—and blonde—"

"Yes?"

"And—blue eyes—"

"Right!" he agreed. "Reversing the oracle, it's a perfect picture of her. Can you decipher her name?"

"N-no."

"Fortunately, I know it myself. Would the lines indicate that she—likes me?"

"I think so."

He breathed in great relief. "That's good! Very much?"

Madam Zuzu's own hand trembled appreciably. "I said—I think so—"

Eginton moved closer to her, and lowered his voice a trifle. "I wonder if you can tell if she knows what I think of her? Can you?"

"She—she might guess."

"How could she guess?"

"Please go away," said the palmist plaintively. "Other people—"

Eginton peered outside the tent, and came back smiling. "Nobody in sight," he reported. This time he sat by Madam Zuzu's side, and took her own hand in his.

"Let me try," he said softly. "I can see these things more clearly than even you. Shall I tell you—from your hand? Then—I see a man—very well. He's twenty-seven years old, blonde, rather tall. If I'm not right, please correct me. He's about to go on a long journey—"

"Where?" she articulated.

"Japan. In September. He may be gone a year. And I can see that he's thinking about you—constantly. He's—he's worried about you. He doesn't understand what you're thinking—and it makes a vast amount of difference to him."

He paused, and Madam Zuzu took his big palm between hers, and scrutinized it in turn.

"This line—do you see it? Do you know what it means?"

"No. What does it mean?"

"That's the life line. You'll have a long, long life, and a happy one."

"Yours is just as long," he said, bending over it. "And does that little wiggle there mean that it'll be happy too?"

"I—hope so."

"Do you know what this curious intersection is? I do."

She shook her head in negation.

"That tells me that you're to be married," said Eginton. "And—you're going on a long journey."

"W-where?" she whispered.

"Japan—for a year—on a wedding trip."

"Are you—sure?"

"It's in the lines. Eleanor! Shall I tell you what else I see?"

"Y-yes."

"I'm going to take your mask off—"

"Oh, no! Please! Please!"

"I must!—your hand says so. And, Eleanor, I'm going to kiss you!"

The palmist's head fell back on his arm about her neck, and their lips met.

"Oh!" she said faintly. "I didn't know—it would be like this!"

INSIDE the tent of the soothsayer was silence. The cards lay where they had fallen, in the sequence denoting marriage. The black cat, significant of witchery, complacently observed the magic of romance, and complacently licked its whiskers. The crystal globe reflected lovers in each other's arms.

Altogether there was no need of the chirosophic charts to prove that the Fates are inexorable, and what is to be, will be.

My Hard Life as an Umpire

By BILLY EVANS

IT was one day in 1903 that I journeyed out to the ball park to cover the game for the paper. There was a delay when the time arrived to start the contest. It developed that the umpire had been unable to get to work because of illness. A number of ex-players who happened to be at the game were considered; but the managers could not agree. Finally my name was suggested, and proved acceptable to both managers. I was informed of their decision; but declined with thanks.

The crowd was impatient. It became noised about that I was the only man acceptable to both managers, and that since I refused to work the game would probably be called off. Just when it seemed that I was to escape the ordeal a fan in the bleachers with a decidedly loud voice yelled: "What's the matter—have you lost your nerve?"

That short but trite remark shaped my career. The fan had made me sore clear through, and almost as soon as he had finished his remark I assured the rival managers that I would take a chance.

"You couldn't make fifteen dollars any easier," said one of them. That was my first inkling of what the pay was to be. Fifteen dollars for a couple of hours' work—almost as much as I was getting for carrying around the title of sporting editor for a whole week! It made umpiring appeal to me. Attired in the very best clothes I had, I took the field for my debut.

THE game was thirteen innings, the visiting team winning 1 to 0. It was a pitchers' battle, with but few close decisions, and I got along famously. The regular umpire was unable to work the following day, and I gathered in fifteen dollars more. My bank-roll was so large that for the first time in my life I felt that a pocketbook was a necessity instead of a luxury.

I managed to get along so well that on the third day I was offered a regular position as umpire at a salary that was decidedly higher than I was receiving as a sporting editor. Needless to say, I accepted. As umpiring had furnished me with the money to purchase a pocketbook, I felt that the only way to keep a roll in it was to keep on umpiring; and I continued to officiate, although there were many times when I seriously doubted my wisdom in accepting the position.

I began my big league career in New York. A crowd of twenty-five thousand was in attendance. When I stepped on the field it seemed that wherever I looked I could see grinning faces. I imagined that all of them were laughing at me, when as a matter of fact I suppose there was scarcely a single person on the field who noticed me. There were too many stars to attract attention for any one to give any time to a poor "busher." But I shall never forget that crowd. I was seeing more people in one day than I had seen in a whole season in the league I came from.

The game went twelve innings, and it required something like two hours and a quarter to play it. To me those two hours seemed like a couple of years. When the game was finished I was more fatigued than I should have been if I had been using a pick and shovel all day, instead of merely saying "Out!" and "Safe!"

"KILL the umpire!" is a favorite expression with a certain element that attends ball games.

Every umpire who has been in the business any length of time can relate numerous hair-breadth escapes, thrilling enough to make excellent plots for melodramas. My experience has been no exception to the rule.

The throwing of pop bottles was at one time a favorite diversion. Whenever the umpire rendered a decision against the home team he could expect an impromptu shower. It was almost necessary, in order to succeed as umpire, for a man to be equally clever at dodging the many things that came his way, and none of which he asked for.

I have dodged a million pop bottles! I have looked toward the sky, after rendering a close decision against the home team, and found it obscured by a regular canopy of pop bottles. I have had them pass just above my head, between my legs, and in fact graze almost every part of my anatomy; but never have I been hit by a missile really intended for me. I did stop a bottle that was intended for somebody else, and that stop almost resulted in the Great Umpire declaring me out.

I WAS working in a game at St. Louis, between the Detroit and the St. Louis clubs in the fall of 1907, when a single umpire presided over the game. A record crowd was in attendance, the gates having been closed an hour before starting time. Detroit at that time was battling hard for the lead. It was late in September, and the winning or losing of a game meant a great deal to the Tigers.

Because of the overflow a hit into the crowd had been agreed on as good for two bases. There was a swinging gate about six feet long out in the left-field fence, about ten feet above the ground, about which I knew nothing. It was used to facilitate the delivery of bottled goods into the park. A wagon could drive up to it in the rear of the park, and slip the wet goods through.

ON the day in question it was extremely hot. Some one in the overflow crowd had discovered the gate, and by opening it found it provided a slight breeze. Up to the fifth inning of the game Detroit led by a run. In that inning Harry Howell, who was pitching for St. Louis, hit a ball into left field. As I followed its course I was surprised to see the opening in the fence. A few minutes before I had had occasion to glance in that direction, and had observed nothing wrong. I afterward learned that the gate had been opened only a few seconds before Howell hit the ball.

It was my bad luck to have the ball pass squarely through the opening. When Howell made the hit I had run toward third base, in order to be able to follow the ball more closely. When it passed through the opening I was about fifteen feet back of third base. Howell paused at second base, and I motioned for him to continue home, with the run that tied up the game.

When the St. Louis fans saw that I had allowed Howell a home run, instead of a two-base hit, they went wild with delight. As he trotted from second to the plate unmolested he was given a great ovation.

THE Detroit team immediately set up the claim that the hit was good for only two bases: a foolish contention; but a lot of the claims that are made on the ball field are not well founded. I was at once surrounded by a group of Tiger players, all talking at the same time.

There is no fairer man in baseball than Hughey Jennings, the famous leader of the Detroit team, and I told that gentleman that the easiest way to settle the argument was to get rid of the players, and the two of us would thresh it out, which he proceeded to do.

"A hit into the crowd is good for only two bases," said Hughey.

"Right you are," I replied; "but this hit didn't go into the crowd. It went over the crowd and out of the grounds."

"But the gate should have been closed," argued Jennings.

"It wasn't," I replied, "the blame for which I will take. When a ball goes out of playing territory, how is it regarded?" I asked.

"A home run, of course," answered Jennings.

In the meantime pop bottles were being thrown from all directions; but few had the force to carry close enough to do any harm.

"Then the argument is settled," I stated. "Let us continue the game. If we don't get away from here, some one will be getting killed."

The next thing I remember was when I came to in the hospital, and inquired what happened. After the nurse had told me in a few words all she was allowed to say about the case she switched the conversation, by asking me who "Kid So-and-so" was. I told her he was a well known player.

"You are not very fond of him?" she asked.

When I told her that I was not very fond of him she told me that I had put him out of the game only four times in the last half-hour.

UMPIRES are human, despite all assertions to the contrary. Apparently a great many people believe that the men who give the decisions on the diamond are composed of some strange substance: possibly mineral, or vegetable, or animal substance, but certainly not a human one.

I once met a young lady who, upon hearing that I was an umpire, seemed greatly surprised to learn that I had a father and mother and a sister and brothers; that I lived in a house, ate real food, was married; in short, that I was a human being, able to love and hate, and if stuck with a pin would very likely say "Ouch!" or something worse.

Each day when the umpire steps on the ball field he has eighteen active athletes arrayed against him, as well as two live managers, and an imposing bunch of bench warmers. There is also the crowd to be considered; for as a rule the majority of those present agree with the umpire only when he renders a decision that is in favor of the home team.

Several years ago a very fair-minded fan asked me this rather pertinent question:

"When you go on the ball field who do you try to please, and what effect do the kicks of the players and the ravings of the crowd have on you?"

"When I go on the field I try to satisfy myself," I replied. "I give the plays just as I see them, without fear or favor. When I satisfy myself I feel that I have umpired a good game. Often I leave the game anything but pleased with my work; for I often realize too late that I have erred.

"Frequently I have umpired the very best of ball, and still been severely criticized for rulings that I knew were absolutely correct. If an umpire catered to each player and gave the crowd the slightest consideration in the rendering of decisions, he would be in the madhouse inside of a month. The most pleasant part of a ball game to me is when the last man is retired in the ninth, and the crowd files peacefully out, and no one blames the umpire for the defeat."

IS it hard to make good? Is umpiring as tough a job as most people think? To these questions I would reply that out of a hundred million people in this good old U. S. A. there are just sixteen major league umpires, and there is a constant demand for new officials.

The following story will best illustrate what a "soft" time an umpire has in the minors.

Several years ago an enthusiastic young umpire dropped into my dressing room at the Chicago grounds. He wanted to get a job in a minor league. A few minutes later a well known minor league president dropped in to see me. I introduced the umpire to the president.

"I can use a good umpire," said the president; "but I can't afford to pay much money, as my league is an easy one for the umpires. All you have to do is to satisfy the players, managers, club owners, public, and the press, and you won't have any trouble holding your job."

Following my suggestions, the young umpire declined the job. It was too easy.

"I wouldn't hold down your job for all the money in the world," is an expression that every umpire hears hundreds of times a year.

But most umpires are perfectly content to work for a very small portion of the world's "mazuma." Most people regard them as a necessary evil. However, I think they are very necessary, and if you ever watched an important game that was umpired by a couple of players, you will agree with me. And most umpires are satisfied with their lot. I am with mine. I hope to be a big leaguer for many years to come. When my sight fails (most fans insist I was born blind) I am going to retire. Nothing doing on the "back to the bushes" stunt. One taste of the tall grass circuit is enough and more than enough.

Who Was Marie Dupont?

By ADELE LUEHRMANN

CHAPTER XIII (Continued)

PRESENTLY Count Szemere began his story. "What do you know of my country—of Rumania? That our Queen, Carmen Sylva, writes verses?" His shoulders lifted slightly. "Truly I think here little else is known of us. Yet we are a nation with a history. But I will not bore you. Only this let me say: that when Prussia sent to us a Hohenzollern to be our King many of our native princes ate the dust of disappointment. Of these princes the chief was Prince Xico of Kemesvar. He was the people's choice for King, and the Powers had promised us a native prince; but the Prussian Bismarck sent the Hohenzollern—and he stayed. Dying, Prince Xico left two sons, Vasilief and Lascar. Vasilief Xico now became head of the house and the master of Kemesvar, and—he chose a bride."

Count Szemere's eyes took on a glint of hatred, the muscles in his jaw set hard.

"She was a woman of Bessarabia, of Tartar blood, low-born. His father would have seen him die a thousand deaths sooner than that the blood of Xico should mingle with such as hers. But the Court at Bukharest lent it all countenance. Whatever estranged the reverence of the people for the house of Xico played into their hands. Prince Lascar said nothing to his brother; but he swore to me, his comrade, that he would not remain to look upon the outrage. Feigning illness, he announced that he would travel to restore his health. It chanced that this plan suited his brother. Some of the jewels of Kemesvar, proudly worn by princesses, had failed to please the lowborn Tartar: the stones must be recut in the fashion of the day. In Bukharest was no workman to be trusted: they must be sent to Paris. Since Lascar was to travel, why not to Paris with the jewels? He agreed, and we left for France, taking with us the Cross of Kemesvar."

"The necklace?" asked Amarinth.

"Yes; so it was called—for the cross itself was the chief treasure of the noble house. In earlier days the Hospodars were also bishops of the Church, and it was to a Prince Xico that the necklace and cross were given on his ordination by the Patriarch of Constantinople, the head, as you must know, of the Greek Church."

Again hatred and anger gleamed from Szemere's eyes. "Lascar, my friend, is dead," he exclaimed, "and one I love more than life wastes her youth in faith to me: yet I could almost wish the Cross of Kemesvar were never found if it must he upon the bosom of the Tartar hag!"

THE mood of violence spent itself swiftly, and presently he went on: "In Paris we lived as men of our age and class, and for such Paris has much to offer; but Lascar soon wearied and talked of Petersburg. I had my reasons for preferring Paris: my betrothed was there. But to remain in Paris the Prince had to be amused. One evening, seeking some new diversion, I chanced to hear of the Purple Pigeon, a theater of Montmartre unknown to me."

He halted, and a tremor ran over him. It was a fatal night for all concerned," he said grimly; "for there, for the first time, Prince Lascar saw Alix Floria."

"Alix Floria?" Hugh Senior caught up the name. "I've heard of her, I think."

"No doubt. The world heard of her soon after, when she was murdered."

"Who was she?" Guy asked.

"She was a dancer. Ah!"—Szemere pointed an eager finger at Hugh—"you have remembered something! Our stories have had a meeting, is it not?"

"Perhaps," said Hugh. "When did all this happen?"

"In April it will be seven years."

Involuntarily Amarinth glanced at Hugh. The look did not escape Szemere's watchful eye. "I see that already I help you. Will you not help me? Will you not speak also?"

"When you have finished your story," Hugh replied.

"Ah, yes. I will hasten. It is not much more to tell. The Prince went mad about the girl. It was then the question not to stay but to leave Paris. He would not go. Every night we sat in a box at the Purple Pigeon. I dared not leave him. All Paris talked of him and Floria. In the clubs wagers were laid for and against his success."

"Then he was not her lover?" Hugh asked.

"No, never! She was an odd creature, beautiful and very young. Many men were mad for her. One only she loved—the man who killed her. But I go now too fast. One day she heard of the necklace. A newspaper had printed the history of it and that the Prince had brought it to Paris. How this was known I cannot tell—from the jewelers, perhaps. We had got from them designs for the cutting, and sent these to Bukharest that a choice be made, and the necklace waited. Floria wished to see it. The Prince agreed. She wished to wear it to dance. The Prince agreed. Always I tried to persuade him from this madness,—that a dancing girl should wear the Cross of Kemesvar would he a shame to his name. He laughed. No greater shame, he said, than when the Tartar wore it.

"Well, Alix wore it. She had boasted that she would, and Paris watched. The scandal was frightful. A portrait of her with the necklace was shown at the Salon and at once removed. Telegrams came from the King himself ordering us to return to Rumania. All this only drove the Prince to his final madness.

"We were to leave Paris at midnight, and after dining returned to our hotel. He would not go out, Lascar said: it was better that he should not see Alix again. If I wished to go, I was free. He was tired and would sleep. I should have suspected, of course; but I did not. He seemed depressed, changed. I thought he was merely unhappy. I joined my betrothed at the opera, and when I returned he was gone. The following day his body was found in the morgue!"

SZEMERE paused and sank back in his chair. He was very pale, and the muscles of his face twitched.

"What had happened?" Hugh prompted.

"I don't know," Szemere said slowly. "No one knows. The body was discovered at dawn, lying in a ditch by the roadside twenty miles from Paris. He had been stabbed in the heart. The only clue was a piece of fur clutched tightly in one hand. I recognized it as like the fur on a coat that Floria wore."

Amarinth gave a violent start.

The Rumanian sprang to his feet. "What is it?" he cried. "The coat? You know of that? It was never found—that coat!"

Hugh laid his hand on Guy's arm to warn him to he silent. "We shall speak when our turn comes," he said to Szemere quietly, though his face was white.

"You are right. I will make an end. The clue of the fur led to nothing; for Alix Floria was herself found dead in her apartment the same morning. She too had been stabbed. Suspicion for her death pointed directly to a young Frenchman, the man with whom she was said to have come to Paris; but, though the evidence was very strong against him, he was acquitted when tried for the murder. This was due to a doubt that was raised that the body found was that of the dancer. Her maid identified it; but the head

Continued on page 16

Every Kind of a Garden

---

Lady Mackenzie Behind the Trigger

LADY GRACE MACKENZIE, explorer and hunter, is the reason why the ebony and not impressionable folk of the Randili, the Sombero, the Masai, and other important tribes of British East Africa regard white women with a most healthy respect. They call her, with wondering gravity, "Mein-sahib Couba"—the big white woman.

She Holds the Record for Variety of Game

"LADY MAC," who is now taking life easy in New York after a remarkable twelvemonth of big-game shooting, was the leading and only lady of an expedition that cost more than $200,000. She has gone farther into the heart of dark old Africa in her search for big game than any white man, not excluding that other strenuous American, Colonel Roosevelt. Moreover, she holds the best hunting record that has come out of that continent, not for number of pelts and tusks, but for variety of game brought down. And here let it be said, for the consolation of the more tender-hearted, that this modern Diana hunts primarily with the camera. She aims to kill only one of each kind of animal; after that she kills only for food or in self-defense. Two expert motion-picture photographers were a part of her escort.

Lady Mackenzie landed at Mombasa with her big guns, ammunition, and camping supplies, her photographers, secretary and three sportsman friends of some African experience. They went inland three hundred miles by the only railroad British East Africa boasts to Nairobi, where several native hunters, porters, and three hundred black boys were picked up. The photograph shows the cave in the Marsabit desert where Lady Mackenzie and her friends spent two months waiting for certain influential elephants to come and be photographed. It was near a popular water hole where the elephants were due to arrive on one of their prerainy-season tours.

Big-game hunting is the hardest kind of hard work. There are the dangerous nuisances of heat, insects, reptiles, and fever, which are quite as exhausting as the more thrilling danger from the fearsome quarry—and be it remembered that no two specimens of big game ever act alike. Also, there is no little safety spot where it is against the rules for anything to touch you. Once your presence rouses the king of the jungle or any of his subjects, one of two things is bound to happen: either you stand your ground and kill him, or, as they say in Swahili, the universal African tongue, it is for you "kwaheri"—good-by. As to hair-breadth escapes—well, there was the wounded lion that missed Lady Mac by the uncomfortable margin of six inches.

"He had started for me, but a few feet away was distracted by the sight of one of my hunters who had started to run. The blood from the beast's wounded shoulder splashed my blouse as he passed me." Here the huntress sighed thoughtfully. "It was quite, quite done for," she said; "and it was a very good blouse."

Telephoning from Flying Trains

WHILE the Lackawanna Limited was roaring through the night, a few weeks ago, fragments of a wireless telephone conversation forty-two miles distant were heard on the wireless instruments installed on the train. Later, an experiment took place in which conversation from the flying train was successfully held with a wireless station at Binghamton, New York, twenty-six miles away. The voice was heard clearly and distinctly at both ends.

Keep in Touch with Your Office While Dashing Away from It

ALTHOUGH the train-board wireless telephone was installed primarily for the exchange of train orders, its use will soon be extended to the traveling public. By means of an ingenious re-transmitting device at the land station, conversation will he relayed to the wires of the local telephone system. Thus, a business man can talk comfortably to his wife while he is traveling toward her (or away from her) at a sixty-mile-an-hour clip; he can conduct business, or order his limousine or a taxicab to meet the train.

The dynamo that supplies electric current for operating the wireless telephone is located in the baggage-car ahead; the telephone is in a small booth at the end of the smoking-car. It resembles the ordinary wall-telephone, and is nearly as simple. Wireless telephonic conversation does not work in both directions at the same time. A small button is pressed down for talking, and released for listening.

$500 a Year from Candles

NEAR Portland, Maine, out on the Cape Elizabeth shore, lives a young woman who earns over $500 every season by making bayberry candles. In this section of New England the bayberry is found at its best, and it is not hard work to gather the berries. By working from early summer until near Thanksgiving this young woman has enough candles on hand before Christmas to supply the home markets, and to export many.

It takes a quart of berries to make a candle. In a large preserving kettle two quarts of water are poured over one quart of the berries. This rule is carried out in the same proportions for any amount of berries. The mixture is boiled constantly for four hours, and when the water falls more than three inches below the rim of the kettle it is filled again with hot water. After four hours place the mixture on the back of the stove and let it simmer two hours longer. Then place it where it will keep hot until night, take off, and let stand until morning, when the dipping is done.

She sells them in a pale green box, the same shade as the candles, each box containing two and selling for fifty cents. An appropriate verse goes with each, and this handmade gift makes an unusual Christmas present, besides adding considerably to the candle maker's income.

Torchy Tackles a Short Circuit

By SEWELL FORD

THERE was no use discountin' the fact, or tryin' to smooth it over. I was in Dutch with Mr. Robert—all because Vee and I tried to pull a little Cupid stunt for his benefit. I'd invested six whole dollars in that bunch of roses we'd passed up to Miss Hampton, too! And just because we thought it would be a happy hunch to tie in his card with 'em, he goes and gets peevish.

Not that he comes right out and roasts me for gettin' gay. Say, that would have been a relief; but he don't. He just lugs around a dignified, injured air and gives me the cold eye. Say, that's the limit, that is! Makes me feel as mean and little as a green strawb'ry on top of a bakery shortcake.

Three days I'd had of it, mind you, with never a show to put in any defense, or plead guilty but sorry, or anything like that. And me all the time hoping it would wear off. I expect it would too, if some one could have throttled Billy Bounce. Course nobody could, or it would have happened long ago. Havin' no more neck than an ice-water pitcher has been Billy's salvation all through his career.

MAYBE you don't remember my mentionin' him before; but he's the roly-poly club friend of Mr. Robert's who went with us on that alligator shootin' trip up the Wiggywash two winters ago. Hadn't shown up at the Corrugated General offices for months before; but here the other afternoon he breezed in, dumps his 220 excess into a chair by the roll-top, mops the heavy dew from various parts of his full-moon face, and proceeds to get real folksy.

At the time I was waitin' on the far side of the desk for Mr. Robert to O.K. a fundin' report, and there was other signs of a busy day in plain sight; but Billy Bounce ain't a bit disturbed by that. He'd come in loaded with chat.

"Oh, I say, Bob," he breaks out, after a few preliminary joshes, "who do you suppose I ran across up in the Fitz-William palm room the other night?"

"A head waiter," says Mr. Robert.

"Oh, come!" says Billy. "Give a guess."

"One of your front row friends from the Winter Garden?" asks Mr. Robert.

"No, a friend of yours," says Billy. "That blue-eyed warbler you used to be so nutty over—Miss Hampton. Eh, Bob? How about it?" With which he reaches over playful and pokes Mr. Robert in the ribs.

I expect he'd have put it across just as raw if there'd been a dozen around instead of only me. That's Billy Bounce. About as much delicate reserve, Billy has, as a traffic cop clearin' up a street tangle.

"Indeed!" says Mr. Robert, flushin' a bit. "Clever of you to remember her. I—er—I trust she was charmed to meet you again?"

"The deuce you do!" comes back Billy. "Anyway, she wasn't as grouchy about it as you are. Say, she's all right, Miss Hampton is; a heap too nice for a big ham like you, as I always said."

"Yes, I believe I recall your hinting as much," says Mr. Robert; "but if you don't mind I'd rather not discuss—"

"You'd better, though," says Billy. "You see, I thought I had to drag you into the conversation. Asked her if she'd seen you lately. And say, old man, she's expecting you to call or something. Lord knows why; but she is, you know. Said you'd probably be up to-night. As much as asked me to pass on the word. Eh, Bob?

"Well, I've done it. S'long. See you at the club afterward, and you can tell me all about it."

He winks roguish over his shoulder as he waddles out, leavin' Mr. Robert starin' puzzled over the top of the desk, and me with my mouth open.

AND the next thing I know I'm gettin' the inventory look-over from them keen eyes of Mr. Robert's. "You heard, I suppose?" says he.

"Uh-huh," says I, sort of husky.

"And I presume you understand just what that means?" he goes on. "I am expected to call and explain about those roses."

"Well?" says I. "Why not stand pat? Sendin' flowers to a young lady ain't any penal offense, is it?"

"As a simple statement of an abstract proposition," says Mr. Robert, "that is quite correct; but in this instance the situation is somewhat more complicated. As a matter of fact, I find myself in a deucedly awkward position."

"That's easy," says I. "Lay it to me, then."

Mr. Robert shakes his head. "I've considered that," says he; "but sometimes the bald truth sounds singularly unconvincing. I'm sure it would in this case. If the young lady was familiar with all the buoyant audacity of your irrepressible nature, perhaps it would be different. No, young man, I fear I must ask you to do your own explaining."

"Me?" says I, gawpin'.

"We will call on Miss Hampton about four-thirty," says he.

And say, Mr. Robert has stacked me up against some batty excursions before now; but this billin' me for orator of the day when he goes to look up an old girl of his is about the fruitiest performance he'd ever sprung.

I don't know when I've ever seen him with a worse case of the fidgets, either. Why, you'd 'most think he was due to answer a charge of breakin' and enterin', or something like that! And you know he's some nervy sport, Mr. Robert—all except when it's a matter of skirts. Then he's more or less of a skittish party, believe me!

BUT at four-thirty we went. It wa'n't any joy ride we had, either. All the way up Mr. Robert sits there fillin' the limousine with gloom thick enough to slice. I tried chirkin' him up with a few frivolous side remarks; but they don't take, and I sighs relieved when we're landed at the apartment hotel where Miss Hampton lives.

"Say," I suggests, "you ain't goin' to lead me in by the ear, are you?"

"I'm not sure but that would be an appropriate entrance," says he. "However, it might appear a trifle theatrical."

"What's the program, anyway?" says I, as we boards the elevator. "Do you open for the defense, or do I?"

"Hanged if I know!" he almost groans out. "I wish I did."

"Then let's stick around outside in the corridor here," says I, "until we frame up something. Now how would it do if—"

"You're to explain, that's all!" says he, steppin' up and pushin' the button.

It's a wonder too, from the panicky way he's actin', he don't shove me ahead of him for a buffer as we goes in. But he has just enough courage left to let me trail along behind.

So it's him gets the cordial greetin' from the vision in blue net that floats out easy and graceful from the window nook.

I COULDN'T see why it wa'n't goin' to be just as awkward for her, meetin' him again so long after their grand smash, or whatever it was; but, take it from me, there ain't any fussed motions about Miss Hampton at all. Them big china blue eyes of hers is steady and calm, her perky chin is carried well up, and in one corner of her mouth she's displayin' that quirky smile he'd described to me.

"Ah, Robert!" says she. "So good of you to—"

Then she discovers me and breaks off sudden.

I'm introduced reg'lar and formal, and Mr. Robert adds, "A young friend of mine from the office."

"Oh!" says Miss Hampton, liftin' her eyebrows a little.

"I brought him along," blurts out Mr. Robert, "to tell you about how you happened to get the roses."

"Really!" says she. "How considerate of you!"

And if Mr. Robert hadn't been actin' so much like a poor prune he'd have quit that line right there. But on he blunders.

"You see," says he, "I've asked Torchy to explain for me."

"Ye-e-es?" says she, bitin' her upper lip thoughtful and glancin' from one to the other of us. "Then—then you needn't have bothered to come yourself, need you?"

Say, that was something to lean against, wa'n't it? You could almost bear the dull thud as it reached him.

"Oh, I say, Elsa!" he gets out gaspy. "Of course I—I wished to come too."

"Thank you," says she. "I wasn't sure. And now that you've brought him, may I hear what your young friend has to say, all by myself?"

She even springs another one of them twisty smiles; but her head nods suggestive at the door. I expects I starts a grin; but one glimpse of Mr. Robert's face and

---

it fades out. He wa'n't happy a bit. For a minute he stands there lookin' sort of dazed, as if he'd been hit with a lead pipe, and with his neck and ears tinted up like a raspb'ry sundae.

"Very well," says he, and does a slow exit, leavin' me gawpin' after him sympathetic.

NOT for long, though. My turn came as soon as the latch was clicked.

"Now, Torchy," says she, chummy and encouragin', as she slips into an old-rose arm-chair and waves me toward another.

I'm still gazin' at the door, wonderin' if Mr. Robert has jumped down the elevator shaft or is takin' it out on the lever juggler.

"Ah, say, Miss Hampton!" says I. "Why throw the harpoon so hasty when he was doin' his best?"

"Was he?" says she. "Then his best isn't very wonderful, is it?"

"But you didn't give him a show," says I. "Course it was a dippy play of his, luggin' me along, as I warned him. Believe me, though, he meant it all right. There ain't any more yellow in Mr. Robert than there is in my tie. Honest! Maybe he don't show up brilliant when he's talkin' to ladies; but I want to tell you he's about as good as they come."

"Indeed!" says she, widenin' her eyes and chucklin' easy. "That is what I should call an unreserved indorsement. But about the roses, now?"

WELL, I sketched the plot of the piece all out for her, from findin' her miniature accidental in Mr. Robert's desk, to the day of the concert, when she got the bunch with his card tied to it.

"I'll admit it was takin' a chance," says I; "but you see, Miss Hampton, when I was joshin' him as to whose picture it was he got so enthusiastic in describin' you—"

"Did he, truly?" she cuts in.

"Unless I don't know a Romeo gaze when I see one," says I. "And then, when I figures out that if you'd given him the chuck it might have been through some mistaken notion, why—well, come to talk it over with Vee, we thought—"

"Pardon me," says Miss Hampton, "but just who is Vee?"

"Eh?" says I, pinkin' up. "Why, in my case, she's the only girl."

"Ah-ha!" says she. "So you—er—"

"Uh-huh! says I. "I've come near bein' ditched myself. And Mr. Robert he's helped out more'n once. So this looked like my cue to hand back something. We thought maybe the roses would kind of patch things up. Say, how about it, Miss Hampton? Suppose he hadn't boobed it this way, wouldn't there be a show of—"

"You absurd youth!" says she, liftin' both hands protestin', but failin' to smother that smile.

AND say, when it's aimed straight at you so you get the full benefit, that's some winnin' smile of hers—sort of genuine and folksy, you know! It got me. Why, I felt like I'd been put on her list of old friends. And I grins back.

"It wa'n't a case of another party, was it?" says I.

She laughs and shakes her head.

"Or an old watch-dog aunt, eh?" I goes on.

"Whatever made you think of that?" says she.

"You ought to see the one that stands guard over Vee," says I. "But how was it, anyway, that Mr. Robert got himself in wrong with you?"

"How?" says Miss Hampton, restin' her perky chin on one knuckle and studyin' the rug pattern. "Why, I think it must have been—well, perhaps it was my fault, after all. You see, when I left for Italy we were very good friends. And over there it was all so new to me,—Italian life, our villa hung on a mountainside overlooking that wonderful blue sea, the people I met, everything,—I wrote to him, oh, pages and pages, about all I did or saw. He must have been horribly bored reading them. I didn't realize until—but there! We'll not go into that. I stopped, that's all."

"Huh!" says I.

"So it's all over," says she. "Only, when I thought he had sent the roses, of course I was pleased. But now that he has taken such pains to prove that he didn't—"

She ends with a shoulder shrug.

"Say, Miss Hampton," I breaks in, "you leave it to me."

"But there isn't anything to leave," says she, "not a shred! Sometime, though, I hope I may meet your Miss Vee. May I?"

"I should guess!" says I. "Why, she thinks you're a star! We both do."

"Thank you, Torchy," says she. "I'm glad some one approves of me. Good-by." And we shakes hands friendly at the door.

IT was long after five by that time; but I made a break back to the office. Had to get the floor janitor to let me in. I was glad, though, to have the place to myself.

What I was after was a peek at some back letter files. Course I wa'n't sure he could be such a chump; but, knowin' something about his habits along the correspondence line, I meant to settle the point. And, fishin' out Mr. Robert's personal book, I begun the hunt. I had the right dope too.

"The lobster!" says I.

There it was, all typed out neat, "My Dear Miss Hampton." And dictated! Much as ten lines, too! It starts real chatty and familiar with, "Yours of the 16th inst. at hand," just like he always does, whether he's closin' a million-deal or payin' a tailor's bill. He goes on to confide to her how the weather's beastly, business on the fritz, and how he's just ordered a new sixty-footer that he hopes will be in commission for the July regattas.

A hot billy-doo to a young lady he's supposed to be clean nutty over, one that had been sittin' up nights writin' on both sides of half a dozen sheets to him! I found four or five more just like it, the last one bein' varied a little by startin', "Yours of the 5th inst. still at hand." Do you wonder she quit?

If this had been a letter-writin' competition, I'd have thrown up both hands; but it wa'n't.

I'd seen Mr. Robert gazin' mushy at that picture of her, and I'd watched Miss Hampton when she was tellin' me about him. Only they was short-circuited somewhere. And it seemed like a blamed shame.

HALF an hour more and I'd located Mr. Robert at his club.

He ain't very enthusiastic, either, when one of the doormen tows me into the corner of the loungin' room where he's sittin' behind a tall glass gazin' moody at nothin' in particular.

"I suppose you told her all about it?"

"And then a few," says I.

"Well?" says he sort of hopeless.

"Verdict for the defense," says I. "I didn't even have to produce the florist's receipt."

"Then that's settled," says he, sighin'.

"You couldn't have made the job more complete if you'd submitted affidavits," says I. "And if you don't mind my sayin' so, Mr. Robert, when it comes to the Romeo stuff, you're ten points off, with no bids."

Course that gets a squirm out of him, like I hoped it would. But he don't blow out a fuse or anything. "Naturally," says he, "I am charmed to hear such a frank estimate of myself. But suppose I am simply trying to avoid the—the Romeo stuff, as you put it?"

"Gwan!" says I. "You're only kiddin' yourself. Come now, ain't you as strong for Miss Hampton as ever?"

He stiffens up for a second; but then his shoulders sag. "Torchy," says he, "your perceptions are altogether too acute. I admit it. But what's the use? As you have so clearly pointed out, this little affair of mine seems to be quite thoroughly ended."

"It is if you let things slide as they stand," says I.

"Eh?" says he, sort of eager. "You mean that she—that if—"

"SAY," I breaks in, "do you want it straight from a rank amateur? Then here goes. You don't gen'rally wait to have things handed to you on a tray, do you? You ain't that kind. You go after 'em. And the harder you want 'em the quicker you are on the grab. You don't stop to ask whether you deserve 'em or not, either. You just stretch your fingers and sing out, 'Hey, that's mine!' And if somebody or something's in the way, you give 'em the shoulder. Well, that's my dope in this case. You ain't goin' to get a young lady like Miss Hampton by doin' the long-distance mope. You got to buck up. Rush her off her feet!"

"By Jove, though, Torchy," says he, bangin' his fist down on the table, "I believe you're right! And I do want her. I've been afraid to say it, that's all. But now—"

He squares his shoulders and sets his jaw solid.

"That's the slant!" says I. "And the sooner the quicker, you know."

"Yes, yes!" says he, jumpin' up. "Tonight! I—I'll write to her at once."

"Ah, squiffle!" says I, indicatin' deep disgust.

Mr. Robert gazes at me astonished. "I beg pardon?" says he.

"Don't be a nut!" says I. "Excuse me if I seem to throw out any hints, but maybe letter writin' ain't your long suit. Is it?"

"Why," says he, "I'm not sure, but I had an idea I could—"

"Maybe you can," says I; "but from the samples I've seen I should have my doubts. You know this 'Yours of the steenth just received' and so on may do for vice-presidents and gen'ral managers; but it's raw style to spring on your best girl. Take it from me, sizzlin' sentiments that's strained through a typewriter are apt to get delivered cold."

"But I'm not good at making fine speeches, either," he protests.

"You ain't exactly tongue-tied, though," says I. "And you ain't startin' out on this expedition with both arms roped behind you, are you?"

FOR a minute he stares at me gaspy, while that simmers through the oatmeal.

Then he chuckles. "Torchy," says he, givin' me the inside-brother grip, "there's no telling how this will turn out, but I—I'm going up!"

I stayed long enough to see him start, too.

Then I goes home, not sure whether I'd set the scene for an ear cuffin', or had plugged him in on a through wire.

More Submarine Warfare

THESE two giant crustaceans (lobster is only their middle name) have come to the end of a career of submarine marauding lasting half a century. Their recent capture and installation in the New York Museum of Natural History takes a load off the minds of the fishermen of the New Jersey coast, whose precious traps have been the objects of constant attacks from these pirates.

The largest specimen, on the right, weighed, when alive, thirty-four pounds, and was nearly three feet long. The left one weighed twenty-eight pounds. Being too big to get inside the traps, they utilized the enormous strength of their jaws and saw-like teeth to cut their way through to the bait. Finally they were hauled up to the surface clinging to a trap. They showed many scars, evidently from savage combats.

The average age of a ten- or twelve-inch lobster is twenty years. Just how the bulky and slow-moving creatures shown here managed to escape death for so long is a mystery. In combats with

any formidable foes Nature has provided the lobster with a providential means of escape. It can part voluntarily with one or more claws and leave them in the tight grasp of the enemy. These [ g ns?] soon grow out again.

It is reckoned that a female lobster of this size would produce some 200,000 eggs yearly; but the sea is a very poor nursery, and the rate of survival in the lobster is about two in 30,000 eggs. Owing to overfishing and illegal destruction of egg-bearing females, large lobsters are fast disappearing. Out of a catch of 1,000 by a recent government experiment in New England only twenty-five were found to be thirteen and fourteen inches long. Fishery experts say that their extinction must be prevented by means of artificial propagation, as has been successfully demonstrated at the Rhode Island Hatchery at Wickford.

The Wigs of Opera Singers

THE largest and longest wigs made for the market are made for the operatic stage, and the largest of these are made for Wagnerian parts. Most actresses play in their own hair, supplemented by a switch; but, in opera, any singer would look absurd if she sang a role in her own hair. Much of the effect of heroic size and stateliness that operatic singers get is due to their luxuriant tresses. The best of these wigs—indeed, the best wigs the world over—come from Vienna. The Austrian and German women grow more and better hair than the women of any other country, and they are not averse to selling it. There are peasant women who have grown and sold three, and even four, long crops of hair. Even in Caesar's time the Roman ladies got their false hair from Germany: Ovid remonstrates with them for robbing the barbarian women to deck themselves.

Cost About $300

OPERATIC wigs, even the most beautiful, do not cost more than three hundred and fifty or four hundred dollars, because they are made of short hair. It is the long hair, which is made up into wigs and switches for private personages, that costs. Out of each head of hair that the wigmaker buys, he saves the longest hairs (about one sixth of each head) for his private trade. One switch may be made up of the long hairs of half a dozen heads. If the shade is an uncommon one, this makes long switches very expensive.

The operatic wigs are made up of short hair, set into soft linen strings. Each of these strings is called a strand, and into each thousands of hairs, from a foot to a foot and a half long, are woven. Each strand looks like a very heavily furred tail. Some wigs are made up of eight or ten strands, and some of the largest have as many as twenty.

Isolde Has Chinese Hair

For heroic parts, like Isolde or Brunhilde, singers often prefer Chinese hair, dyed, because it is stiffer, keeps its curl better, and looks wilder. For romantic parts, like Elsa and Elizabeth, they generally use undyed hair from the heads of German women. For Madame Butterfly, Farrar uses a wig of Japanese hair.

A prima donna's wig can be a great disfigurement if it is not adjusted properly each time, and if it was not made under her direction in the first place. Emmy Destinn, whose voice is one of the most beautiful in opera, is not only notoriously careless about her costuming, but never takes the trouble to buy wigs that fit her head, or to adjust them properly.

Wigs Do Not Tangle

THE more hair of her own the singer has, the harder she finds it to make her wig look natural. She first braids her own hair tightly and winds it about her head. Over this she winds cotton gauze,—surgical gauze,—bringing it low about her forehead. When she puts on the wig, she pins it firmly through the gauze into her own hair, then brings the face-locks of the wig down and pins them to the low bandage that comes about her forehead and behind her ears. No matter how wild a scene she is called upon to enact, the hair about her face does not become disarranged. The strands of the long wig behind, being made up as they are of short hair, do not become tangled. They divide beautifully and smoothly. The singer can bring a long curl over her shoulder, or one over each shoulder. If the wigs were made of long hair, as they look to be, the hair would tangle terribly, and at the end of a dramatic scene the singer's locks would be an untidy mess.

A Bridge Built with Telegraph Wire

A UNIQUE suspension bridge, built by the Indians with telgraph wire and poles that were abandoned by a United States Army construction party in 1866, was recently brought to light, running across a canon in the Fraser River Valley in British Columbia. A glance at the accompanying illustration will show you that this Indian bridge combines the three principles of bridge construction—cantilever, truss, and suspension. The material was collected by the Indians, according to information gathered by the Grand Trunk Pacific engineers, from the telegraph line started fifty years ago. The copper wire was twisted into cables, which were stretched across the canon. Smaller cables were used for side-rails. Telegraph poles were utilized in making the cantilever and truss portions of the bridge.

The discovery of the bridge, and the finding of a huge cache of tons of copper wire abandoned by the American party on the banks of the Skeena, not far away, recalled the bold project conceived nearly fifty years ago by the Secretary of War, Mr. Seward, to link Washington with Petrograd and other European capitals by an overland wire line.

Secretary Seward wanted Washington to be in closer touch with Europe. So he conceived the idea of running an overland route, through the Canadian Northwest, across Alaska, under the Bering Strait and across into Siberia, there to connect with the Russian line.

Four parties were started out from San Francisco. One, under Colonel Bulkey, of the United States Army Corps of Engineers, went to Vancouver, planning to work up the Fraser River and then overland to the Yukon. But in the midst of these operations the Great Eastern succeeded in laying the Atlantic cable, and communication between the United States and Europe was established by the more direct route, and instantly the value of the overland line was destroyed.

When Colonel Bulkley was recalled he cached the material he had not used,—there being a great amount of it,—and left standing the poles and some of the wire.

The Indians utilized the wire and the poles in the construction of their suspension bridge; but the older Indian guides died, and soon the Indians could not tell where the wire and poles had come from.

Here ends this instalment of

Who Was Marie Dupont?

Continued from page 9

was so mutilated that recognition of the face was impossible. Added to that, two persons appeared in behalf of the accused man who swore that they had seen Floria alive after the body was found.

"The theory that was accepted generally by the public was that the body was not Floria's, but one brought from the dissecting rooms of the School of Medicine, and that it had been mutilated to conceal the deception. This grew from the fact that the accused was a surgeon. There is no doubt that the body was Floria's. The motive urged at the trial was jealousy of another lover: not the Prince, whose name was never mentioned, but a man of lesser rank. The actual motive, however, was the necklace."

"It was stolen that night?"

"It disappeared then, and has not been heard of again until now. Several days passed before I discovered that the Prince had had it in his possession on the night of his death. It was proved by the jewelers who had had it that Lascar had called and taken it away. But all mention of him and of the necklace was carefully excluded from the murder trial. It was given out that he had been killed in a railway accident. Gentlemen, I have told you everything; I have placed myself in your power."

"Your secret is safe with us, Count Szemere," Hugh said. "But I need hardly point out to you that I cannot surrender the necklace without further proof."

COUNT SZEMERE bowed. "You shall have proof. I am attaché of the Rumanian Legation in Washington. Through the Minister official papers shall be sent that will satisfy you."

Hugh hesitated, then asked, "Would it be satisfactory to you if the matter could be settled without official action?"

"Ah, but I should prefer it! To get back the necklace, that is all."

"Then may I ask a few questions?"

"Whatever you wish."

"Thank you. It will be seven years in April, you said, since the necklace disappeared. Do you remember the date?"

Szemere made an eloquent gesture. "If I could but forget! It was the twenty-third."

"And this dancer—how old was she?"

"Very young—seventeen, perhaps."

"Will you describe her?"

"Certainly," said the Rumanian, after a stare of surprise. "Alix Floria was small, and in complexion dark; beautiful, slender, of a wondrous grace."

"What was her nationality?"

"She called herself Italian."

"Was Alix Floria her real name?"

Szemere shrugged his shoulders. "Is it ever with a dancer? She was not of a southern temperament: rather of the north—Russian, perhaps. Her dancing was Russian, and she knew languages. English she knew well."

"Did she speak French?" Hugh asked.

"Oh, certainly. Indeed, I think she may have been French. Artists of the stage often call themselves foreign to excite interest."

"The man who was tried for her murder," Guy now put in, "you said he had brought her to Paris, you spoke of him as her—lover."

"As to that I could not swear," said the Count. "He denied that he had brought her to Paris, that he knew more of her than any other. But I saw them together, and for him she had a glance that no other man had from her. His name was Renoir—Dr. Felix Renoir."

"What was the evidence against him?"

"Chiefly that he was seen leaving the house in which she lived about three o'clock that morning. Two persons testified to that; but they saw him from the house opposite, and not near enough to make out his face in the dim light. They recognized his walk, they said."

"And the people who thought they saw her after the body was found—where did they see her?"

Szemere reflected. "One in London—in a cab, I think, some weeks later. But the witness who saved Renoir was the tenant of the ground floor of Floria's house. She said she was awakened by the crying of her child, and while up looked into the street. At that moment she saw Floria leave the house. She did not see her face, as the dancer turned in the opposite direction; but she recognized the coat she wore, a long black coat with collar and cuffs of sable. This coat, as I have said, was never found. And the piece of fur in the hand of the dead Prince was of sable. When I mentioned this before I noticed that it had an effect on you—"

"You are right," Hugh said; "but let me get your facts first, please. If this woman did not see the face of the person who left the house that morning, it is possible that she was mistaken in thinking it was the dancer."

"Certainly. But she said the woman in the coat wore no hat, and had hair like Floria's. There were also several cabmen who appeared as witnesses. But as none of them had ever seen Alix Floria, their stories proved nothing."

"In your opinion the dead body was that of the dancer?"

"I have no doubt whatever of it."

"Then who do you think was the woman seen leaving the house?"

"I think no one was seen. The woman who said so was a patient of Renoir's, and," the Count gave a shrug, "he was a favorite with women."

"But where was the maid that night?" asked Hugh.

"In the country at her home. Her mistress had given her a holiday. That helped Renoir also; for it suggested that Floria had wished to have the girl out of the way for some purpose of her own. Now, gentlemen, I have told you everything. It is my turn to listen."

HUGH looked at Guy; but the young man only gazed back dumbly.

"Is it that you do not trust me?" the Count exclaimed. "I have trusted you!"

"It is not that I do not trust you," Hugh replied; "but I think it will be better to tell what I have to tell you in my library. I have there something I wish to show you—as evidence."

"Ah, indeed!" said the Count eagerly.

"It is now four o'clock," Hugh continued. "Will you pardon me?"

He took up the telephone receiver, called his home, and asked for Miss Marie. While he waited he was conscious of Amarinth's sharp breathing at his elbow.

"Yes, it's Hugh," he said, as the girl's voice answered. "Mr. Amarinth will be up there in a few minutes. Will you give us some tea? . . . Yes, tea. Good-by."

He rose. "If you will excuse me, I will attend to some business matters before I leave. I'll be with you in five minutes."

"With your permission I will use your telephone," said the Count.

Guy followed Hugh into the hall. "What do you mean to do?" he asked.

"Let him see her. It's the only way. You want to know, don't you?"

"God! I've got to know!" said Amarinth.

CHAPTER XIV

MRS. THORLEY had awakened with a severe headache, and had kept to her bed. It was afternoon when the door opened and Marie Dupont came in.

"They will be here in a few minutes," she announced nervously.

"He's coming? Well, my dear, if he's coming!" But her reassurance was not reflected in her hearer's countenance.

"He wants tea served," said the girl.

"Tea!"

"That's what he said. But he never drinks it. Neither does Guy. I don't know why, but it struck me as odd."

"What exactly did Hugh say?" Mrs. Thorley demanded, and Marie told her.

"He was joking."

"It didn't sound that way."

"Oh, well, if Guy's coming your troubles are over. Now go and make yourself lovely for your future lord and master. He deserves it, since he has decided to behave like a man after all."

Marie stopped. "Then you thought he wouldn't?"

"Yes, frankly I did. That was why I didn't want him to be told."

"You think he need never have known?"

"You could have told him after you were married. Your hold would have been stronger then."

The girl turned away again. Before her eyes rose the face of Guy Amarinth as she had seen it last, flushed and anxious, suspicious, almost hostile. Suddenly she asked: "Did you meet Mr. Gavock last night—Mr. Roger Gavock, from Paris?"

"No; as it happened, I didn't; but I heard he was there. You met him? He's rather an interesting man, I am told. He made an unfortunate marriage when he was very young, and has never tried it again. His wife turned out to have been—well, that sort, you know."

"What do you mean? What sort?"

"The sort men don't marry."

"Oh, I see," said the girl, and after a moment, "What did he do?"

"Divorced her, of course." As she spoke Mrs. Thorley gave a wince of pain. "There's that nerve again! I shall simply have to have a sleeping powder. I may as well die a drug fiend as a martyr."

She swallowed the powder that Marie prepared for her and subsided into her pillows. The girl lingered a moment beside the bed until convinced that the invalid was comfortably settled for sleep, and finally she brought out a question:

"What became of her?"

"Her? Who?"

"Mr. Gavock's wife—afterward."

"Oh—Heaven knows!"

DIRECTING the servant who admitted them to tell Marie that they had arrived, Hugh Senior led the way back to the library. The waning afternoon light filled the room dimly.

The drive uptown had been all but speechless, and over and over again Hugh had challenged his judgment in deciding upon this heroic measure.

If the Rumanian's story were true, there was no escaping the conclusion that in some way Marie was involved in it. If not Alix Floria, she was perhaps a friend, a servant, and might have known Szemere. The sudden sight of him should come as a shock to her; and a shock, the specialists had agreed, was the one thing short of an operation that might restore her lost memory. The risk was great: the shock might do more harm than good.

There was a step in the hall. Amarinth stirred sharply in his seat, but did not look around. Szemere glanced toward the door, then at his host, who had wheeled and taken a step forward. He fell back again as the servant appeared in the doorway, bearing a tray.

"Miss Marie will be down immediately, sir. She told me to bring in the tea."

Followed a short space of silent waiting, then a light, quick footfall in the hall. The next moment Marie Dupont entered.

Hugh had stepped swiftly forward. At the certain knowledge of her approach an instinctive prompting that he could not resist had thrust him between her and the test he had himself deliberately prepared for her. For the moment his body screened her from Szemere's eyes, and in that moment, as he looked down at her, it seemed to him that never before had he fully known that he loved her. Every familiar detail of her loveliness seemed to spring into sharp relief, and as his eyes met hers, dark-rimmed and anxious, yet bravely lifted, he would have given all he possessed for the right to push her from the room, from the sight of the two who menaced her happiness.

He knew that the two men had risen: he felt them at his back. He knew that Szemere had stepped forward—he must have advanced as far as the table where the tea things stood—now he was waiting—waiting—

"Did Graham bring the tea?"

The light question restored Hugh's wavering self-control, instantly his mad impulse receded, and with a word of assent he stepped aside and turned.

"Count Szemere, let me present you to my ward, Miss Dupont."

She started forward, offering her hand, and the Count extended his own as he advanced to meet her; but at the second step he recoiled violently, and the uncalculated movement threw him so heavily against the table on which the tea-tray stood that it was overturned amid a noise of shattering china.

NEITHER Amarinth nor Hugh moved. Their eyes sped from Szemere to the girl and back again. The Rumanian, having recovered his footing by a clutch at a near-by chair, now stood staring at Marie, wild-eyed, aghast, trembling in every limb. A moment she looked at him as with a sort of puzzled wonder; then she started forward with a little cry.

"Oh, put out that lamp—it's burning the rug!"

Both Hugh and Guy sprang to do her bidding, and in another moment the creeping flame was quenched. She meanwhile had crossed to the bell and rung.

"I'll have Graham bring more tea," she said.

Count Szemere took a deep, long breath, and for an instant his shaking frame relaxed in relief; but only for an instant, then his muscles grew tense and excitement leaped to his eyes. This was no apparition then, but a woman—the woman herself! By force of will and the power that years of service in a diplomatic peg had given him, he swept his countenance clear of all emotion, and when he spoke his voice betrayed nothing more than his words expressed.

"I regret infinitely that I have been so awkward, Mademoiselle—I should say Miss—" He paused inquiringly. "I have not understood the name."

"Miss Dupont," said Hugh.

"Ah, yes—Dupont! As I say, I regret infinitely—"

"It was nothing—nothing that is not easily repaired," she assured him graciously. "Here's Graham now."

As she turned to give an order to the servant Hugh interposed. "If you will excuse us, Marie, we men will go to my den while Graham clears up here. We have a matter of business to discuss, and—Count Szemere is rather hurried. If there is time, we shall have tea afterwards if you'll join us."

HE hardly glanced at her as he spoke, and he was conscious that his words and manner were brusque; but his one thought was to get Szemere away from her. She had not recognized him, that was plain; plain also that he had recognized her. The anticipated shock had missed her and fallen on him. Nothing was to be gained in any way by prolonging the present situation. Besides, it was unbearable.

She looked at him in surprise. "Certainly—whenever you like," she said.

"I'll let you know by Graham," he said over his shoulder as he crossed and threw open the study door. "This way, Count."

Count Szemere bowed deeply and passed out.

Amarinth stepped forward to follow. He looked at Marie; but she only inclined her head and did not meet his eyes.

"She's afraid to face me—she's afraid!" he told himself as he strode after the Count.

Hugh paused before closing the door, and looked back; but she had turned and was hurrying toward the hall. A sense of what she must be suffering in anxiety and suspense came to him, and he made an instinctive move to follow her; but, encountering a surprised stare from the butler, on his knees among the remains of the tea service, he turned back abruptly and entered the study.

To be continued next week

The Richest Club in America

THE Bankers' Club of America, whose governors are trustees for $2,000,000,000, has taken a slice off the top of the biggest office building in the world for its new quarters.

The slice, which consists of the thirty-sixth and thirty-seventh floors and the roof of the new Equitable Building, will occupy 100,000 square feet, or the equivalent of an entire 400-room hotel.

A dozen factories are now being kept busy making and assembling the furnishings needed to make the bankers comfortable. Their midday bite will be served on china more expensive than has ever been put into any club, and upon a scale just three times larger than that employed in any of the great luncheon clubs in New York's financial district. The restaurant will accommodate 1,200 persons à la carte in one and a half hours a day.

Henry J. Davison, decorator, will allow up there nothing in the least unpleasant to any of the five senses in the club's new quarters. There will be no drafts, no squeaks, no less comfortable chairs, and best of all no appreciable difference in time between any banker's expressed desire and its fulfilment.

He Holds the Track-Walking Record

IF Manuel K. Silva, a Portuguese employee of the Southern Pacific Company, had not given up his position as watcher of one of the big snowsheds near the summit of the Sierras, he would have made a track-walking record of 223,110 miles by July 1. As it is, he is content to rest upon his laurels as the track walker with the longest mileage to his credit of any man in this country, probably in the world. Silva's record, when he recently left his arduous job and was placed upon the company's pension list, was 203,670 miles.

Fighting Fire and Snow

THE snowsheds of the Central Pacific division of the Southern Pacific are in the raw, cold, forbidding skyland country of Emigrant Gap, one of the high passes of the snowy Sierras. The sheds are over forty miles in length, covering a most tortuous track, which winds its way up to the summit near the bleak little station of Cisco. They are subject to destruction by two merciless fates that constantly menace them,—fire and snow. Of ten great sections of them have been swept away by avalanches in winter, and during the summer forest fires have swooped down upon them or sparks from locomotives have set them ablaze. Silva had a night shift. It was his job to see that three miles of shed remained clear for the passage of trains, and if there was a fire that he could handle his duty was to extinguish it. If he could not do so, he was to signal for the ever ready fire crew sleeping in its train on the sidetrack near the summit.

Desperate Battles with Tramps

LANTERN in hand and with ever watchful eye, Silva made three round trips every night over his three-mile beat, or eighteen miles, and he did this every night for thirty-one years. Cold and dark were but a small part of his nightly hardship. Many a time he fought desperate battles with tramps and still more desperate ones with fire. The weight of heavy snows crushed in the sheds, and thrice he was buried in them; but always the next night he was on hand with his little lantern, ready to do his duty without complaint and without any great hope of reward. Nor did the company in its turn make complaint of Silva; for only twice was he absent from his post, and that because of sickness.

An altitude of over 6,000 feet is not a pleasant one to work in year in and year out, and besides that Silva was always in a dense mass of smoke from passing engines. A Pullman passenger's bad experience in traveling through the sheds is enough; but think of working in them constantly for thirty-one years, in the half-stifling smoke and the penetrating cold at that heart-urging altitude! Surely Manuel Silva has earned his pension.

Insured Against Oblivion

FORTY-THREE years ago Colonel Edwin C. Manning bought a great tract of land in Kansas for six dollars. Of course he bought it from the Indians—they're the cheapest people to buy land from. Then the Colonel surveyed his land himself and laid it out as a town site, "with the main street at right angles with the world." The present town of Winfield, with a population of ten thousand, is the result.

Having made the town by hand, as it were, Colonel Manning wants to be quite sure that future generations will never forget his achievement, which gave them the opportunity of being born in Winfield. To keep alive his memory, he has had a tomb hewn from the solid rock in the cliffs above the town. Here he will watch silently over the interests of Winfield until the rocks shall open. And no man shall pass by his tomb unknowingly, for the far-sighted Colonel has provided a fund of one thousand dollars by which, after his death, the American flag will float forever above him. That this may not be neglected and the rock tomb of

Winfield's founder remain unmarked, the interest of the fund is to be paid to some self-supporting student of the Southwestern College (Winfield), whose duty it will be to keep the flag floating and to patch the tomb if it begins to fall to ruin.

What more could the Colonel have done?

The Bankers' Plan for Doubling Your Income

IF you are twenty-two years old and are earning $20 a week, the American Bankers' Association can tell you how to double your income by the time you are fifty.

Can You Save $5 a Week?

"THIS is not a get-rich-quick scheme," say the bankers. Indeed it is not! Reasonable, regular saving, proper use of a safe savings bank, and conservative investment covering a period of twenty-eight years—and the trick is done.

The bankers ask you, first, if you can save $5 a week out of your income—a quarter of what you earn. If you can, and will follow directions, the thing for you to do is to hunt up a savings bank that is vouched for by the Superintendent of Banks of your State (his office is at the State capital) and which pays as much as 4 per cent. interest on deposits.

Put your first $5 in the savings bank and get a pass-book; every week thereafter put another $5 in the bank and have it credited in your pass-book. In six months you will have $130 in the bank, and then that $130 will begin to earn interest. At the end of the first year you will have another $130, plus $2.60 interest earned by the first $130—a total of $262.60.

Resist the impulse to draw your savings for four years. If you begin to take this bankers' prescription for depleted income at the age of twenty-two, you will be ready to make your first investment at the age of twenty-six—a good time to get married. With $1,123.89 to your credit, why not?

Invest in Real Estate

AT this interesting crisis consult the cashier of the savings bank; tell him you want to take out of the bank $1,000 and invest it in a safe real estate mortgage paying 6 per cent. interest. He can tell you in five minutes where to go to get the investment and how to make it.

So, at the beginning of the fifth year, you look forward to saving in the next six months—what? First, the regular $5 a week, or $130; second, six months' interest at 4 per cent. on $123.89 (the amount you have left after drawing out the $1,000, which will come to $2.46; and, third, $30 interest earned by the real estate mortgage. Here is a total of $162.46. Add the $123.89 left in the bank after drawing out the $1,000, and your total is $286.35. By the end of the fifth year this sum will have increased to $452.08—nearly half enough to buy another $1,000 mortgage.

According to the bankers, you will buy your second $1,000 mortgage at the end of the seventh year—after which time interest earnings on your two mortgages and on your bank deposits will amount to more than half of what you save every week out of your regular income.

Of course, under these circumstances, you will soon arrive at the point where you can buy $1,000 mortgages with greater frequency. If you stick to the plan for twenty-five years, you will have on hand fourteen mortgages, plus a bank deposit of $761.33. Every six months thereafter you can buy one more $1,000 mortgage by using accumulate interest and the regular saving of $5 a week.

"Nothing to Worry About"

On your fiftieth birthday (assuming you started on your twenty-second), you will own $17,000 in 6 per cent. mortgages and have in the bank $779.22. Perhaps you will want a rest from saving? Very well, figure your income at that time from your capital: 6 per cent. a year on $17,000 is $1,020; add 4 per cent. a year on $779.22—that is $31.17. Your yearly income is $1,051.17, or $20.21 a week.

Here you will face a grave dilemma—whether to reture and live on your income, or go on working and saving? My idea of nothing to worry about!

— J.M. Oskison

Flowers that Are Good Enough to Eat

APPLE blossoms and peach blossoms look good enough to eat, but the pineapple goes them one better—it is good enough to eat: for the pineapple is a solidified blossom.

It is pineapple blossom time in Hawaii from June to October, and seven thousand acres are given over to the cultivation of this fruit. When one realizes that it takes a pineapple ten months to mature, and that one plant bears only four pineapples in its lifetime of three years, one has a good deal of respect for Hawaii, which exported a million cases of canned pineapple and one hundred thousand cases of the juice last year. The combined value of this product, $3,500,000, was beaten only by the sugar crop.

Pineapples are planted in three ways—for raw shipment, for canning, and for juice. If big, perfect specimens of the fruit are desired, about five thousand plants are set to the acre. The uniform, smaller disks that one gets at with the aid of the can opener are the result of closer planting, while the planter who desires simply juice sets his plants out closer still.

Why Do I Come Back Tired from My Vacation?

By EDWIN F. BOWERS, M.D.

Each week Dr. Bowers will answer the most interesting question he receives.

A YOUNG business woman writes that she "always comes back from vacation stiff, sore, and tired out."

Why?

In order to derive the maximum benefit from a vacation, one should go into training for it. To plunge from an office chair into ten-mile cross-country walks, is to invite muscle trouble.

This could be entirely avoided if those contemplating a sojourn of unwonted activity would prepare for the ordeal by getting flabby muscles into shape.

On rising in the morning take two or three minutes for deep breathing, inhaling and exhaling slowly a dozen or more times by the open window. Then work the kinks out of the system. Start with bending exercises—forward, keeping the knees stiff; then backward; then sidewise. Follow this with twisting the body to the fullest possible extent, holding the arms at right angles. Then squat on the heels, and rise quickly to full height half a dozen or more times.

To develop more "wind power" walk up and down stairs a few times, holding the trunk erect, and the chest well out.

Walk to work, if possible. If it is not practicable to walk all the way, walk part way and ride the remainder, gradually increasing the distance as the muscles become accustomed to the work.

It is safe to say that the increased ability to enjoy physical exertion will result in the adoption of these easily performed exercises as permanent aids to maintaining a robust physique. in any event, the stiffness and soreness following a vacation will be completely and effectually removed.

She's Having Her Evening Shampoo

THIS is a recently captured sea-cow getting fussed over. In the picture she is having her evening shampoo, or, in less polite words, a day's accumulation of various things being scraped off with a long-handled brush. Possible the careful attention to these little refinements of life will reconcile this 600-pound mammal to the rather uneventful life in the New York Aquarium and make her forget her tropical home in the waters of the Indian lagoons off the eastern coast of Florida.

She has no front teeth nor hip-bones, and a huge beaver like tail takes the place of hind legs. Her favorite meal is composed of eel-grass and lettuce.

The Biggest Locomotive

THE largest locomotive in the world was recently completed by the Baldwin Locomotive Works for the Erie Railroad, and after having been tried out by it was carried to he Panama-Pacific Exposition, where it is now on exhibition. This, the "Centipede" locomotive, has twenty-four driving wheels of sixty-three inches diameter. The operating mechanisms are all coupled, so that he engine can be operated as readily and with as little labor as a single locomotive.

The coal is fed tot he firebox by a mechanical stoker, so that eh fireman simply sits in the cab and operates a lever, and the coal is automatically carried into the firebox. This locomotive will consume so much coal that it would be impossible for a single firemen to supply fuel without the aid of some such mechanical device.

This giant locomotive is 105 feet long, weighs 853,050 pounds, has a tank capacity of 10,000 gallons, and a coal capacity of sixteen tons. It is capable of hauling 640 cars, which would make a train four and three-quarter miles long. It is so powerful that it cannot be used for pulling ordinary freight trains, even the biggest, on level roads.

If you fastened this locomotive to one of the great freight trains and started it, it would pull apart the couplings and ruin the "draft gear" of the train.