Perhaps You Don't Dream Enough

A CERTAIN man went to work for John D. Rockefeller in the early days.

After he had been there a couple of weeks, Rockefeller dropped into his office one afternoon and said:

"Just as soon as you get this job organized I want you to look around for some one to turn it over to. Then you put your feet on the desk and dream out some way of making more money for the Standard Oil Company."

It was a rather startling order for a new man to receive from his boss. Apparently it violated all the time-worn precepts of business progress.

Here was an employer willing to pay only small salaries to the kind of men who keep their heads forever bent over the desk, and reserving his big salaries for the kind of men who sit with their feet piled on the desk.

A curious contradiction of all the First Reader stories. Yet there must be something in it: for on the foundation of that philosophy Rockefeller built the biggest fortune in the world.

As a matter of fact, there is a great deal in it.

The world would not have advanced very far had it not been for the contributions of its dreamers.

It would never have gained its steamboat, nor its Atlantic cable, nor its wireless telegraph, nor its electric light.

It would never have acquired any really great enterprise.

For a little enterprise may be rustled and worried into being: but a really great program or movement or business must be dreamed.

Over in West Orange, New Jersey, I stood one day in Mr. Edison's laboratory. While we talked I looked out over the big expanse of concrete factories stretching all around us. Shop after shop, all full of men and machines, all turning out their special part of the product.

And a certain sense of awe came over me. To think, I said to myself, that all this huge pile of factories should have been spun out of one single little human brain. Thousands of tons of iron and concrete and brick and mortar, all built on—what? On nothing but one man's ideas, and faith and dreams.

Most of the work of carrying on the world is necessarily hard and dull and routine in character: and for it the world needs us men and women who can steel our souls against weariness and monotony, and press forward with good cheer.

We are entitled to respect just in proportion as we do our work without grumbling and in, a spirit of real devotion.

We can not by the mere wishing become Edisons or Watts: it would be worse than folly for us merely to pile our feet upon, the desk and say, "Go to, now; I will not work any longer: I will dream "a dream."

But almost any one of us could vastly increase the amount of imagination that he uses in his daily life. The faculty of vision, like any other human faculty,, grows through exercise.

It is easy to become so engrossed with the mere mechanics of business as to lose the habit of thought. Easy to say "Yours received and contents noted" a certain number of times during theday, and go home with the notion that one has done a good day's work. When the really valuable work of the day could have been and should have been done under the shower-bath in the morning, or in the fifteen minutes' walk across the park to the office.

One man in a million wakes up, like Lord Byron, to "find himself famous."

But, the majority of famous men are not taken unawares by fame.

On the wall of their minds hangs their own vision of what they ought to be and can be.

They are not surprised by success when it comes; because they have seen it coming, and planned out its coming, in their dreams.

Bruce Barton, Editor.

We still have some copies of Mr. Atwood's "Making Your Money Work for You," Dr. Bowers' "Eating for Healty and Efficiency," and Mr. Stephens' "Running Your Car at a Minimum Cost." Five cents apiece, or fifteen for all three: the address is 381 Fourth Avenue, New York.

THE FLAG OF LOLONOIS

By ARTHUR SOMERS ROCHE

Illustrations by George Gibbs

T0 begin with, I was christened Seth Dorland Fitch. I was educated at Harvard, and later took my degree of laws at Boston University. This was in 1912, in my twenty-fourth year. For a year I was in a law Office in Boston. Then, the death of my father sundering my only family tie and putting me in possession of a modest income, I removed to New York. There, on Pine Street, after being admitted to the New York bar, I opened an office in the summer of 1914, shortly before the Great War broke out.

The business depression that came upon the heels of war was felt by lawyers as well as by other people. The summer months went by, and fall came, and winter began, and not a client had entered my office. In the meantime, I had an income more than sufficient for my wants. New York had a fascination for me. I was never so happy as when I strolled through the East Side, observing the amalgam of the races.

It was at the conclusion of one of these aimless strolls that I stopped at Neumayer's. Neumayer was a rotund little German who kept a curio and antique shop on Eighth Street, near Sixth Avenue. My Greenwich Village rooms were ornamented with many purchases made at his shop, and it was an ordinary thing for me to drop in and look around and depart without buying anything.

"Anything new that would interest me, Neumayer?" I asked; shaking off the January snow that clung to my shoulders.

"Since last night nothing," he smiled.

I grinned. "Well, that was merely an excuse for a chat," I said, "and my before dinner cigar. Have one?"

He accepted the panatela I offered, and we both struck matches.

"How's the war suiting you?" I queried.

"She suits Neumayer," he replied. "And how is the practice of the law?"

"I manage to obtain a few spare moments," I said dryly.

I puffed on my cigar, glancing idly around at the familiar objects displayed on counters, on shelves, and standing against or hanging from the walls. Something that I had not seen before caught and held my wandering eye. I pointed to a glass case.

"What on earth is that?" I asked.

"The flag that Lolonnois flew. Likewise Jean Lafitte."

I stared. It was of some black material, with a gold fringe around its edges and a white skull and cross-bones in the center. Immediately I fancied it in my den, hanging above the suit of armor I had already acquired. Chivalry and piracy—the contrast tickled me.

"I'll give you five dollars for it."

"Perhaps you did not hear me," said Neumayer gently. "It is the original flag of Lolonnois, the bloodiest pirate of history. Likewise, Jean Lafitte flew it."

I smiled. "You're a good salesman, Neumayer, but—Lafitte was no pirate. He never sailed beneath the black flag."

"No?" The little German smiled. "Are the records so certain as that?"

IN a way, he had me. While Lafitte's services at New Orleans, when Jackson defeated the British, had won him a pardon that emphasized his turbulent past,—a past that, according to legend, included piracy,—there was no real proof that the outlaw had ever hoisted the black flag.

"How did you get hold of it?" I asked incredulously.

"Well, over a year ago one of my lodgers could not pay his rent. He wanted to go to Baltimore, where he said he had a job waiting for him. He left certain of his possessions with me. It was agreed that if he did not send me the money for his back rent within two months the things were to be mine. It is over a year since he left, and I have not heard from him. So—well, this flag was among them. I put it in the frame, and—already I have received an offer. I will sell it to-night."

"And the history of it? Did you make that up yourself?" I laughed.

"I got it from the owner. His name was Marsans. He said that he was a Creole, with both Spanish and French blood in his veins. He said that his great-grandmother was stolen from a Louisiana village when she was a girl by a band of Lafitte's raiders. She was taken to Lafitte's island in the Gulf of Mexico. There she was married to one of Lafitte's men. After the battle of New Orleans, she and her husband settled down peaceably near that city, to enjoy the pardon granted all of Lafitte's followers. The pirate chief himself presented this flag to his follower. He claimed that it was the flag of Lolonnois, which had been presented to him by a Costa Rican whose ancestor had sailed with Lolonnois. There is no reason to doubt the story, Mr. Fitch. You can see that the flag is very old."

He swung open the glass front of the case and gingerly extracted the gruesome banner. He spread it out on the show case for me to admire. I felt its folds. Undoubtedly it was old—very old.

Neumayer knew my predilection for curios with a violent past. I did not hesitate to think him capable of concocting the yarn he had just told me in order to effect a sale. But the black flag would set off one wall of my study most gorgeously. I wanted it.

"Well, call it ten dollars," I said. "Your fairy story is worth the extra five."

He puffed his cigar. "You see, Mr. Fitch, I can not demand the price that it would bring were its authenticity borne out by documents. Nevertheless, I have already received an offer of fifty dollars."

"And refused it, of course," I jeered.

"The gentleman had only twenty dollars with him. As I did not know him, of course his check was valueless. Nevertheless he promised to come around or send around for it this evening. He agreed to pay fifty."

"And I suppose that he posted the twenty as a forfeit, eh?"

"I never thought of that," said the

German. "He was so certainly a gentleman, and—his deformity made me pity him. I neglected that detail."

"Deformed?"

"A hunchback."

"Neumayer," said I, "you're a genius. Such a description of a mythical customer is great."

But I had genuinely offended him.

"I am sorry, Mr. Fitch," he said, "that you should think me capable of such cheap business. I will tell you what I will do: If that gentleman does not come around by nine o'clock and pay me fifty dollars for this flag, I will present it to you."

Now, while I had suspicions that Neumayer was not averse to sharp practice, as I have said, I did not believe him to be an out-and-out liar. And if some one else thought enough of that flag to offer fifty dollars for it—well, it was worth fifty tome.

"Neumayer," I said impulsively,—it must be clear by now that I was a creature of impulse,—"I'll give you fifty dollars for that flag."

"But the gentleman—" he began.

I cut him short: "Did you promise to hold it for him?"

He shook his head. "I merely told him that fifty dollars was the price. He said that he would return; but I did not promise to hold it."

"Then my fifty is as good as his," I cried. "Wrap it up and give it to me."

IMPULSE had cooled by the time I reached my rooms and unwrapped the bit of bunting. It seemed, not nearly so desirable now as when Neumayer had told me its alleged history. Though I tried its effect on each wall—in several places on each wall,—I was dissatisfied. It was not in harmony with my other possessions. And even if it were—here my canny New England strain asserted itself—any sewing-woman could have made me as good a flag for five dollars. Disgusted at my gullibility and extravagance, I tossed it upon the table and started for my bathroom, to wash before dinner. A knock on my front door stopped me. I wheeled and opened the door.

"Mr. Fitch?" asked the taller of two men who stood in the hall.

"Yes."

"We've come to see if we can't buy the flag you just purchased from Neumayer."

"Come in," I invited.

"My name's Barron," said the tall man as we entered my living-room. "My friend is named Pelletier.

He pronounced it "Pelcher"—as, indeed, I learned later, did every one who knew the swarthy, curly-haired, slightly bow-legged French-Canadian.

I waved them to chairs.

"No, thanks," said Barron gruffly. "Our business oughtn't to take long, so we won't sit. You paid fifty dollars for that flag." He pointed to the piratical banner on the table. "Give you sixty spot cash."

He drew a roll of bills from his pocket and counted off three twenties.

"Is it a go?"

Now, two minutes before I would have taken twenty-five for that flag and considered myself lucky to get back half of what I had paid. But now, with a profit awaiting me, I hesitated. I can only explain my hesitation by the statement that something about Barron not only nettled me, but made me suspicious. My resentment, of course, was accounted for by Barron's too ready assumption that a few dollars' gain would cause me to relinquish something I had just acquired. The suspicion was aroused, I think, by his restrained eagerness, patent to my perception. So I said:

"The flag is not for sale."

"Not enough money, eh?" Barron peeled two more twenties off the roll. "Call it a hundred and let's not haggle. Here's the money; let's have the flag."

"Why do you want it?" I asked.

"Ain't it enough that I do want it and will pay twice what you paid?" he countered.

"It is not," I told him.

Then, for a moment as I met his eyes, I was glad there was a chair between us. I retreated a few steps and picked up a short sword, one of my curio-shop trophies, and toyed with it. But I think Barron knew that I had read the flame of murder in his eyes and that my picking up the weapon was not a bit of mere indifferent carelessness. His mouth opened, but before he could speak his swarthy companion pushed him aside.

"My friend," said Pelletier, "is easily excited. When he is thwarted he becomes angry. But he means no harm."

I caressed the blade of the short sword with my thumb.

"Glad to hear it," I said. "I'm easily aroused myself." I smiled pleasantly at the French-Canadian. "Nothing excites me quite so much as to have my word doubted. I said that the flag was not for sale. You will find the door right where it was when you came in, gentlemen. Kindly make use of it."

Pelletier laughed loudly.

"A man of the right spirit," he said. "You, Barron, apologize to the gentleman."

"What for? What have I done?" demanded Barron.

"For your ugly face," snapped Pelletier. "Mr. Fitch thought that you intended to take his flag by force."

"Oh, no," I corrected. "I thought he might try; I had no idea that he would succeed."

Barron's eyes, cool enough now, held mine a moment. He nodded his head as if weighing my words. But Pelletier did not permit him to speak.

"Listen, m'sieu," he said. "There is a lady—a lady for whom my friend has achieved an affection. She saw this flag which you possess, and requested of my friend that he purchase it for her. An idle whim, but—what would you? It is the whim of a lady! My friend goes to

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comply. He learns that the flag has been sold, and the shop-keeper tells us your name and address. My friend, anxious to gratify the lady, is a bit impetuous, excited. He regrets it. And now I appeal to your chivalry. What a lady covets a man gladly surrenders. Will you name a price for the flag?"

"A gentleman surely should do all in his power to please a lady," I said, smiling. "I wonder when she saw it?"

"But yesterday afternoon," answered Pelletier eagerly. "My friend learned of her desire only to-day, so—"

"You're sure the lady isn't a man—a hunchbacked man?" I asked gently.

Pelletier's mouth gaped. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean that you're a particularly clumsy liar," I cried. "That flag wasn't on view yesterday. For some reason, you're lying to me. I make it an inviolable rule to do no business with liars. Now, will you get out of here, or must I telephone for the police?"

I gripped the short Roman sword more tightly, and I played that age had done nothing to impair it; for the look in Barron's eyes made me prepare for an assault. But Pelletier seized the big man's arm. For a moment they stared at me; then, with a sneer, the French-Canadian bowed and drew his companion from the room.

I carefully locked the hall door after them, and then picked up the flag.

Fragments of a dozen pirate stories came back to me. I thought at once of buried treasure. Pelletier had lied about the lady. His date proved that. And that my two visitors had some connection with the hunchback described by Neumayer was certain from the expression on Pelletier's face when I had referred to the cripple.

But why should this unknown cripple care for the possession of a relic whose history was uncertain so much that his agents should not only offer 'an absurdly high price for it, but should lie as to their reasons? Was the flag all that Neumayer had said it was? Did it contain a clue to some long-lost treasure?

AN hour after asking myself this question, I put the flag down. I had studied it thoroughly; but there was no design, nothing that could be a cryptogram, nothing that afforded a basis for deduction, worked into its threads. Nor did the crackle of parchment reward my search. No scrawled document had been sewed into its hems. I put the bunting down in disgust. What on earth could be its value to my late visitors?

Then I remembered that Neumayer had spoken of the hunchback as indubitably a gentleman. Such a person's agents might very well be coarse enough persons, and yet their employer might be a scholar and collector of sorts. Probably the violence that Barron had seemed so ready to display had been engendered by mere greed, mere desire to please his employer and reap the reward of such pleasing. All of which would go to show, if I reasoned at all correctly, that Neumayer's story had convinced another person besides myself. And that other person—the hunchback—was willing to pay quite a stiff price for the flag of Lolonnois. Well, in that case, thought I, maybe I haven't made such a bad bargain, after all. And certainly I would not part with it unless a prospective purchaser gave me a very good reason for his desire to possess it—a reason entirely apart from money, too. I could be stubborn as well as impulsive in those days.

So I locked the flag in a bureau drawer and started out for my delayed dinner. At the street door of the apartment-house I almost collided with the small figure of a man who was approaching in great haste. As I stepped aside I noticed that his smallness was not his only noticeable point: he was a hunchback. I watched him press the second of the row of bells in the hall. It was my bell. This gentleman, if he were Neumayer's hunchback,—and, with my mind filled with the black flag, I was certain that he was,—at least showed a greater respect for my privacy than did Barron and Pelletier, who had climbed to the second story without announcing their approach. I turned back into the hall.

"You are ringing my bell," I said. "What did you wish?"

THE hunchback turned and gave me a view of his face. It had the bulging forehead so often characteristic of people of his deformity, and the deep-set eyes. But these eyes were the strangest I had ever seen in any face. A hard, metallic gray, they seemed shallow at first glance. But if one looked longer than the barest fraction of a second one gained the impression that they were veiled, and that behind the veils lurked all the hate of hell. One fathomed this much in a glance. At least, I did. Yet, when he spoke, so softly modulated was his voice, so cultured his accent, that I inwardly reproached myself, berated hitherto unsuspected "nerves," for thinking this little man anything but the harmless individual the cadences of his voice assured me that he was.

"This is Mr. Fitch? My name is Ransome, Mr. Fitch. Arnold H. Ransome. I called to see if I couldn't persuade you to sell me a flag that you bought to-day."

"Didn't your agents convince you that it was not for sale?" I asked.

He laughed quite merrily. "You must forgive my choice of ambassadors, Mr. Fitch," he said. "Pelletier and Barron are both good fellows—none better—but so devoted to me

that sometimes they strain the truth in my behalf."

"And are willing to sprain a neck too," I said.

His face took on an expression of regret, combined with a certain pathetic dignity.

"I am a cripple, Mr. Fitch," he said softly. "Pelletier and Barron have been in my employ a long time. They resent my physical infirmities almost as deeply as I do myself. They have adopted a sort of browbeating attitude toward any one whom they imagine is crossing me. It is as if they would impress upon people that, while I am a weakling, they are amply able to fight their own battles and mine too. I am sorry, and trust that you will accept my apologies. I need hardly state that you were in no real danger at the hands of Barron."

"I felt no alarm," I said shortly. "I can take care of myself."

"I do not doubt it," he said, looking me over. Indeed, in contrast with his poor bulk, my own must have seemed greater than it really was.

"I am a collector of odd relics, Mr. Fitch," he went on. "That flag in Neumayer's took my fancy, especially after what Neumayer told me of its history. I am not quite prepared to accept that history in toto, but the flag itself is so old that I have no doubt that some pirate flew it. I want it."

"So do I," I retorted.

"But the manner in which you obtained it, Mr. Fitch, should convince you, as a gentleman, that I have a prior claim to it. Neumayer promised to hold it for me. Were you aware of that?"

"He told me that he most distinctly had not promised to hold it for you," I retorted.

Somehow,—and entirely apart from the bad impression I had obtained of his agents or employees, or whatever they might be termed, and despite his soft and cultured voice,—the man repelled me. It was not his deformity, either. It was a something that might be termed his aura. His smoothly modulated speech made me think of a snake charming a bird, although snakes charm with their eyes and not with their tongues, I understand. And now, as I contradicted him, I got a second peep behind the gray veils of his eyes as they flashed in anger: more than anger—in a bitter hatred that made one think of malignant devils. I tried to put the impression from me, attributing it to the stirring up of my imagination caused by my study of the pirate flag; but it remained, even though when he spoke again he was as suave as ever.

"Oh, well, business is business, anyway," he said, smiling. "I shall not question your right to buy the flag from Neumayer. I should have left a sum on account with him. However—what will you take for that flag, Mr. Fitch?"

Pretty well convinced, despite my repugnance for him, that he told the truth about himself, and that the flag held no clues to pirate treasures, I yet did not like his cavalier assumption that money could buy it. I didn't want the thing; yet, stubbornly unwilling to yield even to a financial coercion, I hesitated.

"I'll give you two hundred dollars for it," said Ransome.

And that sudden doubling of his agent's offer made me refuse to consider the idea of sale—for the present, at any rate. It was not that I wanted a higher price: I simply refused to be hurried into a sale.

"Come around next week," I told him. "If I feel like parting with it then, you shall have the first chance to buy."

"I won't want to buy it next week," he rejoined. "The offer does not stand. It is good only to-night."

"Well, then, consider it finally rejected," I said coldly. "Good evening."

ONCE again it seemed that devils peeped from behind the curtains of his eyes. His extremely long arms flexed, and for a moment I thought that he meditated the absurdity of striking me. The methods of master and man, I felt, differed only according to their physical abilities. But he caught himself.

"Very well, Mr. Fitch. Sorry to have annoyed you," he said.

He lifted his hat and passed from the hall into the street. He turned west; and I, intending to dine at the Brevoort, went east. And before I had gone half a block I was a bit ashamed of myself. I didn't want the old flag; why had I been so reluctant to part with it? And I think that if Ransome had happened to go in the same direction I would have withdrawn my refusal to sell to him. But he didn't, and by the time I had reached my dining-place my shame at my stubbornness had vanished before my curiosity.

If the hunchback were a collector he surely had odd methods of acquiring his trophies. Collecting requires a certain diplomacy, and surely neither Barron nor Pelletier were diplomats. Nor was Ransome himself. He should have been a little more careful to hide his feelings.

Another thing. Two hundred dollars was a very large sum to pay for the flag, considering that there was no evidence to support its history. Collectors are either very simple or very shrewd persons. Ransome was no simpleton. He belonged in the other class. One glance at his face told that.

But I soon gave up the puzzle. It must be that Ransome was as impulsive and stubborn as myself. On no other ground could I account for his pertinacity. Friends joined me at my table, and proposed bridge. From the moment of the proposal until close on to midnight, when I arrived home, I thought no more of the flag, or of the hunchback and his followers.

But their existence was most forcibly recalled to me two minutes after I had switched on the lights in my bedroom. For the bureau drawer in which I had locked the flag of Lolonnois was open. I looked inside it. The flag was gone. In its place lay a little wad of bills which I wonderingly counted.

There were two hundred dollars in the wad.

To be continued next week

Little Sunbeam

By GEORGE PATTULLO

Illustrations by W. C. Dexter

LIITTLE SUNBEAM first came into our lives with a fat letter from Ivanhoe, containing a faithful ac- A count of the doings at a social on the spacious grounds of the parsonage, in aid of destitute Belgians. It appeared from her write-up that the feature of the program was a recitation by Miss Bertine Biggerstaff, who rendered "Her Sister's Beau" very acceptably, and responded with a vocal solo as an encore.

Now, Ivanhoe was nineteen miles from anywhere and little more than a wide place in the road, so we managed to keep our temperature somewhat below fever heat over the event and published half a stick of her contribution. And we didn't pay her for that, because Little Sunbeam had neglected to inclose her name, giving the explanation that she preferred employment of a nom de plume, and that any items of interest she could find for the Booster would be a labor of love, inasmuch as she read the paper religiously, and hoped some day to realize her dream of becoming an author; and did we think this sort of work good training, or would we recommend taking a correspondence course in the art of the short story?

Next week she gave us some more. Her budget was labeled "Ivanhoe Gleanings," and read like this:

"Miss Bertine Biggerstaff gave an

exhibition of china-painting at Don Blackburn's picture store on Friday last. Many exquisite designs were shown, consisting of plates, cups and saucers, and three vases. Miss Biggerstaff studied for two months under Mrs. Gus Le Strange of St. Jo, Missouri, and connoisseurs predict a brilliant future for this talented young lady in whatever field she may elect to conquer.

"An unfortunate occurrence marred the serene calm of our Sabbath afternoon. Buck Ballew, aged twenty-six, was shot through the neck. Andy Ballew, a brother, was shot through the right leg, and the bone shattered just above the knee, the bullet ranging upward. Chester Ballew, another brother, was beaten over the head with a hard substance and severely hurt. Bodie Ballew, a cousin, was cut with a knife. James Ballew, known as the Gray Wolf of Red Bottom, had three ribs fractured and his scalp cut. Ike Ballew—"

But it would take half a day to call the tally of the injured furnished by Little Sunbeam, for we haven't even touched on the Cunninghams yet. Here goes:

"Bert Cunningham lost two teeth and the lobe of his left ear. Archie Cunningham had his neck and shoulder slashed, requiring seven stitches. Uncle Davy Cunningham was rendered unconscious by a blow from some hard substance as he was in the act of striking one of the Ballews with a breast-yoke. Young Lee Cunningham was wounded in the shoulder by a charge of buckshot. Grandpa Cunningham was rendered senseless by a missile thrown with great force by somebody whose identity has not yet been established, but who is thought to have been a Ballew.

"It is rumored there was ill feeling between the men."

That was all—every word of her despatch.

"That's what I call good work. It's accurate," declared Sam Bastedo, our printer, who was always a stickler for chronological order. "It behooves us to hire that lady, Cap."

Little Sunbeam's next offering in the "Gleanings" was:

"Mr. Dupree Witherspoon, son of Dr. and Mrs. Witherspoon, has returned from college and is the guest of his parents at their handsome brick home on Toney Avenue. He expects to be in Ivanhoe only a short time, and will then go out into the world to engage in his life-work. Mr. Witherspoon states that he has not yet decided what career he will embrace, but announces that he prefers life in the larger cities, and will probably make his home in one of the great metropolises.

"At the morning service in the church last Sunday, Miss Bertine Biggerstaff rendered a vocal solo very acceptably. This gifted young lady was in pleasing voice, and her rendering of 'The Palms' was enjoyed by a fair-sized congregation that would have been larger, only it rained and the roads were bad."

ABOUT a fortnight later she broke out again:

"It is reported that Mr. Dupree Witherspoon, son of Dr. and Mrs. Witherspoon of Toney Avenue, contemplates removal to Washington to accept a position in the Department of Agriculture. Just what his duties will be is not yet known definitely, but that he will be a pronounced acquisition to the government of the United States goes without saying. His hosts of friends in Ivanhoe, and indeed wherever this brilliant young man has been, wish him unbounded success in his chosen career. Some recognition of the prominent part Dr. Witherspoon has always taken in Democratic politics has long been felt to be his due, and therefore it caused no surprise when the report leaked out that his only son had been

offered an honorable and lucrative situation at the Nation's capital."

But a hitch must have occurred, for Little Sunbeam did not send any follow-up on this item. She forwarded a few lines about a meeting of the Chaminade Club at the mansion of Mrs. Dink Sparger on Toney Avenue, at which Miss Bertine Biggerstaff rendered a violin solo very acceptably, her chosen piece being Handel's Largo; but of Mr. Dupree Witherspoon not a syllable for an entire month. Then one day the tension was broken:

"Mr. Dupree Witherspoon, son of Dr. and Mrs. Witherspoon of Toney Avenue, has accepted a position with the Red Front Drug Store, and will enter on his new duties immediately. After a careful survey of various fields, this popular young man has decided to settle down in Ivanhoe, and declares that the old town is good enough for him or anybody. Is it a coincidence, or something deeper, that the gentlemanly proprietor of the Red Front is about to instal a marble soda-fountain in his place of business? "However that may be, the Red Front Drug Store and its proprietor may well be congratulated on securing the services of Mr. Witherspoon. He is bound to bespeak for his employer a large trade."

WE did some editing on this announcement, for we were rapidly becoming fed up on Dupree; but it did not discourage Little Sunbeam. She came back with:

"The annual ball of the Volunteer Fire Brigade will be held in the hall above the Red Front Drug Store on Friday night, the twenty-fourth of November. Invitations have been sent broadcast throughout the county and the State, which will be well represented by its chivalry and fair daughters.

"The grand march will be led by Mr. Dupree Witherspoon, son of Dr. and Mrs. Witherspoon of Toney Avenue, and there is much speculation going the rounds as to the partner he will honor. A little bird whispers that a certain young lady of musical and literary talents will be the lucky one, but who knows? A woman chooses, but man disposes. However—!"

On the twentieth of the month Little Sunbeam forwarded to the Booster a considerable list of personal items in "Ivanhoe Gleanings."

The leader was:

"Miss Bertine Biggerstaff has returned from the co. seat, where she went to do some shopping. Can it be that the annual ball of the Volunteer Fire Brigade on the night of November twenty-fourth had anything to do with the trip? A little bird has been whispering that some delightful surprises will be revealed that night in the way of modistes' creations. Time alone will tell. More later."

Another personal read:

"Miss Lola Sparger, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Dink Sparger, returned home yesterday evening on the Limited from the North. She has been attending a ladies' seminary for the past three years, with visits to the home of her parents twice annually; but owing to the health of her mother, who has been poorly, she left before the close of the term and will not return until after the Christmas vacation. Her many friends are rejoiced to see her back and looking so well."

We were only mildly interested at the moment in Miss Lola Sparger; what we yearned to know was whom Mr. Dupree Witherspoon honored for the grand march. The suspense was terrible; Sam Bastedo broke under it and got drunk.

In her subsequent account of this social function, however, Little Sunbeam betrayed a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, not to say lukewarmness. It was plain that, so far as she was concerned, the Firemen's Ball had been a dismal frost. She dismissed it with a few terse words; there was no glow to the write-up at all. She simply mentioned the fact of its having been held, with an unusually large crowd of guests present, and the merriment had been kept up until the wee sma' hours, and Miss Bertine Biggerstaff had looked softly lovely in a dress of blue china silk, trimmed with passementerie, and blue satin slippers to match.

That was practically all Little Sunbeam contributed on the Firemen's Ball at Ivanhoe, except that, away down in the tail end of "Gleanings," she did mention Dupree Witherspoon, son of Dr. and Mrs. Witherspoon of Toney Avenue, as having led the grand march with Miss Lola Sparger.

The advent of cold weather—or was it the Firemen's Ball?—seemed to cast a shadow over Little Sunbeam, for we did not hear from her until long after New Year's, and then it was in an acrimonious vein, betraying overwrought nerves and rebellion against Fate. Indeed, had we permitted publication of her budget, it would have laid us open to three counts of libel.

"It behooves us," remarked Sam

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Bastedo sagely, as he thumbed the copy—"it behooves us to keep our eye peeled on what this gal sends in, Cap. She's gettin' mean. She ain't herself."

That was the way it struck me, too. One paragraph in her "Ivanhoe Gleanings" ran about like this:

"It has been rumored of late that a certain handsome and debonair dispenser of hot drinks at a drug store not a thousand miles from the town square is engaged to be married to a young person now visiting her parents' home from school. A great many people have repeated this rumor, which may do much harm to innocent people. We are in a position to state positively that it is not true, add the report was started by the young lady (?) in the case, who would doubtless give her eye-teeth to have it true. But we are in a position to state positively that it is wholly without foundation, and on no less authority than the young man himself, who has vigorously denied it. He is at a loss to account for the gossip, unless it be that some casual attentions he has considered it polite to show this young person have been misunderstood. Honi soit qui mal y pense—honesty is the best policy.

THIS was too hot for the Booster. We absolutely declined to get mixed up with the love affairs of the handsome and debonair, dispenser of hot drinks, and junked the items. But next week we took heart. There came an announcement that cheered us amazingly:

"Miss Lola Sparger, who has been visiting at the home of her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Dink Sparger, has returned to school in the North after an extended stay in our midst."

After that, Little Sunbeam appeared to gain a new lease of life. She mingled with

her kind again; her "Gleanings" were full of meat. We received such revivifying news as the following:

"Ivanhoe is keeping pace with the march of progress! A dancing class has been organized in our midst among some of the young people, the object being to meet every Friday night in the hall above the Red Front Drug Store to trip the light fantastic and revel in the mazes of the newest and most refined steps. Miss Bertine Biggerstaff, who has been taking a correspondence course in the art that is the rage of New York and other metropolises, has volunteered to instruct the members of the club, which is to be known as the Sunbeam Circle. A little bird whispers that several pleasing romances will be culminated at these gatherings of the elite and bonton of fair Ivanhoe."

Great undertakings very seldom run smoothly, however, and the S. C. was no exception. It died a premature death within a fortnight. Grim religion put the ban on its joyous activities—the parson lit on the Sunbeam Circle like a thousand of brick. Here is the whole sad tale:

"Reverend White preached last Sunday morning on The Vices of Modern Society; or, Is Ivanhoe a Whit Better than Ancient Babylon?' It was a powerful and forceful appeal, and was listened to raptly by a large and thoughtful congregation. Reverend White pointed out many parallels in the social life of Ivanhoe to that of the wicked city of old, and warned the younger generation to beware the pitfalls and snares that lie in wait for venturesome feet.

"Of all the evils most to be dreaded, he said, that of dancing was foremost. Often its insidious influence leads to hideous and soul-revolting sin, said Reverend White, and he cited many instances that had come under his personal notice of young men and women who had gone astray. And the one-step had been the first step downward. It can truthfully be said, declared Reverend White, that he who Hesitates is lost—doomed forevermore."

And in the very next letter our Ivanhoe correspondent wrote:

"The dancing class recently inaugurated by the Sunbeam Circle, composed of the most prominent young people of Ivanhoe, has been discontinued. It has been thought best not to hold any more dances, for a variety of reasons. But the Circle is not dissolved. On suggestion of our pastor, it retains its name and membership, but the purpose of the organization will be altered. Henceforth it will aid the pastor in the work of the church and Sabbath school, and as a first step has planned to hold an old-fashioned social in the basement of the church on Friday evening next, for the benefit of the Foreign Missionary Society. Miss Bertine Biggerstaff has the program in charge, and some rare treats are promised all those who attend."

"It behooves us," said Sam Bastedo sagaciously—"it behooves us to write to this here Miss Biggerstaff, Cap. Why don't you? It seems to me like she'd make a fine correspondent herself. She's in everything."

Shortly after the social, at which Miss Bertine Biggerstaff recited "Her Sister's Beau," to the unbounded delight of the hosts of children there assembled, and which was presided over by Dr. Witherspoon of Toney Avenue, who had a few well chosen words to introduce each number on the program—shortly after this event, which left the Missionary Society with a deficit of only nine dollars and thirty cents—almost immediately afterward came a startling business announcement. It was no less than extensive alterations to the Red Front Drug Store:

"Owing to an immense increase in the volume of soft-drink business he anticipates during the coming season, the gentlemanly proprietor of the Red Front Drug Store will tear out one window of his store and make it wide open to the street. He will also instal an extra fountain of the most modern and lavish description, and will enlist the services of a helper to Mr. Dupree Witherspoon, son of Dr. and Mrs. Witherspoon of Toney Avenue, who has been practically managing this end of the business for some months. His numerous friends will rejoice to learn that, Mr. Witherspoon will not sever his connection with the Red Front, as rumored about town last week, but is to remain in charge and at a nice raise in salary."

Not a scrap of Ivanhoe gossip ever got past Little Sunbeam!

"Wedding bells are soon to ring in our midst. The blissful contracting parties will be Miss Annielee Bassett, daughter of Clint Bassett of the Gents' Furnishings Palace, and Jefferson Brim Hardin, the scholarly teacher of grade four in the Crockett High School. Mr. Hardin has long been known as one of the Beau Brummells of Ivanhoe, of whom there are two. The other—however!

"A little bird whispers that another romance is on the tapis, as the French say. At any rate, it is rumored that the attentions of a certain well known young man of the community to one of the most talented of Ivanhoe's daughters have been marked of late and are growing serious. The wise ones mention their names knowingly. 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished, as the Bard says."

NOTHING more was heard from her for a month. Then she put the town on the map again with the following:

"At five o'clock on the afternoon of March 31st, fire broke out in the barn of Deacon Hoover, corner of Main and Fannin streets. An alarm was immediately telephoned in to Central by the colored help, but, owing to a broken connection, she was unable to communicate with the Fire Hall. A member of the Volunteer Fire Brigade, however, happened to be in the vicinity, and responded without hesitation, all alone. He was Mr. Dupree Witherspoon, son of Dr. and Mrs. Witherspoon of Toney Avenue.

"Rushing from his place of business, the Red Front Drug Store, he reached the residence of Deacon Hoover long before any one else got there, only to find the barn in flames. He reports it was a terrible and majestic sight. Hissing tongues of fire licked upward to a height of thirty feet, sending sparks in all directions, and smoke billowed in clouds.

"People gathered from blocks round, and an effort was made by Mr. Witherspoon to attach the garden hose to the hydrant in order to play the resultant stream upon the conflagration—but all to no avail! The hose leaked and the water would not quite reach the blaze.

"Nothing daunted by a circumstance that might well daunt the bravest heart, Mr. Dupree Witherspoon, son of Dr. and Mrs. Witherspoon of Toney Avenue, instantly secured some gunny-sacks from the back porch, where they were kept for use as a door-mat, and soaked them thoroughly. Then, armed with these, the intrepid young man drew a deep breath and dashed straight into the fiery furnace—or so it seemed to the anxious spectators—and endeavored to beat out the fire. Even that was fruitless. He was driven back by the flames and smoke, and rendered half unconscious by the deadly fumes.

"And then the cry went up that Mrs. Hoover was in the barn. The colored help was first to discover the plight of her nistress, who had been thought, up to that noment, to be down at the post-office.

"Just then we all heard distinctly the voice of Mrs. Hoover crying pitifully

from the hay-mow, whither she had gone to pitch down some feed for the cow.

"'Help!' was what she said. 'Help! I can't get out. I'm locked in. Come to me, somebody!'

"A scene of indescribable confusion, mingled with horror unspeakable, ensued. A noble woman was about to burn to death before their very eyes, and they were powerless to succor her. A few of the ladies began to cry; others wrung their hands; all shrieked for somebody to do something.

"But there was one who kept his head amid all the turmoil. There was one whose courage and presence of mind never faltered or deserted him. Mr. Dupree Witherspoon, son of Dr. and Mrs. Witherspoon of Toney Avenue, responded instantly to the summons. Oh, to be a man, and fearless and strong!

"'Follow me, men!' he shouted, speeding to the lane back of the barn.

"But, alas, there were no men to follow him. Scores were coming—were even running with swift feet down Fannin and Main at that very moment—but they had not yet arrived. Only ladies and boys were present, and they were powerless to aid.

"All, that is, except Miss Bertine Biggerstaff, who happened to be passing and stopped to ascertain what assistance she could render, if any. She it was who helped Mr. Witherspoon lift the heavy ladder he found by unerring instinct in the lane and carry it to the front of the barn. There the well matched pair, working in perfect harmony and understanding, although not a word passed between them, raised the ladder to the door of the loft, and the courageous young man ascended. The flames leaped and snapped in every direction, and smoke enveloped him so that he was soon lost to sight; but he did not hesitate. With Miss Biggerstaff holding the ladder firmly, proud of being able to assist in the achievement, he rapidly climbed to the loft and sprang into the inferno. How they cheered! But the more thoughtful were dumb with fright, for the danger was very great.

"In a moment, however, out came the hero, supporting the fainting form of Mrs. Hoover. He seemed to be struggling with her. She was, in fact, protesting against being rescued until the cow was also saved. It was not until he assured her that the bovine was already safe in the street and unharmed that she consented to descend. Both made the journey without mishap, and strong and willing arms were outstretched to receive them.

"By that time the Fire Brigade arrived with the engine, but it was too late to do anything. The barn was completely destroyed, together with contents. Deacon Hoover made the statement to your correspondent in an exclusive interview that the loss would be five hundred dollars, and no insurance.

"On all sides is heard praise of Mr. Witherspoon's pluck and daring and reckless risk of life for another. There is talk of recommending him for a Carnegie Hero Medal, and a movement towards this end has already been launched. A meeting will be held for the purpose to-morrow night in the Fire Hall, at which Reverend White will preside."

THERE must, however, have been some mean little souls in Ivanhoe—there always are in every community. Witness this item from the next batch of "Gleanings":

"Truly the Bard said, 'Ingratitude stingeth like a serpent's tooth.' There was an instance of it right in our midst

Continued on page 20

When A Man's Forty

By BURTON J. HENDRICK

SOME years ago a distinguished professor of medicine aroused widespread discussion by recommending a form of painless extinction to men of forty. Any one who had not achieved success at that period, he was reported as saying, had better retire as gracefully as possible from the field of effort. Up to that time most people had regarded forty as the actual prime of life. It was therefore something of a shock to learn that this age introduced the period of decay.

Plenty of evidence was at once forthcoming to show that the expert opinion could not possibly be true. Nearly everybody who had read the statement immediately recalled cases in which men, after making numerous failures up to the fortieth year, suddenly got their gait and speedily advanced in the direction of success. History records plenty of instances in which genius failed to manifest itself until its possessor had passed his fortieth year. What better illustration than Grant?

Professor William Osler, to whom the startling statement was attributed, has always strongly denied that he ever made it, but this has not prevented a new verb, "oslerize," from obtaining a respectable standing in our current speech. From this point of view, the age of forty was momentous as indicating the approach of mental decay. Whether forty does usher in so calamitous a turning-point may be disputed. But recent studies disclose that forty (or even thirty) is a particularly dangerous age in the United States. Whether our minds start going to pieces then is not determined, but there seems little doubt that our bodies do.

Dr. Osler threw off his unfortunate happy thought about suicide at the age of forty—or so the newspapers represented him as doing—in the effervescence of an after-dinner speech. But the investigators have collected a formidable array of statistics, diagrams, and birth and death records reaching back several centuries, which all demonstrate the same thing—that the American of forty has a much smaller chance of long life to-day than did his father or grandfather. The so-called "expectation of life," that is, is decreasing every year.

Don't flatter yourself, if you have safely reached this sign-post, that a happy and healthful old age reaches out in prospect. That is not necessarily the case. Life, you have been told, is more sanitary now than it was a century or two ago. Science has penetrated the secrets of most of the acute diseases. Yellow fever has disappeared from civilized countries; and malaria, with which you shook so violently as a child, has lost its terrors. Cholera epidemics, not uncommon in the United States fifty years ago, no longer visit us. You can now be vaccinated against typhoid as well as against smallpox.

What Science Has Not Done

SCIENCE, in cleansing our cities, building great sewers and water supplies, disposing of garbage, and instituting a thousand precautions against infections, constantly surrounds you with a protecting screen against death. The triumphs of surgery have become commonplaces. If you have appendicitis, a simple operation restores you to health; the most discouraging ills, which destroyed people by thousands fifty years ago, now claim only a few victims each year. At no time in the world's history has the human mind struggled so persistently and so successfully with disease. I could easily run through most of the dangerous acute infections known—tuberculosis, diphtheria, and the like—and quote statistics showing an amazingly decreasing death rate.

And then I could take the mortality statistics from every State in the United States and prove a fact that apparently contradicts all this optimistic information. These would show that, after middle life, death claims more victims now than ever before. Let us consider a few of these facts. Take the most encouraging ones first.

Suppose that you are living in Geneva, say, in the year 1600. The death rate for that year was 39.7 per thousand. But jump three centuries and place yourself there in the year 1900. In those three centuries medical science and sanitation had so progressed that the general death rate had dropped to 17.6. That is, the death rate had dropped more than one half. A summary of all European cities would show an identical improvement. In the registration area of the United States the death rate was 19.8 for 1880. In 1913 it was 14.1.

From all we know of the improvement in health conditions, this is precisely what we should expect. The enormous effort, in labor and money, has evidently not been thrown away. But it is only when we submit these figures to a careful scrutiny that one impressive fact emerges. That is, that this safeguarding of human life affects only the younger part of the population. It is the babies and children that have profited most.

After Forty, Death Rate Higher Now than Fifty Years Ago

THE hideous sacrifice of the innocents that disgraced civilization prior to the last half of the nineteenth century prevails no longer. Progress, in controlling the acute infectious diseases, affects chiefly this youthful part of the population. When we reach the age of forty, the death rate is greater now than it was fifty years ago, and is apparently increasing every year. The figures of the life-insurance companies, as well as vital statistics of cities and States, prove this.

Take, for illustration, the State of New York. In 1900 the death rate of children under one year old was 180.3; in 1910 it was 154.9. Evidently a baby's chance of survival had greatly increased in the decade. This steady increase manifests itself in all ages up to between thirty-five and forty. In 1900 the death rate at those ages was 12.4, and in 1910 it was 12.3. Now, however, the statistics change—a new and unfavorable factor has entered the situation. Above the age of forty the death rate shows a steady increase in the ten years. This rate, in 1900, was 13.6 for the ages extending from forty to forty-five; in 1910 it was 13.7. At fifty 17.2 persons per thousand died in New York State in 1910; ten years later, 19.6 people of the same age passed from the scene. The whole table is so striking, and so worthy of study by those so unfortunate as to have reached their fortieth year, that I subjoin it entire:

DEATH RATE, MALES, NEW YORK STATE, NATIVE WHITE

                                           

Age Period	1900	1910
All Ages	18.6	17.3
Under 1	180.3	154.9
1-4	23.0	17.5
5-9	5.0	4.0
10-14	3.0	2.3
15-19	4.6	3.9
20-24	7.4	5.9
25-29	8.4	7.5
30-34	11.3	9.6
35-39	12.4	12.3
40-44	13.6	13.7
45-49	14.7	16.6
50-54	17.2	19.6
55-59	22.3	27.0
60-64	31.0	37.4
65-69	46.3	53.5
70-74	67.5	72.3
75-79	109.4	118.1
80-84	156.1	163.9
85-89	243.8	246.0
90 and over	366.7	394.9

Too Much Prosperity the Cause

EVIDENTLY the net result of all our widely acclaimed medical progress is this: to preserve us in our younger years only to destroy us more viciously after passing the forty-year dead line. Certain students have seen a direct connection in the two facts. The coddling of babies and children, according to this idea, simply keeps alive large numbers of the physically unfit. This brings up to age forty thousands of degenerated physical systems that can not cope with the diseases of mature life. The result is that they then begin to die off rapidly and so increase the rate.

This sounds almost convincing; but one cold fact destroys the explanation. That is, that this phenomenon of an increasing death rate after forty is peculiar to the United States. Other nations—Germany and England, for example—have decreased the death rate up to forty, and these same nations—herein lies the chilling fact—have decreased the rate above this age also! No; the danger here at forty is peculiarly an American characteristic, and is explained by certain factors in American life that do not exist in the same degree in other countries.

The explanation is no mystery; one word makes everything clear. That word is prosperity. The average citizen above forty has far more money to spend in this country than he has in Europe. What is the first thing that the average citizen does with an increased income? First of all comes the stomach. He eats more expensive food—especially meats. He rides around in automobiles instead of walking. The whole tendency is toward a sedentary and luxurious existence. This is true not only of the wealthy classes but of people of moderate incomes. The farmer, the workingman, and the clerk are far more prosperous in this country than in any other, which in itself sufficiently explains the increasing death rate after the so-called age of prime.

The acute infective diseases, such as scarlet fever, typhoid, or diphtheria, are not the agents that strike these victims down. These are the physical foes that assail us openly; they make the frontal attacks. Modern science, because it can meet these assaults openly, in the full light of day, has comparatively little difficulty in combating them. We can pro-

tect ourselves against malaria by screening stagnant water; against typhoid by building an uncontaminated water supply; against the bubonic plague by exterminating rats. In these instances the problem—simply because the cause is known, and because the disease itself immediately manifests itself—is fairly simple. But there are other plagues that work silently and in the dark, that proceed after the method of sappers and miners, that hardly make their presence known until the harm has been done. These are the ills that attack the vital organs, like the heart, the liver and kidneys—above all, the arteries. They are known as nephritis, heart disease, arteriosclerosis, diabetes, the many forms of digestive disturbances.

Diseases that Do Not Announce Themselves

PRECISELY what causes these destructive complaints is not known; possibly micro-organisms produce them, as they do the more frankly acute infective diseases. But they are all grouped by medical men under one significant head: they are known as the degenerative diseases. By a slow and insidious process, they break down the body, usually without the individual knowing anything about it.

When diphtheria assails a victim, it immediately rings a fire alarm, and a corps of physicians and nurses rush to his assistance. The whole thing is over, for better or worse,—usually for better,—in two or three weeks. But hardening of the arteries makes not the slightest signal of its approach. It progresses quietly for years without disturbing one's equanimity, and the average victim detects its presence only when the disease is so far advanced that little can be done. If you have passed middle life, the chances are nearly one out of two that your arteries have begun this thickening process—without the slightest suspicion on your part. I base this statement upon an examination of 1000 persons engaged in sedentary occupations made by the Life Extension Institute, which showed that 42 per cent. had varying degrees of arterial degeneration.

How many people realize that one woman in every eight above the age of thirty-five and one man in every ten die of cancer? Here again is a disease that attacks insidiously. If it assails some vital organ, as it frequently does, the victim seldom knows anything about it until it

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is too late. All of these degenerative diseases are increasing. These are the foes of middle and later life, and they explain the increasing death rate in that critical period.

Is it inevitable that these disorders should continue to take this frightful toll? Not at all. Indeed, modern medical science seriously questions whether degeneration and death are themselves a necessary normal process. It presents many facts tending to prove that human beings should keep eternally young—that really there is no essential reason why we should grow old and die.

Dr. Carrel Says Death Is Unscientific

THE experiments of Dr. Alexis Carrel at the Rockefeller Institute have apparently demonstrated that death is most unscientific—there is no reason, so far as the constitution of matter is concerned, why it should take place. All death, according to Carrel's discoveries, is accidental—there is no such thing as natural death. Death by a stroke of lightning, a stab in the back, a typhoid germ, a degenerative kidney or heart, all belong to the same class: they are all accidental, violent deaths. There is no such thing, says Carrel, as death from "old age."

The idea that the body reaches its prime, then begins to decay and advance to dissolution by a natural inevitable process, is all a superstition. If we were to give the body perfect care, we should always remain youthful, and—barring accidents, such as automobile collisions and cholera germs—we should never die.

This is no fantastic theory with Carrel—he has proved it experimentally in his laboratory. A small piece of chicken tissue, no bigger than a mustard seed, has revealed this great secret. Carrel has watched this chicken tissue undergo all the natural processes. It has had its period of youth, then it has become middle-aged and sluggish, then senile, and then has reached the point where it was about to die. As death approached, however, Carrel had no difficulty in restoring it once more to its youth and starting it again on the life process. Carrel has snatched his bit of animal tissue from death hundreds of times and restored its youth. So long as he or some one else watches over it, he says, and repeats the rejuvenating process, that little chicken morsel will never die. It is immortal—it could conceivably live for millions of years.

Our bodies are made up of cells precisely like the object of Carrel's experiment. They become senescent and advance toward death following precisely the same natural laws. If some genius could discover a way of treating them as Carrel treats his specimen, we, like that specimen, would live forever. No one believes—certainly Carrel does not—that human immortality will ever become a reality. But his experiment has great practical value. It indicates the way according to which we can keep young and enjoy a protracted old age.

How to Keep Eternally Young

IN what way does Carrel work his magic? His method is simplicity itself. First he feeds his experimental tissue with food ideally suited to it. It thus develops under ideal dietetic conditions. In spite of this, however, the life processes develop certain poisons—and these poisons are the cause of old age and death. As degeneration approaches, therefore, Carrel washes the tissue in a chemical preparation that destroys the poisons. These two factors—proper food and elimination of poisons—keep his specimen eternally young.

The problem for the man of forty, therefore, is personal hygiene. This includes both matters of diet and the many methods—exercise, fresh air, and the like—that chase away the poisons. Men must be careful what they take into the system; and, since no food is perfectly adapted to the body, they must take all precautions to destroy the poisonous accumulations that spell decay.

These things involve no particular difficulty, though they do demand some force of character. There are plenty of physicians and certain proved agencies—such as the Life Extension Institute—that make a specialty of protecting people from the degenerative diseases. The man or woman who wishes to keep young should consult one of these agencies. Even though your health seems perfect, you would do well to submit to a detailed physical examination. Such an examination will probably reveal defects hitherto unsuspected. Once discovered, much can he done in the way of correction. The specialist can prescribe the proper diet and lay out a course of proper hygienic living. Such a treatment may mean less alcohol, tobacco, broiled lobsters and meat generally, and more vegetables, out-of-door sleeping, open windows, bathing, exercise, and wholesome recreation; but it provides the only escape from the degenerative diseases that are increasing the death rate among middle-aged and old men in this country.

The Blue Aura

By ELIZABETH YORK MILLER

Illustrations by Arthur I. Keller

ABOUT the time Dora was leaving Mrs. Petrosini's to meet Lord Anthony, Turco conceived a weird feeling of uneasiness. He suddenly remembered something both lacking and added in Dora's casual bidding them good-by that morning. And as suddenly he recalled the absurd confession she had made to him a week before.

Lord Anthony Harland had invited her to elope with him on this Friday morning: Dora's behavior of late had been unnaturally calm. She had avoided quarrels when more than one opportunity was offered, and there had been alternate gleams of sadness and malice in her eyes.

"Bless my soul!" Turco cried vehemently.

His partner, busy getting into "gym" kit, inquired what was the matter.

"I've forgotten something," Turco replied, picking up his coat and starting for the stairs on a run. He ran all the way to New Compton Street, pulling on his coat as he went, and attracting considerable attention.

The rooms were empty. Dora was not there, but signs were not lacking of her hasty flight. On the mantel-shelf in the sitting-room he found a note for Ted, and he opened it without compunction:

Once more Turco was in the street. It lacked twenty minutes to eleven, and with luck he could get to Charing Cross in five.

A comical figure he looked, racing along, waving his long arms at cabs, trying to lay hold on them, irrespective of the fact that the flags were down. A policeman who thought he was mad detained him for a minute of his valuable time, and a crowd collected.

But finally an empty cab came crawling along, and Turco stopped it.

"Charing Cross station—as quick as you can," he cried.

SOME of the crowd, scenting excitement, tried to follow on foot, and two little boys followed on the back springs of the cab itself, to their great peril, since the driver delightedly took Turco at his word.

Turco was not quite sure how he was going to stop Dora's running away; but he meant to stop her, if he had to choke the breath of life out of Lord Anthony Harland. Those long fingers of his were like steel. He had the strength and agility of a gorilla. Turco's aura was anything but blue at that moment. A red mist actually swam before his eyes. It blurred his vision.

The station was crowded. He looked about, but saw no sign of Dora. Very likely she was already on the express. At the barrier he had some trouble to pass the ticket collector, but finally got by on the plea that he had an urgent message to deliver to one of the passengers;

It was then a matter of finding her.

He looked in every carriage, from Pullmans to third-class. Not a sign—nor of Harland either.

Seven minutes, now. Obviously they hadn't boarded the train yet: Turco took up his position at the barrier, where he could watch everybody coming in. The hands of the big clock crept on.

Perhaps Dora had not told the truth about the station. It might have been Victoria. Perhaps it was the afternoon train. Perhaps—but poor Turco did not know what to think. He stood there, trembling and sick at heart, his queer face dripping with perspiration, his monkey's eyes searching the crowd pathetically.

It was two minutes now, and he became aware of a man on the other side of the barrier who was watching him stealthily. He was a quiet individual of middle age, bearing the unmistakable stamp of the "gentleman's gentleman."

Turco had seen him before. Where? In a flash he knew. The man was Lord Anthony's valet. He had called once to bring a bag with his master's sweater and boxing gloves.

Turco slipped through just before the gates were closed. He spoke to Dodge in a gasping, cracked voice:

"You're Lord Anthony Harland's man, aren't you?"

"Yes, Mr. La Turcque. I see you remember me. You weren't looking for his lordship by any chance, were you?"

"Just who I was looking for," Turco said.

"Oh, his lordship's postponed his journey. I'm on the watch for a—ahem—a lady who was to have traveled over with him; but she hasn't appeared."

Turco moistened his dry lips.

"Mrs. Tyson?"

"Then you know her, Mr. La Turcque?"

"I—I know her. She's my pal's wife."

Dodge shifted uneasily, and strove to make the situation natural.

"Well, it seems she hasn't arrived. No doubt she altered her plans at the last moment, same as his lordship. Pleased to have met you again, Mr. La Turcque."

He was turning away, but Turco caught at him.

"Wait—are you sure? I—I got to know 'bout this, Mr.—Mr.—"

"Dodge is my name."

"Mr. Dodge, I don't know what you think of his lordship—but, as man to man, I ask you to tell me the truth. You say he's changed his plans. What were you to tell Mrs. Tyson? Was she meeting him somewhere else?"

The valet smiled faintly.

"Oh, no. I was to tell her simply that his lordship was not going abroad. As a matter of fact—h'm—I happen to know he's gone down into the country to be near a lady whose husband has just died—a lady for whom his lordship feels a great deal of sympathy. He only got word last night about her husband's death, so naturally his plans were changed at the last moment."

The cold cynicism of Harland's behavior as affecting Dora swept over Turco without touching him. He was almost happy because he knew—and could prove it, if need be—that at the last moment she too had changed her plans.

TURCO went back to New Compton Street, and she was not there, either. Then he hurried around to the studio, and found Ted in a fever of annoyance.

"You know what I have to do to-day. Here it is an hour gone—Dora not showed up, either," he said crossly.

"She hasn't been here?"

"No. It'll be lunch-time before long. Did you go round to Petrosini's?"

"Yes. I—yes, I—was there."

"Did you see Dora?"

"No; she'd gone out."

Turco fingered the note in his pocket. How was he to tell his young partner what had happened? And to-day was to have been such an exciting and happy one for them all, Dora included, although she knew nothing of their silly secret. They ought to have told her.

"You know, Ted, you were a darn fool to've brought Mollie into your scheme, even though she was so friendly and willing," Turco blurted out.

"Oh, rot! I had to get a woman's help, didn't I?"

"I think we ought to've got Dora's."

"But it was to be a surprise for her—like a Christmas tree!"

Turco scratched his head.

"You an' me, Ted, perhaps we don't know much about women. Now, Dumpling was different. She liked surprises; but I'm not so sure about Dora."

Ted was impressed by his friend's painful solemnity.

"Well, to-night it'll be all finished and she'll know," said Ted.

"Not much good to-night. I found this on the mantel-piece when I went in. I sort of felt—queer."

He handed Tyson Dora's note.

Tyson read it, a pallor sweeping over his handsome face. Even his lips went white.

"Left me—hopes I'll- be happy with Mollie! Oh, my God, Turco! She thought all the time—"

"Yes; you see, that's what she thought," said Turco, gulping painfully. "How could she know, when you said you wouldn't take a flat, that you'd already gone and got one? How could she know that you 'n' me was busy all this week fixing it up? I don't blame Dora. You didn't even tell me that you'd brought Mollie into the scheme."

"Bah! Mollie! What's it matter about her? She's going to be married herself. She don't care anything for me now—no more than I do for her."

As yet it had not entered Ted's mind what a wicked intention had been in Dora's.

"Turco, we've got to find her," he said unsteadily.

"Sure, we've got to find her," Turco replied, as cheerfully as he could. "We open at the Corintheum on Monday. Dora knows that. Perhaps she'll be a sport and come back."

There was no question of practising that morning. They had to find Dora, without the least notion in the world where to look for her.

That Harland might have had something to do with Dora's taking herself off so unceremoniously dawned on Ted slowly. But when the idea finally arrived it came to stay.

He remembered the scene with her shortly after Dumpling died, when she had told him of Dumpling's dream.

Continued on page 15

ALL THE WORLD LOVES A COVER

Photographs by Paul Thompson

Spring Styles in Babies

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Continued from page 10

Tyson repeated this incident to Turco, and poor Turco looked guilty—he knew so much more about Dora's moods than her own husband did. He was also possessed of superior knowledge regarding at least one thing she had not done.

She had not gone to Charing Cross, although it might have been her intention to do that when she left home. Turco could not be faithful to his partner without betraying Dora. Well, then, he must be faithless.

"What makes you so sure she hasn't lost her head over that man?" Tyson demanded.

"Because I know," Turco said stubbornly. "There's nothing in it—there never was, really."

"You're shielding her—I can tell by your manner. Where does he live?"

Turco was forced to give up Harland's address, forced to drag along after Tyson to Eaton Place, where they found the little house shut up, with a "To Let Furnished" sign posted over the area.

As night fell, Turco sheered Tyson off to the theater where Edith Trelawny was employed.

Edith came out into the corridor when she could spare a moment.

"Left you? Run away? With whom?" Dora's mother asked calmly. "No, I haven't seen her."

TYSON by this time looked the picture of wretchedness. Turco hung silently in the background, a grotesque, limp figure in his baggy clothes, his eyes inexpressive, as if he was too weary to pay much attention to what was going on.

It seemed odd that Dora's own mother should assume that she had not eloped alone.

"Did she ever mention a man by the name of Harland—Lord Anthony Harland—to you?" Tyson asked.

Edith Trelawny jumped. "Good gracious, no! Did Dora know him?"

"Ted's potty," said Turco.

Neither of them noticed what he said.

"She knew him, yes," Tyson replied. "We had a row or two over him."

"Well, he's a good one!" Edith sniffed.

"What do you know about him?"

"I know where he is—and I don't think he'd look twice at Dora when somebody else I know crooked her finger at him. Unless I'm much mistaken—"

Turco asserted himself at this point, and got what she knew of the story out of her.

The two men went back to Mrs. Petrosini's. It was then about eight-thirty.

Tyson sat on the couch in the sitting-room. His handsome face was marked strangely, as if some one had drawn lines on it with a broad black pencil.

He was a humble soul. His tragedy, if spread broadcast, would make no stir in the world. His wife had left him. That was nothing; it happened to quite a number of men.

Turco patted his friend on the shoulder with a heavy effort at sympathy.

"Don't you worry; I'm 'most as fond of Dora as you are. Sometimes I think you wouldn't have married her but for me."

"How's that?" Tyson demanded sharply.

Indeed, how could it be? He knew nothing of the sovereign slipped into Dora's hand at a critical moment in her career of starvation. He didn't realize that her cheeky independence, banking on that surreptitious gift of Turco's, had made her seem more desirable than the freedom of bachelorhood.

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter—only I'm fond of Dora too, and I believe in her," said Turco. "She's born to trouble—but that's what the Bible says about all of us. We have to work out of that—and Dora's working: I'll say that much for her."

"If you'll tell me where she is I won't deny you," Tyson replied.

"Better have something to eat," Turco suggested evasively.

He hadn't an idea where Dora was—he had only his faith, based on the fact that she hadn't even meant to run away with Harland. And Turco's faith was a sublime thing. Never had he really

doubted Dora. He had only been frightened half out of his senses by an idea. "Eat? Can you?"

"I ain't hungry, " Turco replied. "I say, Ted—you know how we planned everything? Ordered supper—and everything?"

Tyson groaned and buried his face in his hands.

"It's waiting now. I told the woman eight o'clock. Champagne—sausage—ice-cream! In our home! What Dora likes. You 'n' me working ourselves to the bone to get the place all ready for her—a surprise!"

"Yes, we ought to've told her," Turco said gloomily. "The longer I live the surer I am women don't like surprises—unless they do it themselves. But what I meant was this—you go around there and wait, and leave me to find Dora."

Poor little man! He hadn't the least idea in the world how to make good his task. He had only his faith. He wanted to feel Dora's presence somewhere in the great heart of London, unhampered by the material grief of her husband.

He could not explain, even to himself, that Dora was as dear to him, if not more so, than she was to Ted.

The love he had for her was not the love he had felt for Dumpling. Where Dumpling was concerned he had no regrets. Conscience could point to nothing left undone. With Dora there were a thousand things left undone. That was because she was difficult—irritating. But the fault was his. There had been more than a responsive spark in her. He, Turco, had jeered and scolded at her. His conscience hurt him sorely!

"What makes you think you can find her?" Tyson asked.

"I just got an idea," Turco replied, with a shrug of his broad shoulders. "Go on, my lad. If you think of anything, you can do it—but me, I can only think when I'm by myself."

"You want to get rid of me?"

"I wouldn't say that," said Turco who meant it, nevertheless.

"I can go to the devil," Tyson observed.

He rose, lurching.

"If you do—if you make a beast of yourself—I'm finished. Fair warning."

Tyson went out.

TURCO gave a shake to his body. Then slowly he prowled about the deserted rooms that had constituted Dora's home. He moved aimlessly—but he was free. His subconscious mind was intent on a clue—so that he could make good a tentative promise.

It was some time before he found it. Among the debris Dora had left in her top bureau drawer was Eileen Hogarth's address. Eileen! He wondered that he had not thought of her before.

But, as it happened, Dora was not at Eileen's, nor had she been there. It took Turco fifteen minutes to discover that.

His heart sank when once more he found himself in the street. It was getting late, and he had not only the worry of Dora on his mind, but of Dora's husband.

He thought if he walked about a bit he might find her. The streets in the neighborhood had their full quota of young women pedestrians. Turco peered into their faces, pressed close to them, followed one here and there whose figure bore some slight resemblance to Dora's. He was like a lost dog seeking its master.

He did not find her.

In his fatalistic consciousness he conceived the feeling that he should never see her again in this world. But, in spite of his conviction, he kept on searching.

So the hours went on, and it was midnight.

Meanwhile, what of Dora?

She was safe enough, you may believe; and, while Turco was hunting for her so vainly, she was on the eve of the greatest moment of pure happiness she was ever to enjoy.

It came about in this way: Having started for the station in the morning, she decided not to go to Spain, after all. That

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was quite a logical decision for her. She did not want to go. She had come to detest Harland.

Moreover, lately a stealthy knowledge of love had crept into her veins. She knew that she loved her husband. She had learned that, for the first time, when the deserted wife role failed her and threatened to become fact instead of pure fiction.

Half way to the station that morning her sense of adventure was satiated and her desire for revenge weakened.

She still wanted to hurt Ted—but she did not want to make it impossible to go back to him sometime.

So, when the hunt for her began, she was having a nap in a bedroom of a cheap hotel in the Strand. When Turco began his courageous hunt alone, she was sneaking back to New Compton Street.

Mrs. Petrosini, much astonished, directed Dora to a perfectly strange address.

"Your husband—he waits for you there," said Mrs. Petrosini. "I heard Mr. Turco tell him to go. Mr. Turco, he looks for you I heard him say so."

Dora's flagging spirits flared up anew. What was Ted doing in that new block of handsome flats in Beaumont Street? Did Mollie Brian live there? But no; Mrs. Petrosini said he was waiting there for her—Dora.

Curiosity gripped her. She would find out. So a cab whirled her around to Beaumont Street. Vastly astonished she was to see Tyson's name on the board in the hall. What did it mean?

Aha! That was where his money had been going of late. That was why he had been so busy. Keeping another establishment! She wore a draggled, woe-begone look as she pressed the electric bell. There were lights inside the empty-looking hall, and a smell of paint crept through the door.

And then the door opened, and there was Ted, with his face all lined and the look in his eyes which told that the end of patience had been reached.

They gazed into each other's eyes for a few seconds, and then they melted into each other's arms. The explanation came afterward.

Dora broke down and sobbed when she realized what her husband's secret had been. Here it was before her eyes—the fresh new home, clumsily arranged and garishly contrived, that he had conceived before she had expressed a wish for it.

He had meant it as a surprise, hoped to coax her to contentment by it.

There was a meal all spread in the bare, paint-smelling box of a dining-room, with just the things she liked. There was a fearful and wonderful bedroom, all done in violent pink. There was a drawing-room—but why describe the flat further? It was tasteless, perhaps, but with nothing that Dora did not feel competent to rectify. She was even able to bear Mollie Brian's small share in arranging it; particularly was this so when she learned that Mollie was to be married shortly.

Dora twirled on her toes.

"Oh, I am so happy! Do you love me, Ted?"

Tyson loved her, but he could not say how much, because that was impossible.

She wondered if she ought to tell him how wicked she had very nearly been. No—better wait and ask Turco's advice.

THEY were both famished, so they finally sat down to the gala supper without Turco. He wouldn't mind.

"I wonder where the old chap can be?" said Tyson.

Dora laid down her fork, a little anxious look creeping into her face. They had been so happy that poor Turco was very nearly forgotten.

"You said he went out to look for me."

"Ah, but he can't be looking all this time," Tyson said comfortably.

It was quite easy not to be worried about Dora, now that she was here.

"Hadn't you better run around to Mrs. Petrosini's?"

"She'd tell him."

"I know—but just to be sure he's back. Perhaps he has come back and thought he'd leave us alone for this evening. It's the sort of thing Turco would do."

"Yes, I know. It's probably what he has done," said Tyson.

"But I'd like to have him here. Poor old Turco! Ted, I—I feel that Turco has been a sort of good angel to me. You've no idea—well, I can't tell you exactly. You wouldn't be jealous if I said I loved him?"

This was a sweet and melting Dora, a delicious morsel of womanhood, loving, yet still a wee bit coquettish.

"I'd be jealous of anybody," said Tyson.

They had finished their meal, and she was sitting on his knee.

"You dear!"

She put her arms around his neck and drew his handsome boyish face to hers.

It flashed across her that the blue aura, as described by Turco, must be a symbol of complete moral purification. And Turco had said she mustn't depend so much on other people. She must have some character of her own.

Very well, then, she would wipe her slate clean. Confession was a horrible thing. Yet she confessed. With her hands clasped about his neck, she told him everything.

To be quite truthful, Tyson did not accept the confession of her intended elopement as becomingly as he should have done. He reiterated his desire to murder Lord Anthony Harland.

But they were happier than ever, and for a little while longer forgot Turco.

Dora would not go to bed without knowing why Turco had held aloof from them in this strange fashion.

"I couldn't sleep," she said.

Tyson got into his overcoat reluctantly.

"Very well. What time is it? Great Scott! Midnight! Turco's all nicely tucked up by this time."

"Just so long as I know he is," said Dora. So Ted was obliged to go around to Mrs. Petrosini's to make sure.

ALONE in the splendid new flat, Dora wandered from room to room in a sobered, very gentle mood. Turco would be so pleased to know what a good girl she was going to be forever.

She was a little uneasy about him. It was impossible to believe that he had gone to bed, even though he knew she was safe, without looking in to scold or praise her.

The door-bell rang. Quickly she ran to answer it. That was Turco, of course.

It wasn't.

She stared apprehensively at the big policeman who stood on her threshold.

"Are you Mrs. Tyson, madam?"

"Y-yes," Dora faltered.

The policeman cleared his throat. He did not relish telling bad news, although it was a frequent necessity in his day's work.

"Is your husband at home, madam?"

Dora, frozen with fear, wondered what it could mean.

"No; he's just gone out a moment. Please tell me. What is it?"

"An accident, madam. A friend of yours, Mr. La Turcque—"

"Turco!" screamed Dora.

"Yes, madam. Run over in the street by a motor-car. There was a lady just ahead that he thought he knew, according to witnesses. He called out to her and started across, not heeding, as you might say. We took him to Charing Cross Hospital, madam—"

"Is he badly hurt?" Dora asked. "I must go to him at once. I—"

"It's no good your doing that, madam. He died before we got to the hospital."

Turco was dead. Dora received the news with an electric shock that made every hair of her head prickle.

Turco was dead.

She knew well enough that he had died seeking her—that she was the woman he thought he was hurrying after, oblivious of the machine of death bearing down on him. Her mad freak of wilfulness had cost him his life.

Why had he not known that she was safe—he who had known so many things without needing to be told?

The young policeman was watching her with a troubled expression. She stood straight against the gaily papered wall—a queer-looking girl, he thought, with her mop of short hair and fiercely bright eyes. He wondered if she was going to faint or do anything foolish.

But Dora had almost forgotten the policeman was there. She had lost herself in thought. A divine message was ringing in her ears. A long time ago a Man infinitely more wonderful than poor Turco, yet the humblest who has ever trod this earth, had said: "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friend."

Perhaps when Turco was wandering so blindly, looking for her, it was not merely her material body that he sought. Perhaps he knew that the shell of her was safe. Perhaps he had to give his life, so that she could capture her soul.

"I'll just wait, if I may, until your husband gets back, madam," the young policeman said uneasily.

"Yes, certainly, come inside."

Dora felt that she could not ask any questions about Turco. It was enough that he was dead, and that he had died for her.

Tyson returned, and Dora sat by herself in the room where they had feasted, while the policeman and her husband talked together in low tones in the hall.

Ted came in to her after a little while. He looked ghastly.

"I must go along to the hospital to identify the poor old chap," he said. "Shall you mind being alone?"

Dora shook her head.

WHEN he and the policeman had gone, she went into the little bedroom that would have been Turco's. It was a bare room—just the bed, a chair, and a washing-stand, with a shelf over the washing-stand holding a few of the cheap little presents he had sent Dumpling.

And over the bed, neatly fastened to the wall with thumb-tacks, was one of the curious water-color sketches Dumpling had been so fond of making, a radiant sunburst effect in blue and gold and mauve. Dumpling had labeled it: "A Heavenly Thought."

Dora stood looking at the sketch, her heart swelling with remorseful grief.

A heavenly thought!

She knew what would have made Turco happy, were he alive. But, had he lived, perhaps it would have been difficult for her to keep her high resolutions. Now that he was dead, now that he had died for her, she owed it to him to be good forever.

With a sob, she flung herself on her knees beside the little iron bed and made her promise to God in the name of the humble friend who had given his life for her.

If Turco knew, he must have been happy.

The End

Some Unpublished Facts About T. R.

By O. K. DAVIS

IN the fall of 1914 I made a number of campaign trips to different parts of the country with Colonel Roosevelt. He was not a candidate for any office, but was characteristically exerting himself to the utmost in support of the candidacy of friends who, at one time or another, had supported him, and to whom, for that reason, he felt under obligation. As we were coming back to New York from one of those trips, late in the campaign,—just before election,—the Colonel told a Civil War story that he applied to himself.

He said that at the close of the war a Confederate general was retreating with his column, and the men were straggling badly. The general dismounted and sat down beside the road to wait for the column to pass. It had been wet weather for some time; and the road was nearly knee-deep in mud. After a while a solitary soldier came plodding along through the deep mud. At every step his boots were nearly pulled off his feet. The general called to him and told him to hurry up; but the man merely turned a look of scorn on the general and said:

"If I ever love another country, damn me!"

"When this election is over," said Colonel Roosevelt, "I shall be a free man. I have paid my debts in this campaign, and now nobody has any more call on me. I shall be free from this time on, and shall do and say just what I want to do and say."

Election Day, 1914, was the day that set him free. "I am out of politics now," he said, when that day had passed, and immediately began to express himself with the utmost frankness and freedom on the events that were occurring all over the world, and especially in Europe. From that day Colonel Roosevelt "cut loose."

A New Roosevelt

IN some ways, I think the Roosevelt of to-day is a new Roosevelt. Of course he has grown, as all strong men do, from their very contact with big events. But I have long thought that the most marked change in Mr. Roosevelt in recent years occurred in that year of comparative isolation in Africa.

Shortly after Mr. Roosevelt's return from Africa that summer, I had a talk with him about the general political situation in this country. And then, referring directly to the open talk that he would again be a candidate for the Presidency, I asked:

"How about the White House?"

"I am the only man in the United States who can speak of the Presidency," he responded, "without the thrill that always comes to the man who has never been in the White House. I have been there for seven years and more. I have had all the honor, all the work, all the glory, and all the fun of it. There is nothing more of personal experience that it can give me; and there are so many things that I have not done which I want to do! To be President again, just for the sake of being President, has no attraction for me. I do not think any one would accuse me of shirking work; but the drudgery of that is tedious and appalling. Of course, if there were a great big job of work to be done [t?] the White House, and the people wanted me to undertake it, that would be a different matter. And, under ordinary circumstances, the probability is that another term in the Presidency would detract from my record rather than that it would add to it."

Yet it was only a little while after this conversation that he was engaged, heart and soul, in the fight in New York State and elsewhere in which he took so vigorous a part in the fall of 1910. Why did he change his mind and go into that fight? I heard him give his own explanation of his reason, and I have never had reason to doubt what he said.

In the latter part of August, 1910, Mr. Roosevelt started on a speaking trip that took him as far west as Cheyenne and Denver, and occupied three weeks.

On his way out, the Colonel spent a day with his brother-in-law at Henderson Farm, near Utica; and in the afternoon ten or a dozen of the newspaper men who were accompanying him on the western trip called on him there. The conversation inevitably turned on politics, and presently Mr. Roosevelt gave his analysis of the situation. I do not attempt now to quote his language, but the substance of it was this:

The Republican party was in for a sound drubbing. Rightly or wrongly, the people were set against it, and nothing that he could do, or any one else, or all of them together, could change the result. If he went in, he would at once be made the issue. The campaign would be one of personalities; the real issues would be ignored, and his opponents would assail him from one end of the country to the other. In the end the drubbing would be received, just the same. Then his opponents would crow loudly and claim all the credit, and would say that if Roosevelt had kept out the Republicans might have done something—obviously he was the cause of the defeat.

"Well, then, Colonel," said one of his hearers, "under those circumstances, why do you go in?"

"Because I couldn't live with myself if I didn't," replied Mr. Roosevelt.

He went on to explain that the fight of that year was for the same cause and based on the same principles as under his leadership, and that it was being made by men who had always supported him when he was the leader. Now they came to him and said they were carrying on the old fight and wanted his help. Of course they would get it, and he didn't care a rap for the effect upon himself. He was not considering his own fortunes, or those of any other man. The fight was worth making for its own sake.

The events of the campaign came off right according to the schedule he gave us that day. The drubbing was administered with mighty little mitigation. And, just as he had predicted, most of his opponents laid all the disaster to him

The next year I wrote an article for a New York magazine in which I discussed the probabilities for 1912. In the course of this article I said that if, in 1912, there arose in the nation the same sort of call for Mr. Roosevelt that had arisen in New York in 1910, he would make the same response. Immediately he wrote me that I had gone altogether too far, and that there were no circumstances under which he would accept the nomination in 1912.

A Message to Roosevelt

ON the fourth night of the Republican national convention of 1912, the fight had reached an extraordinary degree of bitterness. The parlimentary struggle for control of the convention had been fought out step by step, and at each step there had been a roll-call. All of these votes had been won by the Taft forces, but by very narrow margins. It was evident that the Taft control of the convention was far from substantial, and the Roosevelt men were eagerly seeking some way to break through it.

On that fourth evening, when I went to my office in the Congress Hotel after dinner, I found a man waiting to see Senator Dixon, the chairman of the Roosevelt committee. After perhaps half an hour of fruitless effort to find Senator Dixon, my visitor said:

"Well, never mind. I reckon you could take a message to Roosevelt, couldn't you?"

I assured him that I could, and he proceeded to give me the message. He said he represented thirty delegates to the convention, all of whom had come there under instructions to vote for the renomination of Mr. Taft.

"But we came to beat Roosevelt, not to smash the Republican party," he went on, "and that is what we're doing. Our boys are sick of it, and we'd like to find a way out. Now, we have noticed that all the roll-calls that have been taken this far have been carried by the Taft men by less than thirty votes. That puts it right up to us. If we hadn't voted that way on any one of them, that one would have been lost. See the point? That sticks us for the whole thing. Our boys don't like it.

"Now, we've talked it all over, and I'll tell you what we'll do. On the roll-call for nomination we'll watch the vote, and if it is going the same way as the other roll-calls, so that our votes will put Taft over, we won't vote for him. We'll vote for any man you folks name, provided you will give a few votes to the same man so as to make it look like an effort to compromise. For we're instructed for Taft, you see, and we want some cover for breaking away.

"Now, if we do that, it will keep Taft from going over on the first ballot, and I guess I don't have to tell you any more."

I guessed he didn't. If there was any one thing about which we, on our side, were absolutely convinced at that covention, it was that if Taft did not win on the first ballot he couldn't win at all.

I slid down the iron stairs to Colonel Roosevelt's quarters with only one thought in my head. We were going to win, after all. The Colonel was as good as nominated, and the next thing was the campaign to elect him. It never entered my thoughts that there would be any question at all about accepting the proposition. The Colonel had always "played the game," and of course he would play it now.

I found him in his room, surrounded, as usual, by a crowd of excited and enthusiastic followers. After some time and difficulty I succeeded in getting him into another room alone, and began to present my story. Before I had the proposition half stated, Mr. Roosevelt saw what was coming.

"No, sir! No, sir!" he broke in. "I won't hear it! I won't have it! You needn't talk to me at all. You go back and tell your man that I won't have anything to do with it. You tell him that this is a crooked convention, and I won't touch it with a forty-rod pole. If they will purge the roll I will support any man they want to nominate; but until they purge the roll neither I nor any other honest man can touch this convention. You tell him what I say."

"But, Colonel—" I began.

I wanted to argue the point, but he simply wouldn't have it.

"You go tell him what I say," roared the Colonel, and bounded back into the outer room.

So I climbed dejectedly back up those iron stairs and faced the man eagerly waiting in my room. I can see him now, sitting there on the edge of the chair, one large hand on each knee and an expression of alert expectancy on his face.

I reported what had occurred in the Colonel's room. My caller's face went absolutely blank as he listened. When I finished, he sat silent for a minute or two, and then exclaimed:

"Say, say that again!"

I repeated the story. He sat looking at me with an expression of utter incomprehension on his face. He did not move for some moments. Then he fetched a deep sigh and ejaculated:

"Say, don't that beat hell?"

He rose and walked out of the room like a man in a dream. And that was the end of that hopeful proposition. Colonel Roosevelt declined to let his name go before the convention, and when the roll-call on nomination was reached, my caller and the rest of his group voted for Taft.

I have always believed that he could have had the nomination in that Republican convention if he had accepted that proposition. His refusal of the proposition was the certain refusal of the nomination—the refusal of a nomination that, even under those bitter conditions, meant a practically certain election. He knew when he accepted the Progressive nomination that there was no practical prospect of success. He accepted because the fight was worth making for its own sake, and he made it, regardless of the effect upon himself

THE MELTING POT

In Which the New Books and Magazines are Boiled Down to Give You Fifteen Minutes of Health, Efficiency, Travel, Biography, and Adventure

GOOD HOUSES MAKE GOOD TASTE

IT was long contact with beautiful scenery which planted the seeds of good taste in us—an instinct for what is beautiful. "The lakes of Italy, the isles of Greece, must have been the inspirers of the taste which later produced the Renaissance and the age of Pericles."

"In this country it has been different," writes Lloyd Warren in the Journal of National Education. "The pioneer was not himself an artistic type, and so terrible the struggle for existence that no chance was given to the growth of the art sense. Whatever expressions of the softer side of life came to the surface were directly imported from Europe, and showed no signs of national growth. A few of the Colonial planters of the South brought their traditions from England, and constructed for themselves mansions reminiscent of those which they had left behind. In the sleepy farming communities of New England the subconscious desire for beauty produced quaint houses, with columned porticos and elegantly spindled staircases." But elsewhere commerce and hurry had driven out every vestige of beauty. The cities were choked with miles of cheerless brick buildings. Now a gradual change is taking place. Beautiful buildings are piling hundreds of feet high in American cities; and "as each splendid edifice arises, the awakening sense of beauty in each of us becomes stronger. Some day, when completely surrounded by noble architecture, we will all have good taste."

HUNT FOR CLIMATE ON YOUR OWN PIAZZA

IN zoological gardens the best treatment that can be given to a sick animal is to put it in an unheated outdoor cage. Range cattle are freer from disease than cattle that are housed. An indoor life, a life in heated dwellings, does not seem to furnish the natural or most suitable atmosphere for animals, and this includes man, says John W. Trask in a United States Public Health report.

When a person has tuberculosis, the common idea is that somewhere far off there must be a region with a climate suited to consumptives. This idea developed in this way:

When the United States was populated mainly along the Atlantic coast, consumptives were advised to go to the Alleghanies. As the population extended westward the advice was to go to the pine woods of Michigan, then to Minnesota, then the Rocky Mountains, then the Pacific coast. It was not so much the change of climate that helped these consumptives as the fact that they went to a less civilized place, lived an outdoor life, and slept in dwellings less well made and admitting more outdoor air.

Why not take advantage of a beneficial change of climate by taking advantage of the favorable weather conditions in one's own locality? The most important thing for a sick individual is to live in the best atmosphere he can find without sacrificing things just as important—well cooked, appetizing food, a great deal of sleep, peace of mind, and sometimes interest and employment of mind. Often the only suitable climate, all things considered, is at ; for it is practically impossible for a consumptive who is homesick to regain his health.

TELL YOUR LITTLE BOY ABOUT THEM

THE Alaskan brown bear, eight feet high and weighing 1600 pounds, is the largest, most lumberly carnivore in the world. "When one stops to consider it takes a big lion to weigh 500 pounds, it gives one some idea what a huge animal this bear is," writes Daniel J. Singer in Field and Stream.

"Their chief diet consists of salmon, the run of which lasts from June to October. During this period the bears fatten up, and upon this fat they live through their long winter sleep.

"The male bear is the first to appear in the spring. He partakes very sparingly of food, and only nips the tender tops of green grasses until he becomes used to digesting food again. Finally he wanders to the shore, where he feeds upon beach kelp, which acts as a purge. Soon he is himself again, and now commences to wander far and wide for the track of a female."

Most bear cubs are playful; but the Alaskan brownies grow morose very early, and become as liable to violent fits of rage as a tiger. "A man named Thurman had built his cabin far up in the mountains, and was secretly working a gold claim there. One day they found him dead and terribly lacerated. The following memorandum was in his diary. "Have been tore up by a brown bear. No show to get out. Good-by." He had shot himself to end his misery.

TURKEY, TURKEY, WHO GETS TURKEY?

THE first prize in the war is Asiatic Turkey. Germany had reached out and almost made the prize her own when the war broke out: little by little, the English armies are capturing it: to whom will it be awarded at the peace conference? Will the award make for future peace or future discord?

Germany, as S. S. McClure points out in his book, Obstacles to Peace (Houghton, Mifflin Company), "is only a trifle larger than the State of California, and has two thirds the population of the United States. " Room for expansion for her is an absolute essential. The Berlin-to-Bagdad Railroad was to link her up with Asiatic Turkey, a country about the size of Mexico, with a population less than one fifteenth of what it could easily support.

"Coal mines are very abundant and rich. Arganis copper mines are the biggest and richest in the world: Mesopotamia forms the richest petroleum district in the world. The country is extremely rich in minerals, including gold, silver, nickel, mercury, lead, and these resources are untouched."

Strongly intrenched in Mesopotamia, Germany would not merely be rendered economically rich, but she would menace the Suez Canal and threaten both Egypt and India, the treasure-house of the British Empire. Indeed, Germans made no effort to conceal this aspiration. In a book that has had wide circulation in Germany, Count Reventlow says:

"It had an unfavorable effect and created difficulties, that in Germany itself the object and importance of the Bagdad Railway was proclaimed to the world to some extent in an incorrect and very exaggerated manner. . . . It was certainly true that it would be possible, after the network of railways had been completed, to make Turkey a dangerous menace against Egypt and India; but that sort of thing ought not to have been said, so long as Great Britain was in a position to hinder and delay the building of the railway."

It was very wicked, of course, for Great Britain to try to defend herself against this contemplated assault on the richest part of her empire. Hence the "hymns of hate" in Germany. The English and Russians are driving on across Mesopotamia; and the great question is, "Who will hold Mesopotamia when the peace conference convenes?" and "Who will hold it permanently?"

WHISTLER MIGHT HAVE PAINTED THIS PICTURE

WHY DO MEN FAIL?

IN spite of the wide-spread prosperity of 1916, there were 16,496 business failures in the United States, says Professor William Bethke in Personal Efficiency. This rather staggering total represents a decrease from the totals for 1914 and 1915; but, with the exception of these two years and 1908, "the percentage of business deaths to businesses was higher last year than in any of the eighteen years since 1898.

"Business failures may be grouped under two headings—preventable and unpreventable: the first referring to faults in the men who fail, and the second to difficulties which they could not control. When we come to examine the relationship of these two classes, we discover that 81.5 per cent. of the failures in 1916 were preventable. In other words, over four fifths of the causes of failure are inherent in the individual himself.

"Of these causes the following are the more important:

Of the non-preventable causes, the more important are fraud on the part of employees or partners; competition by mail-order houses and stronger organizations; and the failure of other concerns.

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HOW BRUSH GOT HIS START

DON'T be rude to the man who asks you more questions than seem necessary: don't attempt to show him what clever answers you can make. Give him service: for all you know, he may come back tomorrow and offer you a better job. That is one lesson in the career of Matthew C. Brush, who at thirty-nine is president of the Boston Elevated, controlling all the transportation lines of greater Boston.

"My first big chance came when I was working as purser on a Lake steamer," Mr. Brush told Alfred Grunberg (American Magazine).

"One day I was standing at the purser's window when a thin, keen-eyed, elderly man stopped there and began asking me questions. He complained about the steamer, and I handled his complaints as smoothly and fairly as possible. Then he asked me about my work, whether I liked my job, if I was an only child, and a lot of other personal questions.

"I hadn't the slightest idea of who the man might be. I figured out that he was lonesome and wanted to talk with some one. So I just smiled and answered everything.

"A few days later I got a letter from the late James J. Hill, offering me a job.

He said that he had been talking with John D. Rockefeller about the young men of the country, and that the oil man had said I was a promising youngster. Then, and then only, did I discover that the inquisitive passenger on the lake steamer had been John D. Rockefeller."

A GOOD BUSINESS FOR WOMEN

THERE is room for a good candy store in every average town, and the business is one that women have a special adaptibility for.

But the trouble with the usual candy store, says Manthei Howe in Candy and Ice Cream, is that it is precisely like every other. "Regular store—room, mirrors panel-wise along the wall, colored lights, some palms, counters, oh, you know—

"In fitting up your shop, have something so different from other stores that it becomes synonymous with your store's name. For instance, suppose you decide upon a fireplace. The only big cost is the initial expenditure, and there is nothing that gives the same atmosphere of comfort and hospitality that comes from an open grate fire. Given such an open grate, a few rag rugs, a low-ceilinged room, fumed oak fixtures, some Windsor chairs, and you have a strikingly unusual store that has an advertising pull. When every other store uses an enormous sign, an odd arts and craft sign will attract more attention.

"We have to acknowledge that it is a common trait to love the novel. Our people like to patronize the shop that gives evidence of being a leader, not a follower.

VIRGINIA DAYS AND WAYS

"LOW-NECKED white cambric frocks and red morocco slippers all the year round, in spite of the fact that Virginia winters are often intensely cold for weeks at a time," was the proper dress for misses in the old days in Virginia, according to Lucy Les Pleasants in Virginia Ways and Days, the collected reminiscences of her mother. The other fabrics then in use for dresses were silk, bombazine, and a woolen material called "stuff." For street wear there were long pelisses and chinchilla caps.

Virginia developed "a species of belle," says this writer, "which I believe has never been equaled elsewhere. If a girl chanced to be young, beautiful, vivacious, and moreover the heiress to a great estate, there was positively no limit to her sway. It was considered perfectly legitimate for her to secure as many proposals as possible, and I have known one Virginia matron who, though wedded early, boasted of having received seventy-five offers of marriage.

"Of course, with such a code, it would be considered a great stigma to remain single, while to pass the age limit of twenty-five was a thing to be spoken of with bated breath. Of a young lady who died suddenly, it was asked whether she were married.

"No," was the reply; "she had a great many offers, but she never would marry."

The young lady was eighteen when she died.

HOW POOR WILL THE WAR MAKE US

WHAT will become of the world in the next ten, twenty, fifty years?

Gilbert Murray, the great English scholar, says in The War of Democracy (Doubleday, Page & Co.):

There is an old Greek proverb which exactly expresses the experience that we shall be forced to go through: "The spring is taken out of your year." For a good time ahead the years of England, of most of Europe, will be without a spring. Think of the loss of all those chosen men, not mere men taken at haphazard, but young, strong men, largely men of the most generous and self-sacrificing impulses, who responded most swiftly to the call for their loyalty and their lives.

We rejoice—of course we rejoice—to hear of great German losses. We face the fact: we do rejoice. Yet it is terrible that we should have to; for the loss of these young Germans is also a great and a terrible loss to humanity.

It seems almost trivial after these considerations of life and death; but think, too, of our monetary losses—of the fact that we have spent 1595 millions and that we are throwing away money at the rate of nearly five millions a day. . . . From a rich, generous, sanguine nation putting her hopes in the future, we shall emerge a rather poverty-stricken nation, bound to consider every penny of increased expenditure; a harassed nation, only fortunate if we are still free. Just think of all our schemes of reform, and how they are blown to the four winds—schemes of social improvement, of industrial improvement; a scheme like Lord Haldane's great education scheme, which was to begin by caring for the health of the small child, and then lead him up by a great ladder from the primary school to the University! How some of us, who were specially interested in education, reveled in the thought of that great idea; but it was going to cost such a lot of money. It would cost nearly as much as half a week of the war!

The world will be impoverished for the rest of our life-time, perhaps, in joy, in art, in genius, as well as in material comfort and security; on the other hand, an ideal of democracy, more sweeping than any the world has ever known, is gathering force among the nations.

We have gone back in our daily experience to deeper and more primitive things. There has been a deepening of the quality of our ordinary life. We are called upon to take up a greater duty than ever before. We have to face more peril, we have to endure greater suffering; death itself has come close to us. It is intimate in the thoughts of every one of us, and it has taught us in some way to love one another.

Romance and melodrama were a memory, broken fragments living on of heroic ages in the past. We live no longer upon fragments and memories; we have entered ourselves upon a heroic age. As for me personally, there is one thought that is always with me, as it is with us all, I expect—the thought that other men are dying for me, better men, younger, with more hope in their lives, many of them men whom I have taught and loved.

TROUBLES OF THE ONLY CHILD

HE only child is the object of constant and superfluous concern; it is enveloped in exaggerated tenderness," writes Dr. George W. Jacoby in Child Training as an Exact Science (Funk & Wagnalls). "The parents are in despair when its screams give evidence of displeasure; they are blind to its faults, they marvel at the most insignificant output of its mental life as an expression of genius. Small wonder if the only child looks upon itself very early as the center of the universe, makes inordinate demands on every one, and has violent outbursts of anger when its desires are opposed. Education, of course, should effect at least the control of one's impulses and passions; but the educational result of such coddling and spoiling is to give the child's passions and faults unbridled sway. It becomes moody, undecided, and incapable of persistent work. Also, as a result of pampering, the bodily resistance of the child becomes lowered.

"A danger little considered, but none the less real, is the preclusion of children from the companionship of other children of their own age, obliging them to associate entirely with grown-up people.

"Children whose desires and impulses find no natural outlet will necessarily have recourse to stilted, artificial occupation as a substitute for the games of childhood, which are so important for their mental development. Not only precociousness, that unpleasant characteristic of an only child, but mental unbalance, are caused by this.

"A great physician, studying the school children of Vienna, came to the conclusion that neurosis occurred in those who had no brothers and sisters. He expressed the opinion that the parents of an only child were apt to be well off, over satiated and relaxed from extravagant living; or else they were neurotic in the first place, and could have no more than one child.

"Notwithstanding all this, we must admit that even an only child may come into the world in a perfectly normal state, and may develop in a normal way, both physically and mentally."

BOOKS WORTH SENDING FOR

Any of the following books may be secured by sending a money order to the Superintendent of Public Documents (mentioning the department indicated), Washington, D. C.

THE DASHEEN; ITS USES AND CULTURE. All about a newly introduced vegetable, destined to rival the potato, and adapted to culture in the Southern States. (Department of Agriculture, Year-Book Separate 689.) Price, 5 cents. FARMS, FORESTS, AND EROSION. How the farmer may protect his land from the serious effects of deforestation. (Department of Agriculture, Year-Book Separate 688.) Price, 5 cents. FUR FARMING AS A SIDE LINE. Instructions for entering this new and profitable industry. (Department of Agriculture, Year-Book Separate 693.) Price, 5 cents. MARKETING CREAMERY BUTTER. An illuminating account of the whole creamery butter business. (Department of Agriculture, Bulletin 456.) Price, 10 cents. MEASURING HAY IN RICKS OR STACKS. Gives formulas for determining the approximate number of tons in hay-stacks of various shapes and sizes. (Department of Agriculture, Circular 67.) Price, 5 cents. POLIOMYELITIS; PRESENT KNOWLEDGE OF ITS CAUSE AND MANNER OF SPREAD. "Poliomyelitis" is the learned name for infantile paralysis. (Public Health Service, Reprint 373.) Price, 5 cents. INFANTRY DRILL REGULATIONS, UNITED STATES ARMY. Gives orders, commands, signals, manual of arms, bugle calls, and miscellaneous information, all brought down to date. (War Department, Document 453.) Price, 35 cents.

HELP FEED YOURSELF

WE are told that the United States is short 130,000,000,000 bushels of wheat and corn; that the Cuban revolutionists have destroyed 1,000,000 tons of sugar-cane, and consequently a famine is ahead of us. Therefore, "Help feed yourself!" says a bulletin of the Department of Agriculture.

There is a shortage of seeds this year, and amateurs ought not to experiment. Every seed should be planted under the supervision of an experienced farmer.

This is one way to help with the crops: Because the farmer is a man without ready cash, his income comes in bulk at the end of a long period. In New York State, Mortimer Schiff and several other men have raised a fund of $10,000,000 to be lent to farmers. They will not be asked to pay any interest until their harvest has been driven to market and paid for.

What Can I Get from Trade Conventions?

By JAMES H. COLLINS

THAT industry was all shot to pieces—competition, price-cutting, profits gone. One manufacturer suggested a trade convention to talk things over. But he was only a little fellow. Nobody

saw the big idea. He worked several years, and took all sorts of snubs, to get the manufacturers together in the same room. Then they held off from each other, talked empty phrases.

"If I can pick up something useful, all right," said Smith. "But none of these fellows will get any information out of me!" Which was his idea of cooperation.

Smith met a man out in the hall, between sessions. The man talked sense. They found a quiet corner and swapped some hard-headed schemes.

"Say, give me your card," said Smith. "I can send you more facts."

"Sure! Gi' me yours—want to keep in touch with you," said the other fellow. And behold! It was Jones—Smith's bitterest competitor. Neither had hoofs nor horns!

In a year those manufacturers could at least sit quiet in the same room with the other fellow. Then, bing! New administration at Washington. Tariff-tinkering again. Congress wanted to let this industry's products come in free of duty. Had there been no trade association to lay the facts before Congress—ruin! Today price-cutting has ceased, because manufacturers exchange information about costs, and the industry is going ahead on a basis of mutual understanding and good fellowship.

The value to you of a trade gathering of any kind is twofold, whether you are an executive or a gang foreman. First, the chance to get information, not merely in formal speeches and papers, but swapping with some fellow that you like and draw aside in one corner. Second, the chance for plain human contact with other workers in your line.

One of the most successful conventions recently was that of the insecticide and disinfectant manufacturers. This may seem a bit humorous. What on earth can makers of bug-poison and germ-annihilators find to convene about?

Many things! The government has passed a law regulating their products, a sort of pure poison law, which makes certain that the bug and germ get what is required, and get it full strength and unadulterated. That led the manufacturers to instal chemical laboratories for the improvement of their products; whereas, before, almost anybody who bought a few poisons and mixed them together could break into the industry. The outcome of these scientific improvements was that American insecticides and disinfectants became the best in the world.

Now the manufacturers propose to establish an association laboratory, making researches and tests for the good of the industry. A lot of trade standards were settled, and similar work done. But the best thing that came out of the meeting, really, was the broad conception of the usefulness of this industry, and its chance to grow. Don't laugh at bug poisons or germ-killers, for they enter into practically everything you eat. Thousands of tons of such products are used every year to fight crop pests and animal diseases.

So, in trade gatherings, you not only take your own bits of technical information to swap, but, after all the papers have been read and all the personal exchanges of information made, there is something bigger than any paper or special bit of knowledge that comes out—a sort of sum total of all the information, that points the way to progress along broader lines than any individual could have mapped out. And this holds true not alone of big industries, and national conventions, but works just as surely when the retail dealers of the Third Ward meet to see what they can do to improve business in their neighborhood.

As for the human contact in such gatherings—a story:

Delegates of two rival camps were going to a certain national convention on the same transcontinental train. They had separate sleepers, and kept apart, except in the diner, where they had to mingle gloweringly.

"If we could only get them together!" said a delegate.

"You want to get 'em together?" asked the dining-car conductor. "That's easy—leave it to me." He went out, and brought in half a dozen toy balloons, blew them up, and tossed them among the rivals. In five minutes friend and foe were busy batting those balloons back and forth through the car, and so intermingled that they never did untangle themselves again.

When the question of attending a good meeting in your line of business has to be decided, decide to go! There are two chances of your getting a lot out of it. And if you go, there will be just so much more chance of the other fellows getting something!

Little Sunbeam

—continued from page 8

only yesterday that would not be believable if it had not happened.

"At the meeting in the Fire Hall, called to discuss ways and means of recommending Mr. Dupree Witherspoon for a Carnegie Medal and the financial emoluments that go with it, which was presided over by Reverend White, Deacon Hoover spoke. It was generally anticipated that he would take the lead in this praiseworthy movement to fitly recognize the heroism of one of Ivanhoe's most popular young men.

"Imagine then the consternation aroused when he got up and opposed the suggestion. The very man who owed the safety of his precious wife—and what greater blessing can be bestowed on any man than a faithful and loving wife? He actually opposed giving a medal to the young hero who, alone and almost unaided, had saved Mrs. Hoover's life.

"He pretended like he appreciated fully the efforts Mr. Witherspoon had made, but begged to point out that if Mr. Witherspoon had simply lifted the bar off the back door, his wife could have walked out without any trouble and the ladder would not have been practically ruined."

EVIDENTLY the Deacon's objection carried weight. It remained for the young hero to receive his reward in another fashion:

"An announcement that caused a profound stir in Ivanhoe was made today by the gentlemanly proprietor of the Red Front Drug Store. It was to the effect that Mr. Dupree Witherspoon, son of Dr. and Mrs. Witherspoon of Toney Avenue, would be taken into partnership with him on May 1st next under the firm name of Semple & Witherspoon, Pharmaceutists. As everybody knows, Mr. Witherspoon has been the capable and obliging dispenser of soft drinks at the Red Front for more than six months. The Booster prophesies for the new firm all the success possible."

Right on top of this bulletin came a personal item that filled us with foreboding:

"Contrary to her usual custom, Miss Lola Sparger has returned to Ivanhoe for the Easter vacation, and is visiting her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Dink Sparger."

And in the very next budget of "Gleanings" this:

"Mr. D. Witherspoon entertained with a dance at the pavilion in the ball park last night in honor of Miss Lola Sparger, who is the guest of her parents for the Easter vacation. Your correspondent has no news of the event beyond hearsay, but it is rumored that the ice-cream did not arrive in time to be eaten and the band never showed up until eleven o'clock. Furthermore, a car broke down on the way home and certain young people were obliged to walk miles through the dust in their best clothes. A little bird whispers that a certain young lady (?) did not show the best of tempers in these trying circumstances. All is not gold that glitters!"

Sam Bastedo, our printer, was sorely puzzled by this item. He always insisted on accuracy and a definite statement of the identity of persons mentioned in our columns.

"Now, I wonder," he said irritably, scratching his head—"I wonder if this Mr. D. Witherspoon is any kin to Dr. and Mrs. Witherspoon of Toney Avenue?"

"I shouldn't be surprised," I replied.

"Then why the Sam Hill don't she say so in the first place? Little Sunbeam ain't been on her job right lately, Cap. She don't seem to have her mind on her business."

BUT a note of renewed hope was sounded in a letter from Ivanhoe received about five days later:

"A flutter has been caused in Ivanhoe's most exclusive social circles by the arrival of a young and handsome visitor from the North. Though he came without warning, he has taken all hearts by storm and is a welcome guest in our best homes. He is Mr. R. Thornton Terry, of Racine, Wis., and he is stopping at the Alexander. Besides being blessed with good looks and a fund of wit, Mr. Terry is said to be the possessor of much worldly goods—to wit, a fortune, inherited from his grandfather, who was a large land-owner in Virginia before the war. Report has it that he and Miss Lola Sparger met at several fashionable dances while the latter was visiting in the North last year, and that the young lady was a house guest of Mr. Terry's family at their summer home on the Lake. Welcome to our fair city, Mr. Terry. The whole world loves a lover."

Little Sunbeam was less buoyant in a later communication:

"Fearful and wonderful are the ways of men. That which is close at hand seldom holds any value in their eyes. Also, it is written that a man seldom wants a thing badly which he can obtain at his will, but that in proportion as other men

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desire the object too, so will he, and strive accordingly."

The last paragraph was rather involved, and we were at a loss to determine its application until the arrival of her next budget:

"Friends of a certain well known young man of the community feel like cautioning him discreetly against the course he is pursuing in regard to a certain young lady (?) now in our midst. She does not care for him really, or she would not treat him the way she does, and carry on another affair with another young man at the same time. Not content with capturing the affections of a dashing youth versed in the ways of the great cities, she must also seek to ensnare an innocent and unsuspecting young man of excellent heart but poor judgment—and perhaps ruin his happiness and that of others! Who knows?"

"What does she mean by that?" demanded Sam Bastedo. "That ain't news."

"Oh, Lola Sparger is having some fun, that's all," I told him.

WARM weather arrived, and Little Sunbeam reported from her territory:

"The Ivanhoe team has been organized, and games with Windy City have already been arranged. Mr. Doc Kinsella will manage the team the same as last year, and, in an exclusive interview with your correspondent, stated that they would dish up an article of ball to which the town could point with pride.

"Mr. Doc Kinsella, the capable manager of the baseball team, has unanimously awarded the prize of two dollars for the best name for his nine to Miss Bertine Biggerstaff. The name she submitted is the Ivanhoe Demons."

Miss Biggerstaff had named them better than she knew. Their first game with Windy City was pulled off the following Saturday, and this is what we found in our mail on Monday morning:

"A disgraceful occurrence occurred here on Saturday afternoon that will leave a stain on the fair name of Ivanhoe as long as Time endures.

"It was at the baseball game between the Demons—demons indeed, and fiends too—and the Windy City Tigers. All Ivanhoe was there.

"The weather was warm and pleasant, and the boys seemed to be on their mettle as they romped about in the preliminary practice. In an exclusive interview, just before the game started, Mr. Doc Kinsella told your correspondent that he did not see how the Demons could lose.

"Mr. Dupree Witherspoon, son of Dr. and Mrs. Witherspoon of Toney Avenue, was agreed on as umpire, and Deacon Hoover, our mayor, threw the first ball. The game began at three o'clock, after the band had rendered very acceptably 'Sailing Down Chesapeake Bay.'

"Mr. Witherspoon made the best umpire it has ever been the privilege of impartial observers to see at the local park, rendering his decisions in a clear, musical voice. The Ivanhoe Demons scored runs as follows: One in the first inning, three in the second, one in the third, none in the fourth, four in the fifth, and three in the sixth—total 12.

"The Windy City Tigers did not do so well at the commencement, and failed to obtain any runs until the sixth; but during that inning the Demon pitcher grew slightly nervous, and the visitors piled up thirteen runs before Mr. Doc Kinsella decided that he was weakening and took him out and put another one in.

"And now it was the fatal seventh. An electric tension filled the air. At times you could hear a pin drop. Anon they broke into tumultuous applause.

"At this juncture Mr. Hi Miller went to bat for the Demons, with two men on bases. The vast throng yelled to him to project it into space. Mr. Miller moistened the palms of his hands, grasped the bat firmly, and gave a tremendous blow to the first ball pitched at him. It went whizzing like a bullet down the third-base line, and Mr. Miller ran like a streak of lightning to first base, to second, to third, and then home, while the Windy City Tigers were furiously hunting the ball in the long grass.

"The thoughtless hundreds leaped to their feet and cheered until the welkin rang; but Mr. Dupree Witherspoon, son of Dr. and Mrs. Witherspoon of Toney Avenue, raised his right arm and stilled the tumult.

"'Foul!' he cried.

"And then pantomime broke loose. Despite the universal esteem in which he has always been held, and the respect which, one would think, his family's position in the community ought to command, they turned against Mr. Witherspoon. They hooted and jeered. Some roughnecks from the Corners did not hesitate to cry, 'Kill him! Kill him!' and they started to descend from the bleachers.

"Yet in this crisis the dauntless young umpire's presence of mind did not forsake him. He ran rapidly to the third-base line, glanced along it, and then announced in clarion tones: 'Fair ball!'

"In this he was but showing his broadmindedness and following the dictates of his conscience; but the Windy City Tigers failed to take that into consideration. They instantly gathered around him, running in from all sides. Their captain and outfielders addressed him in the most disgraceful terms. Finally, to appease them, he consented to be led to the spot on which they claimed the ball had landed. And there, sure enough, was the mark of the spheroid, plainly discernible on a clump of new dirt outside the foul line.

"What was there for him to do after that? He did what any honorable man would have done. He did his duty. Stepping to the front of the grand-stand, he raised his arm majestically and said in a firm, ringing voice: 'Foul ball.'

"Reliable citizens who were present have informed your correspondent that the first bottle came from the bleachers, where certain roughnecks from the Corners, who are known to the officers, were congregated. However that may be, sundry missiles were hurled, and a perfect babel of sounds broke loose. Cushions, bottles, and even vegetables, filled the air, and there was a rush towards Mr. Witherspoon.

"In this crisis, what did he do? Mr. Witherspoon folded his arms and, with a cold smile, waited for the worst. Next moment they were all around him, shouting and gesticulating.

"And now comes the most shameful feature of the whole shameful business.

In the front row of the grand-stand sat a certain young lady (?) who has been for some weeks his almost constant companion and concerning whom and Mr. Witherspoon there have been many exaggerated rumors. She had taken him to the game in her father's automobile, but was sitting with his rival in her affections, a certain young capitalist from the North,

"And guess, what this young lady (?) did! Instead of going boldly to his relief and taking her post by his side, she covered her face with her hands and gave way, to unwomanly fears.

"Only for the prompt intervention of Miss Bertine Biggerstaff, aided by Reverend White, who was also present, it is probable that Mr. Witherspoon would have been seriously injured. She sprang up and advanced from her seat without fear, and stood in front of him, confronting the rabble who menaced his person.

"'You cowards!' she cried. To strike an unarmed man thus!'

"Some of the men began to cheer, but the more heedless laughed, and another strong rush was made that separated her from him.

"'Get him away somehow,' Reverend White advised. We must get Dupree home or they will do him an injury.'

"Seeing that resistance would be futile and all expostulation vain in their excited state, Mr. Witherspoon wisely abandoned his efforts to appease the mob, and turned about. Ever swift of foot, he reached the gate a safe distance in the lead; then, turning there, he defied them, one and all.

"'I call the game,' he shouted with the full power of his lungs. I call the game and award it to Windy City.'

"Again they surged forward with a roar, and he disappeared along the road leading to town, the frenzied hoodlums in close pursuit.

"It was at this critical moment that

---

Miss Bertine Biggerstaff had another inspiration. The automobile belonging to Mr. Dink Sparger, and which had been used by Miss Lola Sparger to come to the game, was standing outside the gate in charge of their colored yard-man.

"Leaping lightly into same, she imperiously commanded the negro to drive with all speed to the rescue. At first he demurred, but she was not to be denied. By promises of rich reward she succeeded in persuading him to start the car.

"The magnificent machine leaped forward like a thing alive,—there is no denying that automobiles are very useful and have probably come to stay,—and they overtook the mob at the corner of Main and Fannin streets, where they had halted, at a loss. Their prey had disappeared as though the earth had swallowed him up, and they were hunting in every direction.

"An intuition for which she is unable to account prompted Miss Biggerstaff to walk quietly down the lane in rear of Deacon Hoover's abode. And there on the porch, behind the ice-box, was the well known form of Mr. Witherspoon. Nobody was near to observe. She signaled to him, and he joyfully permitted her to approach.

"It was decided that they should appeal to Mrs. Hoover for sanctuary, inasmuch as he had once been instrumental in saving her life, and this was done. She readily agreed to hide him until the crowd dispersed.

"The leaders of the perpetrators of this outrage are known to many, and condign punishment will be meted out to them."

THIS was hot stuff, but her next letter was equally startling:

"Our peaceful community has been profoundly agitated by discovery of a romance which came to light accidently.

"Miss Lola Sparger, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Dink Sparger, left town early Monday morning in the family automobile and drove to Windy City. And there she met—by previous arrangement, it is said—a certain young man who has been visiting in our midst of late, Mr. R. Thornton Terry. The couple repaired immediately to the residence of Reverend J. Schoonover, and at the hour of twelve noon were united in the holy bonds of matrimony. And so endeth an affair that has given rise to more conjecture and talk than most anything previously occurring in the memory of the oldest inhabitant.

"Mr. and Mrs. Terry left on the Limited later for Denison, from where the bride telegraphed her father what she had done, asking forgiveness and his blessing. Mr. Sparger left at once in a hired automobile to be at her side, and it is rumored that the young couple will return shortly to Ivanhoe and take up their residence with the bride's parents.

"But that is not all—far from it! Mr. Terry is not a capitalist. His grandfather never owned tracts of land in Virginia before the war, and never even lived in Virginia. In fact, nobody knows whether he ever had a grandfather. He is really a book agent, and the reports that he met Miss Sparger at fashionable dances in the North are without foundation. Equally untrue are the stories that she visited at his mother's summer home on the Lake. She met him on the train during her last trip home, and she had never even seen him before.

"But all's well that ends well. The Booster extends to Mr. and Mrs. Terry congratulations and best wishes for a happy married life."

If we were flabbergasted by this news, judge of our amazement and delight on receiving, a month later, the following:

"For more than an hour the mighty multitude sat in pensive silence, as if entranced by the rare and redolent perfume of flowers, waiting for the hand of Time to point his index finger to the appointed hour. Just at 8:30 every soul seemed to tingle with exquisite elation at the first mesmeric tinkle of marriage bells and the rolling of the wedding march in full diapason. Then the stillness that ached was suddenly broken by the appearance of the attendants.

"Following at intervals, as the tick of the clock, the entire bridal party strolled in, seventeen in number, and took their places at the matrimonial altar to witness the climacteric consummation of the divine compact. The bride, Miss Bertine Lee Biggerstaff, daughter of the late Boyce Biggerstaff and Mrs. Biggerstaff of Cedar Street, entered on the arm of her uncle, Mr. W. J. Stier of Windy City. She wore an exquisite white satin dress trimmed with seed pearls, a tulle veil and orange blossoms, and carried a handsome bouquet of lily-of-the-valley.

"Immediately after the solemn ceremony, the bridal party, together with relatives and friends, accompanied the bride and groom to the home of the bride's mother, where they were doubly delighted by debonair delicacies and gladsome congratulations. It seemed to the guests that they were partaking of ambrosia and nectar. Indeed, each participant might have exclaimed with Milton, the Blind Bard:

I scent the air
Of blessings when I come but near the house.
What delicious breath marriage sends forth!
The violet beds no sweeter.

"The happy couple left on the midnight train for Galveston and other Southern points, and after the honeymoon will take up their residence in Ivanhoe."

NOW, that was what Little Sunbeam sent—a full and pleasing account of the wedding of Miss Bertine Biggerstaff, but not so much as mention of the bride-groom's name! It cost us twenty-six cents for a telegram to ascertain this information. Back came the answer:

"Mr. Dupree Witherspoon, son of Dr. and Mrs. Witherspoon of Toney Avenue."

And I heaved a sigh of relief. Doubts of the happiness of that couple were idle and foolish; she, would not spoil Dupree; already she had him tagged exactly where he belonged.

But in came Sam Bastedo, trembling with the triumph of a discovery.

"Cap," he said, holding Little Sunbeam's copy in his hand, "I been thinking. And I sort of got the idea that Little Sunbeam might be this here Miss Bertine Biggerstaff. Do you reckon she is?"

"It wouldn't surprise me."

"Then," declared Sam, "it behooves us to do something for her. It behooves us to buy her a li'l' present or something. What do you say? I'll go in on it for four bits."

"It sure do behoove," I replied.

And that was why we went out and bought a cut-glass bonbon dish for Little Sunbeam and sent her three years' subscription to the Booster gratis.

How I Went into Business for Myself

WE will pay $25 for the best letter on this subject and $15 for the second best. We want to hear from all you folks who, after working a while for some one else, decided you could do better by working for yourselves.

What experience did you have? How much capital did you have? Where and how did you begin? What were your actual costs and profits or losses the first year? How long did it take you to get your business on its feet?

Write fully and frankly anything that will be helpful to other people.

At the same time and in the same way, we would like to hear from people who—without giving up their positions—have established successful side-line businesses.

All letters must he in our hands three weeks from the publication of this announcement. And any letters that are good enough to print will be paid for at regular rates.

Address BRUCE BARTON, Editor, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York.

How Is Your Electrical System Today?

By ERNEST A. STEPHENS

YOUR storage battery and the necessity for keeping it in good condition was dealt with in a previous article, mainly for the reason that the efficiency of the electrical system of your automobile is absolutely dependent upon its state. In addition to the battery, the standard equipment for starting and lighting service comprises a starting motor and a lighting generator, with the necessary switches, wiring, etc. When, as is the case in the majority of present-day cars, the ignition forms a part of the regular electrical system, a coil and a distributor are added.

These electrical systems vary in detail and also in manner of installation, and for these reasons it is essential for everybody who wishes to understand his starting, lighting, and ignition sufficiently well to care adequately for minor defects or unexpected troubles, to study the particular system in its relation to his individual car. Full information, with wiring diagrams, etc., is always given in the instruction book that accompanies each new automobile. Read it carefully; it will repay you amply. Too many of its are content to know that the action of pressing a button starts the engine. This may be all very well when it actually does so; but supposing it doesn't?

Above All Be Clean

LET us first consider just what happens when you operate that button, assuming everything to be in perfect order. Your storage battery sends a current along the wires to the starting motor, your ignition system furnishes a spark in the combustion chambers, and your engine starts. When your engine is running it operates the generator, and this, in turn, furnishes the storage battery with current to replace that taken from it for use in operating the starter and the ignition. Nothing more or less than an endless chain of operations. In some systems the starting motor and the generator form a single instrument, instead of being individual units; but the operating results are similar in each case.

If your battery is in perfect order, your wiring in good condition, with terminals making positive connections and both starting motor and lighting generator are perfectly clean, you won't have much to worry about; but emphasis can not be too strongly laid on the word cleanliness. It is a word that may be applied to anything in connection with the mechanism of your car, but it possesses especial significance in its relation to your electrical equipment.

Watch and Test

IF moisture or dirt is permitted to collect on your starting motor and generator, you may expect trouble; for, sooner Dr later, any foreign substance is likely to act as a conductor and cause a short circuit. Dust may accumulate in the generator, and this should be opened periodically and carefully wiped clean. If carbon worn from the brushes collects in the generator housing, you can blow it out with a tire pump. Keep the various terminals clean, and see that the binding screws are tight; and if, for any reason, you have disconnected the battery or the generator, do not run your engine until they are again connected.

Don't forget that vibration is apt to loosen connection and that frequent inspection and testing are desirable. If you wrap loose wires, such as those leading to lamp-sockets, with adhesive tape at the connections, you will help to prevent possible short circuits caused by fraying against sharp edges, etc.

Located on your instrument board is very probably an ammeter, a device that indicates the proper rate of charge or discharge of your battery, and that tells you whether the generator is working, and whether the battery is receiving ,its proper charge. When the car is running above a given speed, say at ten or fifteen miles an hour, the generator is presumed to be charging the battery; at lower speeds the battery is discharging the current needed for the operation of the lights.

When Something Is Wrong

TAKE a look at the illustration, and make a mental note of the fact that when the hand is pointing to the left of the central zero mark the battery is furnishing current to the lamps—in other words, it is discharging. When it points to the right the generator is delivering current to the battery—that is, the battery is being charged. The ammeter does not show the amount of current in the battery, but its failure to indicate conditions properly tells you that there is something wrong somewhere or other in the system.

It is impossible to deal fully with electrical troubles in a single article; but the reader is reminded that this magazine is ready and willing, without charge or obligation, to help those having car troubles.

Mr. Stephens' book, "Running Your Car at a Minimum Cost," written for our readers, will be mailed on receipt of a nickel. Address 381 Fourth Avenue, New York.