A New Year Starts

BRUCE BARTON, Editor

A NEW YEAR starts.

Why, sir, are you earning the very same salary you earned a year ago?

Why, madam, are you content to let him go on year after year without financial progress? Successful men say that their wives double their incomes: what have you done this past year to stimulate your husband?

Perhaps you two belong to the class who "do not believe in New Year's resolutions." If so, get out of that class.

The most successful business man we know makes the same three resolutions on January first of every year. Every other young man who means to grow instead of stagnate ought to adopt these three resolutions as his own:

First: I will have at least one new idea a week: I will keep my mind actively searching for ideas.

Do ideas pay? W. B. Leeds, when he was a subordinate in the Pennsylvania Railroad offices, got the idea that the tin mines of Indiana could be made to produce tin as cheaply as the tin mines of Wales. That idea made him the tinplate king of America. How long since you have had a real idea?

Second: I will devise some way in the job I now hold to save my employer money this year.

Andrew Carnegie offered a bonus to the young men in his employ who could discover means to save him money. To-day "Carnegie's boys" are millionaires.

Third: I will give myself some definite training in the evenings this year to equip me for a more profitable position.

Andrew Johnson was a tailor; Cardinal Wolsey was a butcher's clerk; John Wanamaker started in business at $1.25 a week; Carnegie started at $3; Abraham Lincoln took the job of postmaster so that he could read the newspapers that passed through his hands; Thurlow Weed walked two miles in the snow, with rags around his feet, to borrow books.

There is no man in the United States who can not make progress in business this year if he is determined to make progress. But Heaven itself can not promote the man who is content to drift.

"Men talk of victory as of something fortunate," said Emerson. "Work is victory: wherever work is done, victory is obtained. There is no chance, and no blanks."

Are you going to be further ahead at the beginning of next year than you are to-day?

Madam, what are you going to do to help him?

If you are a young man who is really trying for a better place in the world why not write me a personal sort of letter at my New York office, 95 Madison Avenue? It's possible I can make some suggestions about your reading and study that may be helpful.

Schwab—the Man Who Came Back

By ALBERT W. ATWOOD.

THE "comeback" game is about the hardest there is. The copy books used to tell about pulling victory out of defeat, but we don't hear much about it nowadays. Now and then an inconspicuous individual is able to pull himself together and make a new start. But for a prominent man, one of international reputation, to start all over again, to do the trick a second time, is almost unheard of.

Charles M. Schwab, the steel-maker, is the greatest example in modern industry of a man who came back. He was a brilliant success as a man of thirty, a phenomenal, meteoric success. He was accorded especial honors by King Edward and Emperor Franz Joseph. Then came the slump; and, relatively speaking, he went down and out. More than ten years of grinding, hard work followed, and today? To-day Schwab is the greatest industrial figure in the whole world, and he is only fifty-three years old.

There are so many fascinating chapters in this man's life that those who read it ever know whether to start at the beginning or the end. But his early career was a lot more dazzling than his steady, uneventful process of breaking loose from the Down and Out Club. People don't help a man much or take much interest in his rise until he gets there.

Charles M. Schwab is president, directing genius, and largest stockholder in the Bethlehem Steel Corporation, which has had the largest military orders (except possibly those for explosives) of any [?] ncern in this country. But only a [?] tle more than a year ago its stock was [?] cking around Wall Street without a friend, and for nearly ten years before that you could hardly find any one [?] en to kick it. The mere mention of Schhwab made most people smile.

"Sure," they would say. "He was the young man who was the first president of the Steel Trust. Prosperity went to his head, and J. P. Morgan kicked him out. He has a little company his own now, but I guess the United States Steel Corporation won't do any worrying."

But no one can remember any longer how he used to laugh at Schwab. The former scoffer nly wishes he had bought some of his stock when it was selling at 15 or 20, so he could have sold it out at 600. On reliable authority it is said that Schwab was recently offered $50,000,000 for his stock, with the privilege of managing the company for ten years longer.

Schwab was made president of the United States Steel Corporation when he was only thirty-nine years old. The year before, as president of the Carnegie Steel Company, his share in the profits was $1,300,000. At thirty he was superintendent of both the Edgar Thompson and the Homestead steel works, said to be the only instance in which Andrew Carnegie ever permitted one man to operate two of his plants.

Some one once said that Schwab had risen step by step; but there never were such steps before or since. When he was nineteen years old Schwab was clerking at five dollars a week in a grocery store at Braddock, Pennsylvania. One day Captain W. R. Jones, superintendent of the steel works, walked in. The young clerk asked him for a job.

"Can you drive spikes?" asked Captain Jones.

"I can drive anything," said Schwab.

In six months he was chief of the engineering corps for which he had driven stakes, and a few months later became a superintendent. Schwab moved up so fast that it was enough to turn his head. He was the first to suggest the formation of the United States Steel Corporation. He was scarcely more than thirty-five when seventy or eighty of the leading old-time bankers and merchants of New York City gave him a dinner at the University Club. Schwab had never seen a university; but he was the only speaker, and he talked for an hour.

"I was very much flattered and honored at that dinner," said he years later, in describing the incident. "Mr. J.P. Morgan sat next to me on my right and Mr. Simmons [at that time the leading bank president in New York] sat on my left. Mr. Harriman, Governor Levi P. Morton, Mr. Carnegie, and other distinguished men were there."

Morgan and the rest of the financiers formed the billion-dollar Steel Trust. They made young Schwab president and gave him $28,000,000 of stock. Schwab felt pretty good. His salary was to be about $1,000,000 a year. There seemed no further worlds to conquer. He was the peer of Morgan and all the country's greatest financiers. Had he not set the

great Homestead works going after the astute, silent Frick had defeated the workmen on a five months' battlefield—the Waterloo of organized labor? Had he not developed the armor-plate business to its immensely profitable basis?

So Schwab, full of youth and vitality, tasting life at its full, set out for Europe. It was a triumphal march. He was received by the Austrian Emperor, and breakfasted with Prince Metternich. He was received by King Edward, and in Italy attracted more attention than King or Pope. Then the got busy and sent over exaggerated stories about his play at Monte Carlo. He was called the "mad American." He chartered special trains and boats, and suites at a hundred dollars a day.

Schwab never played for as high stakes at Monte Carlo as the newspapers represented. But the damage had been done, and he received eighty cablegrams in one day from stockholders and others remonstrating with him. He came home and suffered a nervous breakdown.

A year or two earlier Schwab had bought outright with his own money the Bethlehem Steel Company at South Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. It was not a large concern, but it had made a specialty of armor-plate. No one paid much attention to Schwab's purchase, although Morgan and other directors of the Steel Trust did not like the idea of its president owning a rival company.

"Your time," he was told, "belongs to the Steel Corporation, and you'll have to give this thing up."

Schwab looked around for a purchaser, and found some amateur promoters who wanted to organize a shipbuilding trust. He told them the Bethlehem was just what they wanted for their trust—a strong, rich steel plant, with which they could manufacture armor-plate and build battleships complete in their own shipyards. The promoters jumped at the chance and paid Schwab an enormous price. But they did not know how to organize a trust or operate one, and it failed.

There was a terrific tangle. Schwab got back his Bethlehem Company intact, but only after a long investigation which disclosed many of the methods of high finance and left a bad impression on the public. J. P. Morgan became involved through Schwab, and the relations between the two men did not improve.

At about the same time the public began to lose confidence in the stock of the United States Steel Corporation. It had been floated at a high price, but it fell to nearly $8 a share. That was in March, 1903. The next month Schwab resigned as president of the Steel Trust.

"I have retired from active business on account of my health," he told the reporters. "I propose to devote my whole attention to regaining my strength,

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and won't take any position until it is restored."

Right there and then Wall Street buried Charles M. Schwab. He had taken the big slide down and out. Next!

Schwab is quick to see, quick to decide. He thinks and acts like chain lightning. Nothing daunts him. One who knows him says that if Schwab were asked to reorganize Russia or merge the South American republics, he would cheerily respond:

"Yes, that's a good idea; I'll attend to it next week."

This man simply refused to stay down. Nothing much was heard of him for a year or so after he "resigned" from the Steel Trust. He was recuperating, getting back his health. He had previously built a gorgeous, expensive, flashy mansion on Riverside Drive, New York City. That mansion was closed and has been kept closed. It was announced that he would move to South Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, where the works are. And he did, about ten years ago. From a mansion in the greatest city, to a little out-of-the-way Pennsylvania town!

For something more than ten years Schwab had done nothing but work. Not long ago he talked to the Easton Board of Trade. He told them that practically all the money he had was in the Bethlehem Steel Corporation, and that he had never taken out a penny in personal fees, expenses, or dividends.

He owned most of the stock, but he refused to pay dividends. He paid large wages and enormous bonuses to the young men who helped him. If he heard of a big contract in Russia or Chile or anywhere else, he went for it himself. Slowly he extended the small concern's operations until it became a big corporation. He did not borrow much money, because there were no dividends to pay and the company could use its earnings to expand. Gradually other steel and shipbuilding plants were bought in, without excitement or stock-market exploitation.

Few people in Wall Street noticed what Schwab was doing. He said nothing—merely worked like a slave year after year. He let the stock market alone. He did not care what the stock was selling at, as long as he could build new furnaces and land new contracts. Two or three years ago people began to notice that Schwab was earning almost as much with his "little" company as he had with the Carnegie Steel Company years before. But, even then, cynical Wall Street would not believe what it saw. It just refused to look at the figures, because Schwab had had his day. Men never come back—of course not.

When the war started, Schwab went straight to Lord Kitchener. He spent a week or more with the War Secretary, and came back to America with the biggest war order the world had ever known. Now every steel-mill owner and promoter wants to sell out to Schwab.

There is such a thing as coming back.

Her Trial Marriage

By GRACE MacGOWAN COOKE
Author of "The Girl Who Was Afraid to Get Married "

Illustrations by Frank Tenney Johnson

THE man on the bed lay with eyes closed, his great arms flung up on the pillow above his head, a locked circle for framing that grim countenance of his. He had not slept at all; now dawn was whitening outside the windows.

Nearly a year before, Lund had swept Alyson Innes from her Eastern setting, bringing her to this wild, mountain-rimmed nest where his mine was, on the rockbound Pacific coast below Carmel, below Monterey, caring no whit what ties or obligations he took her away from. Among the symbols of these obligations, the name of Stanley Wace led all the rest—old Burian Wace's son, a boy with whom Alyson had gone to the same kindergarten in Philadelphia, and played at sweethearts.

Nothing counted—even the obstacles met in Alyson herself. Being a cave man, Kortney Lund was inevitably fascinated by the most modern type of girl—which is also the most ancient: dark, mysterious, elusive. And he had let her talk Strindberg, Sudermann, Tolstoy, Meredith, and vapor to him about a twelve-month time marriage. He would have offered no resistance to any heresy, however monstrous, that did not keep her from his arms. Once there, he would hold fast his own. He never answered her—instead he married her.

The bungalow was built in a wonderful spot, a little fold in the hills fronting the blue water and the bluer sky, with a brush-covered, almost impassable barrier. A single road led to their isolation, dallying down the coast, lightly skirting miles of cliff below which the surf was loud on sharp-toothed black rocks.

With water and power from the stream at the mine he had given their home the equipment of a city flat, and had put old Tang Foo in the kitchen to make stolid use of the miracles in his marvelous cooking.

They were shut away together there through the enchanted growing weeks of spring; the months of blazing sun, tranced sky and sea, dim days of fog; the long dry season, with its pungent odors, tingling heat, and dusty trails; and through the winter storms that bellowed on the coast.

HAD this year shown Alyson that love like theirs was not for a day or a twelvemonth, but for all time? He did not bring up the question—that had never been his way. He would act. It was his course of action that had brought him to a sleepless night. For the Goth was at his gates; the Vandal hammered on his temple door. The year was up—the "other man" had arrived as a house guest!

Conscious of late of a definite nervous tremor beneath Alyson's calm, seeing her easily wearied, her speech with an edge, her silence holding an alien quality, noting that she had taken up the ominous practice of long, lonely walks, Lund had communed with himself, and brought forth the suggestion that she break the monotony by a trip to town.

"With you?" There was a flicker of interest in her eyes.

"Well, no, honey," he had hesitated. "I couldn't leave just now. I'm working double tides to get the mine in such shape that I'll be free at the end of the year."

The phrase was routine business; but Alyson looked at him as if she expected him to say more—to explain. Instead he modified his proposition by adding:

"If you don't care for going up to town, why not have some one here to visit you?"

She surveyed him with a gaze unreadable, studying him from behind a mysterious feminine barrier.

"Well," slowly and reasonably, "since you suggest it—Stanley Wace is on the coast, painting. Perhaps be would like—the scenery down here. Shall I ask him?"

It was a challenge; and Lund had never, since he was breeched, skulked one.

"Sure," he said heartily. "Have him down, if you like."

SO the Philadelphian had come. Lund saw him for the first time with alert interest, and found him rather a magnificent creature, correct in the technique of civilization, lavishing his immaculate flannels and white tennis shoes on the Californian dust. His nickname for Alyson—"Lys"— irritated Lund. He sketched because Alyson made him, and before the week was out had shown himself a dub at everything he did. He painted badly, rode no better, sang and played upon several instruments with deadly mediocrity, had a child's idea of practical affairs, and a bad temper. In their long desultory talks he and his hostess discussed a world to which Lund was an outsider. But with this Lund found no fault. At such times he betook him to a pipe and his technical magazines, and neither watched nor refrained from watching them.

Lying there on his bed, Lund tried hard for a moment to understand what it was that went on beneath the surface of things yesterday evening, as Waco and Alyson talked jokingly about a proposed picnic to a little hut on the mountain opposite the ranch. This sickly joke was worked overtime, nursed along all evening, fed at the dinner-table, and Alyson and Wace were still whispering and nodding together when he left them at twelve o'clock and came upstairs to bed.

They were not so long after him; yet—that silence when they parted at the stair-head had shouted things intolerable. Then Wace went on to the sleeping-porch. Alyson entered the chamber that adjoined his own; and directly came the soft rasp of a key in the door between their rooms. It was like a hypodermic of infernal fire shot into his veins. He had stared in the dark toward those panels till the dawning light showed them to him.

As he looked the lock clicked, the knob was softly turned, the door inched a bit open, and Alyson's dark head appeared. He felt her gaze studying him. Through narrowed lids he saw her come forward step by step, peering at him, a kimono drawn over her nightgown. His constraint suddenly snapped.

"Alyson!" he whispered, starting up.

"Oh—Kort!" She let go the door, and it swung to. She glanced about her, then whirled to the bureau.

"Kort," her voice blundered on the name. "I thought I wanted—one of those headache tablets. Are they here?"

"Why, yes," blankly. "On the bureau, there. Help yourself."

Lund dropped back on his pillow and lay looking at her as she searched for the box. After this day, but one more remained of what he had permitted her monstrously to call their one-year marriage. What did she feel—what did she intend? But he was done waiting for her—for her and Waco—to make the first move. With a sudden plunge he heaved himself out of bed. She spun round where she stood.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing. Aren't they there? Look in the top drawer."

Her gaze never left him as she groped a moment uncertainly for the drawer-handle; then she burst out, as if against her own volition:

"What is it, Kort? What are you going to do?"

He made no immediate answer as he sat there on the edge of his bed, his head dropped a bit, staring at her—a look she had never seen, the front he took into battle in a man's world.

"Well?" just above her breath. "What?"

HE put his feet into the waiting bedside slippers and tramped over to the closet, where he began to drag out puttees, riding-breeches, a flannel shirt—wear that had seen much service.

"You and I,"—the words dropped sharply, one by one,—"you and I are starting out for a prospecting trip this morning."

She drew back, laughing faintly.

"And Stan? I don't think he'd care for prospecting."

"Probably not." He spoke over his shoulder, climbing into his riding-breeches. "It doesn't matter. He's not going."

"Just you and me—alone?" Alyson's voice had a curious tension.

"Just you and me, alone," her husband answered her with finality.

"But—we can't. What will Stan think?"

"Whatever he pleases."

Sitting down solidly on his bed, he took up the telephone from the stand. "You'll have to be quick, now. Wear the stoutest, oldest duds you've got. This is the trip you've been begging me to take you on for nearly a year—nearly a year," he repeated, looking squarely at her.

Alyson stared back at him.

"You're very sure I'm going—aren't you?"

"Yes.

"Well," she said, with a plain effort to speak unconcernedly, "if we should decide to go, we'd have to ring up the sleeping-porch and explain to Stan. He's never awake before noon, unless he is called."

Lund's only reply to this was a look. He had got Tang Foo on the house telephone, and now began giving his orders, short, sharp, exact: breakfast ready at once; the saddling of his and Alyson's horse; the pack-mule, with camping outfit and provisions for two days. That last item brought her to his side, a hand upon his arm, shaking it.

"Kort—you'll have to call Stan now. If we're going to stay two days—"

This was the first actual notice of her capitulation. Lund glanced up swiftly, and visibly restrained himself from touching her, from offering any acknowledgment, only remarking:

"Why bother him? He'll find out about it when he gets up. Do go and get ready."

She surveyed him long—and got nothing from the survey. She caught her breath to speak; she even parted her lips, but closed them again; then she flung round suddenly and ran into her own room, whence came back to him the sounds of her pulling things about and dressing in haste. She appeared at the door, fully equipped, at the same instant that Tang Foo's bell announced coffee. She carried a folded note in her hand, and laid it beside her plate at table. Lund could see Wace's name written on the white square. In diligent silence Tang Foo served the unseasonable meal. They came out from it to find the saddled horses and the pack-mule in the patio, Lorenzo, the Spanish boy, still rubbing his eyes sleepily, yet going over knot and hitch to see that all was secure.

Alyson watched everything without a word. She let Lund put her up on her horse. But, just short of the gate, she drew rein and spoke, with a quick breath:

"Kort, which way are we going?"

"Depends on where you want to prospect."

"I didn't want to prospect at all this morning—did I?"

Lund shrugged.

"Well, we'll get through the gate, anyhow"; and, driving the pack-mule, he led the way.

ALYSON made no more queries. From time to time she glanced forward at her husband's back, obstinate, formidable, then at the mountain opposite, then cautiously back toward the bungalow, where old Tang Foo droned a Chinese song as he cleared the table, Lorenzo pottered at making the patio neat after them, and Wace slumbered on the sleeping-porch.

Lund himself did not look back. Even when they took a trail that left the highway with some pretense of being a road, where they might have ridden abreast, he still continued to lead, and the trail soon got discouraged, declining again into a

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path, a mere ragged streak through thorny [?] aparral. He halted to help her free her skirts from a clutching branch, eyeing her narrrowly. Despite the heat and the struggle of the climb, she was pale.

"Pretty tough?" he suggested.

"I don't mind it so much as the open places—oh!" as the horses came out to [?] here a thick mat of pine needles made insecure footing. "Do they ever fall?"

"No; a cayuse is one thing you can depend on."

Then for a long time they rode in silence. Hour followed hour, with barely [?] ome civil word of inquiry or direction between them. The sun climbed in a sky of transparent blue. When, at noon, they came out on a bit of high-placed level with patches of tolerable grazing, Lund pulled up and spoke:

"A real prospector makes just one fire in twenty-four hours—at night. But you ate no breakfast; I guess I'd better feed you."

"Can I help?" said Alyson, as her lifted from her horse.

"You might get the things off the pack, while I make the fire."

The spirit of the excursion began to lose some of its strain. Alyson's color was better. Lund, always notably silent, seemed more like himself, busy making a safe pit for the tiny blaze necessary to fry bacon and boil coffee. Alyson found pot and pan and supplies on the pack-saddle. [?] was a curiously homelike little meal to which they finally sat down.

"I believe I'm going to enjoy prospecting," Alyson put forward, a shade too heartlessly.

"That's good."

Lund helped her to bacon, and they ate in fairly amicable silence for a while.

"It's fun, of course," she threw out another feeler, when the meal was over; "but I'd like to know—"

SHE stopped suddenly; for at the moment she noticed the white square of a folded note stuck in his belt. Her eyes dilated upon it. Lund heard a quick breath; then, in a difficult voice:

"Isn't that the note I left for Stan? I thought I put it under his plate."

Deliberately Lund withdrew the paper. He did not offer it to her, but looked at her above it with lifted brows.

"Well," he suggested, "we might burn it now, I should say"; and without another word thrust it into the fire.

There was a moment of silence, in which the situation all at once stood out startlingly clear. With a morning's ride Lund had brought his wife from the modern woman's place of vantage to a stone-age simplicity of dependence on her mate.

"When are we going back to the house?" she asked him suddenly.

"I don't know."

"Kort—" Evidently the effort to say what she must pitched her voice in a slightly higher key than pleased her, for she abruptly lowered her tone: "I want to be told when we're going."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a human being and not an inch-worm. I care to know what direction I am traveling in."

"Is that all?"

"No. Yes."

She swung into the saddle unhelped, gathered up the reins, and sat looking defiantly down at him.

"I don't see why I've got to explain myself so elaborately to you—you never trouble to enlighten me."

Lund smiled, a wry smile that had no amusement in it.

"Well, you've answered yes, and you've answered no—woman fashion. I can take my choice, can I?"

Silence. He spoke once more:

"You've asked me when we're going to get home and what direction we're going to take. I'll trade you two questions of my own for your two: Where do you want to go? Whom do you wish to meet?"

"Nobody!" cried Alyson. But the eyes of both went to the camp-fire, where the black wraith of Wace's note fluttered on the coals.

"God!" said Lund under his breath, "if there was ever any getting the truth from a woman!"

He went over to stamp on the buried camp-fire and make certain that the red destroyer was not let loose in the hills by his hand. When he came back to Alyson, she only said doggedly and without looking at him:

"If you'll tell me which way—I'll go."

Without answer in words, he again led. Later he seemed to grow uneasy in this position, and, where the footing permitted, sent his wife ahead of him—even across those slippery, terrifying pine-needle-cushioned places, he never rode at her side. If she looked back for directions, he gave them to her with an impatient gesture. When the afternoon's climbing was over—and it had been far worse than the hardships of the morning—they halted in a spot Lund seemed to have selected for their camp. It was a good camp, with water. Lund did everything, waiting on Alyson with a not unkindly air of forgetting she was there. He got the supper, cleared away after it, then made the beds, feet to fire, his on one side, hers on the other.

Lund had not slept at all the night before; the day had been a long one in the open; yet he lay for some time, watching his wife between almost closed lids, while that bright little blade of fire flickered between them. For a while she sat pensively, looking very small and lonely in the midst of the wild, her blanket over her head cowl-wise. He slept at last, heavily.

THE day and night that followed were as the first day and night—sun, wind, a dazzling blue sky, an aimless scrambling over steep trails, the camp of exhaustion in the evening, and for the most part silence between them. The third morning Lund waked to find Alyson already up, dressed, the fire going and breakfast begun. If she thought to acquire merit by this, she was disappointed. Her husband moved like a man unconscious of his surroundings. When the moment to start came, he demanded abruptly:

"Do you want to prospect on the other side to-day?"

"The other side?"

"Yes. From where we are now, we could swing across and get there by noon."

"Get where? Why 'by noon'?" Alyson's voice was scarcely more than a whisper. But his stern eye was on her, and he reiterated:

"Do you want to go over there?"

"I don't care where we go."

"Are you as happy as all that?"

"I'm not happy. You know it well enough—you've known it for a long time," she blazed up. "You don't care!"

"For a long time," Lund repeated her words slowly. There was a flicker of movement in his bared throat; the muscles of that strong jaw tightened. "You seemed to be pretty gay this last week."

"What's the use?" Alyson flung it all down with a hopeless gesture. "You knew Stan and I were engaged before I ever met you. Well—I was wearing his ring when—you—when— You knew that when you brought him to the house."

Lund made no denial. The assertion was at least essentially true. He caught her arm and faced her around.

"You don't want to go home. That means that he isn't there. Where do you want to go?"

Involuntarily her eyes lifted to the but on the mountainside across the valley. She looked away instantly, but Lund had seen.

"I've got my answer," he said huskily, retreating to his own horse, swinging up, wheeling toward a spot in the brush that looked as if it might be breached.

"Kort—where are you going?"

"Over there. If we ride hard we can do it by noon."

He twisted to glance at her across his shoulder. What he saw in her face made him add:

"Your appointment with Wace was at noon. All right; we'll make it."

"No, no—Kort! Please-Kort—please!" she protested, as he put his horse at the bushes and burst through.

He turned only to say:

"Come on. Keep close to me.

It gives me a crick in my neck to be looking back for you all the time. When we get where I don't have to break the trail. I'll send you ahead again. Come on."

For a moment Alyson stared at the threshing bushes in his wake; then a wild glance went valleyward. He paid no attention, crashing ahead, and she finally put the spurs to her horse and drove it in after him.

"Kort," she cried in desperation, "I've got to talk to you! Kort!"

"Talk!" Lund shouted back.

"Wait a minute, then."

"No; we'll have to keep going. We've got no time. Talk."

"I—"

They were through the thicket. She put her mount close to his and hung upon his flank.

"I won't let you go up to the shack on the mountain. Stan is there. He—"

"You can't be loyal to either man—can you?" groaned Lund, checking to look at her at last. Alyson began to cry.

"I don't know what you call it," she

choked. "I'm loyal enough to you to— He'll be inside the shack and he'll see you coming. It gives him a chance to—"

Her husband's laughter, bitter, mirthless, loud, broke in on her speech.

"That's a woman," he said. "You raise the devil—and then you object to the sight of his hoofs and horns. Your man Wace isn't going to kill anybody. He's not that kind. But, now that you've warned me, I can come on him from the back of the but just as easy, and drill him. Do you get that?"

Alyson was dumb. Through another hour of blind floundering through scrub she rode mute. Then they came out on a dubious path that dribbled valleyward. Into this Lund headed the pack-mule, and gave it a cut with his quirt that sent it trotting toward home.

"Now!" he said, and plunged into the scrub like a man possessed.

THEY scrambled and slid terrifyingly. Again and again they broke through armed chaparral thickets where the horses left blood on the thorns. They skirted walls of shelving rock. At the end of an hour of this sort of thing, when she had ceased to protest or even to comment, they emerged suddenly upon a mesa across which they could see the little but squatted amid its bent and twisted scrub oaks. A line of smoke went

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up from its chimney. Wordlessly Alyson hung back. Lund reached for her horse's bridle, and they went at a canter across the open. Alyson would have sat her horse, but Lund leaped down from his own mount and raised peremptory arms toward her.

"Come on," he said. "Some of us are expected, anyhow."

The arm that lifted her down remained about her waist and hurried her to the cabin, up its steps, and into its doorway. Lund glanced about him at the four walls, at the preparations for a meal. Then he looked through the window at the back, and saw, on a rock about a hundred yards away, Wace with a field-glass, scanning the easy trail that led up to this spot from the main road and the bungalow.

"Your friend Wace is expecting somebody—that's evident."

Lund's cool voice was scarcely lowered. Alyson pulled free from him and backed away, coming up flattened against the wall beside the door, facing her husband.

Lund continued to stand in the middle of the room and look through the window, his fingers busy with the buckle of his pistol-belt, whose holster was slipped around in front.

"Our man's left his lookout"—wheeling slowly to command the open door. "Here he comes, expecting—expecting—expecting somebody! But I hardly think he's expecting me."

No answer—no sound in the room.

"Whoosh! He's seen the horses!"

There was an exclamation outside, then running feet, and Wace came jumping up the steps sidewise, entering shoulder first.

"Lys!" he cried. Then, as he caught sight of Lund, he made the tenderfoot's inevitable hasty motion toward his hip.

"Don't draw," said the big man. "We're friends. Advance, friend."

With the tail of a wary eye, Wace found Alyson. Silently he made a first step, a man trying a bridge. He got into the room finally, both his hands conspicuously in view and empty.

"Well," in a flatted, breathless voice— "this is a surprise!"

LUND shook his head.

"I don't think 'surprise' is the word." He, pointed toward the stove with its simmering pot. "I see you've got dinner about ready. We may as well take off our guns while we eat. Come—we'll give 'em to Alyson and let her hang 'em on the wall there."

She came hastily to get them, with a ghastly attempt at her ordinary manner. The red was in her cheeks now in two burning spots below the dark eyes. She was very wonderful to look at.

Wace went to the stove in the corner, where the bubbling saucepan sent out the odor of that hunter's stew the making of which was his boasted accomplishment.

"Too bad I let the pack go—we had a can of peaches left this morning," Lund said. "Well, I've got some cheese in my saddle pockets. I'll get that."

He surveyed the two with an enigmatic gaze, then left them—Wace at the stove, mechanically stirring his stew, Alyson getting out a third tin plate from the cupboard. When he came back the board was in order, the savory mess dished up. Wace pulled himself together, and now displayed a fair imitation of his usual swagger.

Lund ate heartily and praised the food. Alyson left her plate almost untouched, but drank the coffee and poured a second and stronger cup. Wace excused his poor appetite on the score of a late breakfast.

When they had finished, Lund leaned suddenly forward in his chair, and brought his fist down softly close to Wace's hand.

"You haven't told how you happened to be here, " he said, looking squarely into the other man's face.

"No." A covert glance went Alyson's way.

"Alyson knows." Lund's gaze followed his.

Alyson sat staring down at her plate, and both men stared at her.

"Didn't you promise to meet Alyson here to-day at noon?" Lund leaned farther across the table and shot out the words. "No, you don't!" he countered, as he saw the other's eye go swiftly to the pistols hanging on the wall. "We'll have no gun play. It's man to man." All three were on their feet now—Alyson retreating from the table step by step toward the wall on the side where the weapons hung. Wace attempted to swing around toward her, and Lund, never looking that way, blocked him.

"I told you we'd have no gun play," he repeated. "A gun's no argument."

"Argument?" Wace caught at the word. "Yes, it seems to me that in our age of the world people ought to be able to settle a thing like this reasonably. Lys married you on the understanding—"

"You let the understanding between Alyson and me alone," cut in Lund. "Stick to what's between you and me."

"Damn you!" flared Wace. "You don't bully me, Kortney Lund. You're not talking to a woman that you can browbeat. You're speaking to a man now."

"All right," agreed Lund, without any apparent intention to be insulting. "I'll let you pass for a man. If you want to make anything of it, go ahead. State your case."

Wace tried again.

"You and Lys were married at high noon, exactly a year ago to-day. The agreement was—"

"I told you not to say that!" Lund interrupted. "On what grounds do you make an agreement between my wife and me any business of yours?"

Anger glared in Wace's arrogant eye, but fear was there, too.

"Well—you can't say it's nothing to her. Lys, why don't you speak up to him?"

Again Lund shook his head.

"I wonder at you, Wace," he said. "You lack tact—and that's the truth. Whatever you do, you oughtn't to take back-water before her—try to shove her in front of you."

Lund turned a slow, contemptuous eye toward the noon-mark. On the instant Wace leaped for his gun, got it, and when Lund whirled round on him it was to confront that most dangerous of adversaries—a hideously scared man struggling with shaking hands to drag the weapon from its holster.

"Drop that gun!"

Lund, crouching a bit to launch himself upon the other, felt the butt of his own pistol come pat into his palm. He swung up its muzzle; when Wace had his gun free of the holster he found himself already covered.

"Drop it!" Lund repeated his order. "Drop it, and back out of the door."

"Lys!" Wace called, as his weapon rattled on the boards. "Lys, come on."

Lund's eyes did not leave the figure of the man backing through the door, but he was aware of Alyson's stirring where she stood.

"Come on," Wace spoke, as his heel met the threshold, and his hands went up to the jambs to steady him for the step down. "Make him keep his promise and let you walk out. Don't stay there to be killed."

The last words came to them when Wace was on the path outside, running toward the thicket where his saddled horse waited—not once looking behind him. Lund lowered his weapon, strode to the door, and slammed it, then turned back to Alyson.

"Don't be scared," he said gently. "I won't kill you."

"I wish you would! Oh, Kort, I wish you would!—if you can't—can't—"

HE had constrained himself not to touch her. Now he caught her suddenly in his arms, and a swift hand went over her mouth. For a long moment he held her so. Then her closed lids raised, and they looked into each other's eyes.

"Don't say it," he whispered. "I can't." Then—as she moved in his arms and moaned: "God knows, I want to be good to you; but I can't do that."

Alyson pushed away his hand. "The year!" she gasped. "The year!"

"Poor girl!" He cherished her tear-bathed face in a cupping palm. "You want to be loose—and I'm going to hang on to you as long as there's breath in my body!"

"Kort!"

"Don't say any awful thing to me, dear," he broke in on her. "I'm hanging on. I'll never give you up. It may make you hate me—it's going to hurt if you downright hate me. But I'll never give you up."

"Do you think I want to be given up?"

There was no mistaking her vehemence, the hysteric energy of her tone.

For the first moment Lund dared to slacken his hold. He pushed her back, staring into her face.

"What did you—say that about a year—a time marriage—for?" incredulously.

She burst from his hand, plunging at him, catching him, burying her face against him, crying out:

"To make you fight it! To make you say no. Oh—oh—oh! You said yes! You agreed!"

"I'd have agreed to anything."

"You didn't mean it? You haven't been fixing things at the mine so you'd be free—so you could leave me?"

"Alyson!"

"Well, the year was about over—and you'd never said a word—and you seemed so busy and preoccupied. I almost went crazy. And you said for me to invite somebody. So—Stan had been writing—and I thought you were tired of me. And you didn't say you loved me."

"Love you! Why, child, what do you think made me act the brute to you this way—dragging you round with me for three whole days—running the chance of killing that fool or having him blow the top of my head off?"

"Oh, I saw you were furious. Another man—your pride—"

"Pride!" he burst in on her, gathering her close in his arms, dropping to the window-bench to cradle her. "When it comes to you, I've got no pride. There's never been the minute since I first saw you that I wouldn't have crawled to get you."

He rocked her softly, his cheek against hers. Through the window they saw far below a little moving cloud of dust—an unskilled horseman who flogged a trail-wise, indignant pony downhill.

What Becomes of All the Babies?

OUTSIDE of a great orphan asylum in one of the largest cities in the country there used to be an ugly wooden cradle. It stood unguarded and alone. To one side of it was a push button connected with an electric bell inside the orphanage; behind it a blank door set into the orphanage wall. At twilight every evening a strange, silent procession would creep along that unseeing wall—a woman, or two women; sometimes three or four. Each slinking figure would hesitate for a moment at the yawning cradle, drop a tiny parcel, press the button, and slip away. Smoothly, silently, the door behind the cradle would open; an arm clothed in a nurse's uniform would reach out and swing the cradle inside the door. One who listened closely might hear the echo of an infant's wail. Then the cradle would reappear, empty again.

The nurse, stationed behind the wall to tend the cradle, would yawn and return to her reading, waiting the next summons of the bell. Somewhere in the big rooms of the orphanage, another baby, freshly bathed and newly numbered, would be laid in a crib beside a hundred others. Somewhere beyond the wall, a mother wept for the thing she had done.

100,000 in Institutions

SOMETIMES those mothers came back to the orphanage, and, crying their remorse, pleaded that their babies be given back to them again. But the orphanage never gave back. Above the ugly wooden cradle might have been painted the warning, "Abandon hope." Once dropped into its waiting folds, the baby grew up unmothered and unloved.

That cradle has long since disappeared: it is harder to get rid of a baby than it used to be. But still thousands of babies every year are deserted—in railway stations, in the vestibules of public buildings, and in parks. There are to-day more than 100,000 babies in the various institutions of the United States. What becomes of them?

Formerly they were kept at the orphan

asylum until they were fourteen years old and then turned out to root for themselves. Now, however, clearing-houses for babies have been established in most large cities—Children's Aid Societies, they are usually termed. It has been discovered that Providence evens things up in a marvelous way. For almost every mother who doesn't want her baby there is somewhere in the United States another mother whose babies have grown up and gone away, or who wants babies and has none. If it weren't for the fact that so many babyless mothers want the same kind of babies, homes could be found for nearly all of them. But alas for the boy babies! alas for the brown-eyed Susans and the black-eyed Bettys! The great, unceasing demand is this: "Send me a blue-eyed girl."

Our babies are all grown up and gone away. Somehow, I can't seem to get used to a perfectly orderly quiet house. My arms ache for a little one again. Can't you send me a blue-eyed girl? We'll see that she has every advantage that our own children had.

Here's another:

Five years we have been married, always hoping for a little one. Now we learn that there are to be no little ones for us. Our lives seem very empty. Send us a blue-eyed girl.

Sometimes the boys do get a chance:

I want a boy aged eight. We have about 300 chickens; we have lots of grape-vines and cherry trees and eight plum trees; we have a big garden. There are six of us already—all girls; but we want a boy. Send us an eight-year-old boy who will fit in between the second and third girl.

Nothing like having your family made to order. Many letters come from less desirable sources—from farmers who want to adopt boys because it's cheaper to have a son working around the place at no wages than to hire outside labor; and from women who must have some one to help with the dishes and can't afford a hired girl.

How Do They Turn Out?

ONCE in a blue moon the fairy tale comes true. Mr. and Mrs. Finley J. Shepard drop in at an orphanage, pick out a ragged little tow-head who doesn't know whether he ever had a mother and father or not, and make him the heir to millions and millions. That actually does happen in life sometimes, as well as in fiction—but not often. In nine hundred and ninety-nine cases out of a thousand the life of the motherless little boy and girl is a pretty drab one before adoption, and afterward as well. One baby clearing-house in New York has shipped more than 60,000 boys and girls to find homes, sending out a special trainload every spring. And of the 60,000 none, so far as is known, has fallen heir to great wealth.

Do orphanage babies ever make good? In the fall of 1863, Johnny Carroll's mother left him in the waiting-room of the old Indiana House in Cincinnati, Ohio, and never came back. They had been on their way to see Johnny's father, a soldier wounded in one of the Southern battles, and not until years afterward did Johnny learn that his mother had died of sunstroke on her way to buy their tickets. Johnny was taken to the Cincinnati Home for Children. He had been in there about two years when that society decided that children would grow up better if parceled out among farmers. Johnny lived on farms near Martinsville, New Vienna, and Highland, Ohio. He grew up to be Colonel Carroll of St. Louis, chairman of the Democratic Executive Committee of Missouri, and attorney for the Hill railroads.

Senator Weeks of Massachusetts was an orphan; so was Herbert Bigelow, Cincinnati's famous preacher; and so were John G. Brady, for three terms Governor of Alaska, and Andrew H. Burke, first Governor of North Dakota.

Little David, in "The Awakening of Helena Ritchie," voices the pathetic appeal of the waif for a home:

"I seem to visit quite a lot," he says; "I'd like to belong to somebody."

It used to be thought that the orphan asylum was the best possible answer to the abandoned baby problem: many poor homes were broken up and the children ordered to be placed in orphan asylums. Few homes are broken up these days if there is any possibility whatever of holding them together. "Even a bad mother," social workers say, "is better for a baby than no mother at all."

What becomes of all the babies? Several hundred thousand of them have been parceled out into babyless homes in the past forty years. But there are still a hundred thousand or more waiting for some one to adopt them. Want a baby? You can have one—provided, of course, that you don't insist on a "blue-eyed girl."

The Richest Street-Car Conductor

By ROBERT H. MOULTON

THE richest street-car conductor in the world is a resident of Chicago. His name is Henry Toborg, and he is said to be a quarter-of-a-millionaire. No one left him money; he earned every cent of it himself, and he's making more today, while still working at the same old job. What is more, he likes that job and has no intention of giving it up.

It sounds almost unbelievable—that a man should want to punch transfers when he can clip coupons. But evidently Henry does. He has been ringing up fares for the Chicago Street Railway Company for thirty-eight years now, and he would be lost, he says, if they took his job away from him. That is why he is still found punching transfers for the Chicago public from 4 A.M. to 3 P.M. daily on a shuttle car at the end of the Blue Island line, when he might be riding in an automobile.

Do Everything Yourself

TOBORG has done away with worry about the high cost of living by the simple expedient of converting his salary of from $38 to $72 a month into real estate worth a handsome fortune. His income from rents alone nets him more than $5000 a year.

How did he do it? Well, for one thing, he has never ceased working. The man who stops work, he says, is like an old mill out of use—he falls to pieces. In the thirty-eight years he has been a conductor Toborg has taken exactly two "lay-offs," and both were due to strikes. Did Henry lounge around and smoke cigars while his car was tied up? Not much. Instead of loafing, he merely discarded his uniform for a pair of overalls and proceeded to repair the alley back of his hotel at Blue Island Avenue and Leavitt Street. It is quite a hotel, too, and so well conducted (without meaning to be facetious) that there is seldom a vacant room in the building.

One of Toborg's maxims is, never pay for work you can do yourself. He has followed this rule all his life, and it has played an important part in his success. Another is, make your vacations pile up your

dividends. His bank account testifies to the wisdom of this policy.

Conductor Toborg has been hustling for himself since he was fourteen, at which age he left his home in Indiana. When he was seventeen he had saved up $500. About this time his father died, and, as his mother was left without resources, he immediately turned over his savings to her, then started out to accumulate more. The next ten years he spent on the Gulf of Mexico, dividing his time between working on the sugar plantations and the steamship docks. When he came to Chicago at the end of the ten years he secured a job as street-car conductor. Then, with the money he had saved, he bought a piece of land on Blue Island Avenue and started the erection of a two-story flat building. Toborg took what he calls a "vacation"; that is, he carried the hod and laid the bricks himself, and also did some of the carpentry work. He sold the property at a good profit, clearing about $1500 on the transaction. This money, he says, started him on the road to a comfortable income.

Not Afraid of Ghosts

HIS next opportunity came in a peculiar way. A man in Toborg's neighborhood had started to build a house which, lacking finances, he was unable to complete. The building soon fell to pieces, and presently the report got around that the place was haunted by a ghost. For this reason no one wanted to buy the property, notwithstanding that the owner gradually reduced his price. At the psychological moment Toborg—who wasn't afraid of ghosts—stepped in and secured the land and partly finished building at a bargain. He completed it himself, and a few months later sold out at a net profit of $2000. With this money he bought a number of lots in the same neighborhood, and one by one erected houses on them.

At sixty-three Henry Toborg is a splendid example of clean living, perseverance, and thrift. He says he will never retire, for when a man stops work it is time for him to die.

The Wall Street Girl

By FREDERICK ORIN BARTLETT

Illustration by George E. Wolfe

WHEN Miss Winthrop changed her mind and consented not to seek a new luncheon place, she was taking a chance, and she knew it. If ever Blake heard of the new arrangement,—and he was sure to hear of it if any one ever saw her there with Don,—she was fully aware how he would interpret it to the whole office.

She was taking a chance, and she knew it—knew it with a curious sense of elation. She was taking a chance for him. This hour at noon was the only opportunity she had of talking to Don. If she let that pass, then she could do nothing more for him. She must stand back and watch him go his own way, as others had gone their way.

For one thing was certain: she could allow no further conversations in the office. She had been forced to stop those, and had warned him that he must not speak to her again there except on business, and that he must not sit at Powers' desk and watch her at work. When he had challenged her for a reason, she had blushed; then she had replied simply:

"It isn't business."

And so, when on Saturday morning Don came in heavy-eyed for lack of sleep after the Moore dance, she merely looked up and nodded and went on with her work. But she studied him a dozen times when he did not know she was studying him, and frowned every time he suppressed, with difficulty, a yawn. He appeared tired—dead tired.

For the first time in months she found herself looking forward to the noon hour. She glanced at her watch at eleven-thirty, at eleven-forty-five, and again at five minutes before twelve.

To-day she reserved a seat for him in the little lunch-room. But at fifteen minutes past twelve, when Don usually strode in the door, he had not come. At twenty minutes past he had not come. If he did not come in another five minutes she resolved to make no further effort to keep his place—either to-day or at any future time. At first she was irritated; then she was worried. It was possible he was lunching with Blake. If he began that—well, she would be freed of all further responsibility, for one thing. But at this point Don entered. He made no apologies for having kept her waiting, but deposited in the empty chair, as he went off for his sandwich and coffee, a long, narrow box done up in white paper. She gave him time to eat a portion of his lunch before she asked:

"Out late again last night?"

"Went to a dance," he nodded.

She was relieved to hear that. It was a better excuse than some, but still it was not a justifiable excuse for a man who needed all his energies.

"You didn't get enough sleep, then."

"I should say not," Don admitted cheerfully. "In bed at four and up at seven."

"You look it."

"And I feel it."

"You can't keep that up long."

"Sunday's coming, and I'm going to sleep all day," he declared.

"But what's the use of getting into that condition?" she inquired.

He thought a moment.

"Well, I don't suppose a man can cut off everything just because he's in business."

"That's part of the business—at the beginning," she returned.

"To work all the time?"

"To work all the time," she nodded. "I wish I had your chance."

"My chance to work?" he laughed.

"Your chance to get ahead," she answered. "It's all so easy—for a man!"

"Easy?"

"You don't have to do anything but keep straight and keep at work. You ought to have taken those circulars home with you last night and learned them by heart."

"I've read 'em. But, hang it all, they don't mean anything."

"Then find out what they mean. Keep at it until you do find out. The firm isn't going to pay you for what you don't know."

"But last night—well, a man has to get around a little bit."

"Around where?" she questioned him.

"Among his friends. Doesn't he?"

She hesitated. "It seems to me you'll have to choose between dances and business."

"Eh?"

She nodded.

"Between dances and business. I tell you, this next six months is going to count a lot on how you make good with Farnsworth."

"Well, he isn't the only one," he said.

"He's the only one in this office—I know what I'm talking about."

"But outside the office—"

She put down her fork.

"I don't know why I'm mixing up in your business," she declared earnestly. "Except that I've been here three years now, and have seen men come and go. And every time they've gone it has been clear as daylight why they went. Farnsworth is square. He hasn't much heart in him, but he's square. And he has eyes in the back of his head."

She raised her own eyes and looked swiftly about the room as if she half expected to discover him here.

"What's the matter?" he inquired. She did not answer his question, but as she ran on again she lowered her voice:

"You've been in his office to-day?"

"He gave me some more circulars," Don admitted.

"Then you'd better believe he knew you didn't get to bed last night until 4 A. M. And you'd better believe he has tucked that away in his mind somewhere."

Don appeared worried.

"He didn't say anything."

"No, he didn't say anything. He doesn't say anything until he has a whole collection of those little things. Even then he doesn't say much; but what he does say—counts."

"You don't think he's getting ready to fire me?" he asked anxiously.

He's always getting ready," she answered

Continued on page 17

He Can't Marry These

But These Are O.K.

Men Who Didn't Have a Nickel

---

They Won't Have to Worry

Mr. Schuyler's School

By VERA EDMONDSON

Illustrations by Harvey Emrich

MACILVAINE had inserted an "ad" in the Sunday Herald:

WANTED: First-class copy man to assist Advertising Manager of thriving trade journal. Must know textiles and be able to write copy that sounds honest. Apply in person at the Drygoodsman, 9.30 to 10 A. M., Monday. Ask for Mr. MacIlvaine.

"Whew!" said Jimmy Whistler at eight-fifteen Monday morning. "And still they come!" He addressed Hester Varick at the typewriter desk. "Would you ever think there were so many ad men in all Greater New York? Ages, seventeen to seventy!"

"There's one seventy, all right." Hester sized up the crowd with vivid interest. "Wonder how long he'd stand the pace here. Not long—oh, Jimmy, take him a chair—quick, he's toppling!"

Jimmy did her bidding in haste, with the chair from his own desk. Just in tune; the lean black figure was indeed swaying.

"Here's a glass of water, sir," said Jimmy. "Mr. MacIlvaine doesn't get in until nine-thirty or so. Better sit down and take it easy."

"It is indeed pleasant to meet such courtesy at one's very entrance, to the commercial arena," the old man observed. "You remind me of my own boy."

Jimmy grinned back pleasantly. He had never known the advantages of a father—having started life at the age of ten months in a market basket deposited, presumably by some one, in a coal-bin. By dint of much persistence he had overturned the basket, and worked his way upward to an area where a passing milkman had heard his calls.

"Jiminy," observed that functionary. "He's some whistler." Hence his name.

Attaching himself to the Drygoodsman at the age of seventeen, in response to a "Boy Wanted" sign, Jimmy had characteristically stuck ever since, though advertising managers rose, roared, and waned. A nice, convenient fellow to have around, was Jimmy. He had an agreeable habit of "eating up work," and seeming entirely contented with one- and two-dollar raises, as befits a promoted office-boy. Now, at the age of thirty, he was MacIlvaine's first assistant, quietly carrying the load of two, for the noble stipend of thirty dollars a week.

"We'll have to be getting you some help one of these days, Jimmy," Mac would tell him every little while.

"All right, sir," Jimmy would always grin back, never expecting it, until this Sunday Mac had surprised him by actually inserting the ad.

THE waiting line was standing four deep when MacIlvaine, strolling in at ten, refused to see any of them.

"Tell 'em to leave their names and samples of their stuff. I won't decide to-day. Unless you see somebody that strikes you, eh?" he questioned Jimmy.

"That old chap sitting down," said Jimmy. "His name is Henry Schuyler, and he's been running the Schuyler School for Boys till hard times pinched 'em and the boys stopped coming. He's had a pretty fine education; writes classical English, he says."

"Classical English, eh? That's bad," said Mac. "Think you could cure him, Jimmy? Well, send him in."

Henry Schuyler came, a glow in his eyes that would have melted the Matterhorn—and Mac was the best-hearted fellow in the world.

"Now look here, Mr. Schuyler," he closed the interview, "I'd rather see you at home. We set a pretty stiff pace here. But if you'd like to try us out for three months, at fifteen a week, say. I can't very well make it more, starting in at your age—"

Henry Schuyler winced slightly.

"That remuneration will be entirely satisfactory, sir."

"He'd have taken twelve," MacIlvaine reflected. "All right. Ask Mr. Whistler there to clean out that corner desk for you. You're to help Whistler; understand? He'll keep you straightened out. Don't bother me. At the end of a month I'll ask him how's so-so."

Mr. Schuyler glanced rather wistfully at this youthful arbiter of his destiny, and from him to Hester Varick.

YOU know Hester Varick. Most offices contain her. Fashioned by every design of nature for love and a home, she is calmly disregarding nature's decree, thwarting nature's design, year after year, with apparently absorbed contentment in her humdrum stenographic job.

"What are the loons thinking of, to let a girl like that stay single?" Mac would occasionally explode in disgust.

Miss Varick resided in Staten Island with her mother, arising at five-thirty each morning in order to reach the office by eight. Her crisp linen shirt-waists she made and embroidered herself, evenings, after the last supper dish was wiped. But this Jimmy did not know. He often observed that they looked expensive.

Hester was a sight to rest tired eyes and warm the heart at the close of a hard day; and she had a face of such tender, untroubled beauty that old man Gordon Wayne, of Wayne Featherloom, had offered to double his edition for the use of it, in three colors, on the Featherloom spring catalog.

To his disappointment,—and perhaps Hester's—Jimmy had refused emphatically: "Not on your life! I'll get you Pearl Dawson."

"He thinks I haven't style enough for it, and he's perfectly right. I haven't— and she has," Hester whispered tremulously to the soft-eyed image in her glass, above the embroidered linen waist. If the image blurred, no one knew it.

With a few tactful twists Hester could rephrase the worst dictation into smooth flowing logic. It was an accomplishment worth money, much money—all of thirteen-fifty a week in this her seventh year at the outer desk.

"Give your copy to Miss Varick, there. She'll set it up on the machine better than the printer can," Jimmy Whistler admonished the newcomer on his formal entrance next morning.

HENRY SCHUYLER sat alone at his cleared-out desk, in the silent throes of composition. By noon he had zealously tracked down the archaeology of Wayne's Featherloom to the time of Rameses III. By twelve-thirty he began to feel a vague sense of nausea from the din and the throbbing overhead roar of the presses.

Once or twice he threw a pleading glance at Jimmy Whistler, turning out copy like a beaver; at MacIlvaine in his shirt-sleeves in the inner office, too busy to notice him for a month; at Miss Varick, serenely typing. Once he caught her eye. "Can I help you?" asked Hester.

"If you're quite sure you have the time," said Henry Schuyler, with boyish eagerness, "I have something here—my first commercial effort—on which I would greatly esteem your approval." He exuded pardonable pride. "This opening bit of Macaulay—it struck me it worked in rather well. And the historical sequence—not a step omitted. If you have the time—"

"Oh, yes, indeed," she assented brightly, but with a troubled glance at Jimmy.

"It seems to me that sounds awfully well—quite a lot of it—especially for an essay," she commended, with sweet honesty. "Some of those very same ideas worked over for an ad, the way Mr. Whistler can show you—"

Henry Schuyler stiffened.

"I should hardly have thought of consulting him, my dear. His English—would you consider it"—he lowered his tone—" quite—classical?"

"No, indeed; nothing like that," Hester dimpled. "But he's the best fashion-writer we ever had and the straightest. He'll help you all he possibly can."

But Henry Schuyler's face was still downcast.

"I will endeavor not to trouble him unduly," he responded stiffly.

In the days that followed, little puckers of care began to appear on Jimmy's forehead. Perhaps he missed the soothing hour across the lunch-table formerly accorded him by Miss Varick once a week, on pay-day Fridays. She, too, was busy—far too busy these days for more than a cheese sandwich at noon. Then, there was the little matter of his fashion editorials, contributed gratis, because he alone in Advertising knew fashions.

"Look out for them this week, will you, Jimmy?" MacIlvaine had asked some six weeks back. "We'll charge them up to Editorial—five dollars a column."

"Oh, that's all right," Jimmy had responded cheerfully, and thumped out the needed eight columns that night and the next on the rattly typewriter he kept in his narrow hall bedroom.

It was corking stuff. It had made such a hit with Editorial that Jimmy had been turning them out eight columns a week ever since. He was only just beginning to wonder exactly why he should be contributing that extra forty per to the department, with no sign of it in his own pay-envelop.

While, to top it all, he could not escape a sense of Henry Schuyler's growing antagonism to himself Even Mac noticed it.

"What's the old galoot going round with his back up for?" Mac inquired. "What you doing to him, Jimmy?"

"Nothing I know of, sir," said Jimmy —"except chop his copy once in a while."

"Oh," said MacIlvaine. "If that's all! Don't know that I've ever seen any of his copy, have I, Jimmy?" he recalled suddenly. "Any of it round?"

"Last week's Featherloom was his," said Jimmy reluctantly; "that is—"

He waited in guilty apprehension while Mac found the ad and read it, smiling.

"Well, all I can say is, he's caught your tricks pretty well in a month. How long's he been here, Jimmy? Unless you wrote the ad yourself." He chuckled with sudden enlightenment. "Honest Injun, Jimmy, haven't you been rehashin' his stuff for him straight along?"

"No, no; nothing like that," Jimmy protested. "I may have pulled it together, in a way, once in a while," he admitted—"up to this week, when we've been sorter pressed, and it seemed to come easier to knock off something myself that would answer. But he's been practising straight along, and when I get a chance to breathe—"

"NOW, look here, Jimmy," Mac brought down his fist with decision. "That's what the old galoot's here for—to give you a breathing chance. That's the idea. If he ain't doing it, that's his lookout. We'll just ship him this Saturday. See?"

"Oh, I wouldn't do that, sir," said Jimmy unhappily. "He's got a son working for his Ph.D. he's got to look out for— I understand—"

"That's all right, the son part. I'm not saying he ain't a fine old chap, and game as they make 'em," Mac admitted. "But this ain't a charity bureau, Jimmy. You can get the stuff out of him if any one can. If it ain't in him, it ain't!" he concluded philosophically. "You just break it to him, Jimmy. We sha'n't need him after this Saturday. I see now—it was all a mistake, your hiring him."

"My hiring him?" Jimmy protested.

"Well, you or Miss Varick; it's all one," Mac chuckled, slipping on his coat. "Tell you what: tell him there's no salary coming after this week—y'understand? But if he likes to keep coming in still, using this desk, I've no objection to seeing him round. You fix it up with him, Jimmy. There he comes now. I can't stay; gotta meet old man Gordon to play golf."

And Mac slipped out. Mac was no believer in a department head overworking. What was a staff for?

Jimmy braced himself for the onslaught. He needed to, for there was fire in Henry Schuyler's eye.

"If you were not so young a man, a mere whipper-snapper,"—Henry Schuyler's voice trembled with anger,—"I

---

would be tempted to knock you down, sir. I can't knock down a boy."

"No, I wouldn't do that, Mr. Schuyler," said Jimmy mildly.

"Then this persecution must stop, sir! It has gone on too long, this jealous and unmanly mutilation of my choicest literary efforts! Week after week"—his voice broke—"I have tried to exercise the utmost forbearance. But patience knows a limit, sir. When I see what you have done to this advertisement, and compare it with the original effort—" He brandished a Drygoodsman still damp from the press. "If it were not for my boy needing bread—"

"Come, come, Mr. Schuyler," Jimmy soothed.

"Bread, sir! Until he gets his Ph.D. in another three months. If it were not for that, I would leave to-day."

"The fact is, Mr. Schuyler," began Jimmy,—"I am sorry to say it—"

He broke off, suddenly appalled.

For the old man's anger had broken, and above its face like a mildew spread fear—the deadly, haggard fear of one worked out and played out and desperately facing the wall; fiercely fencing for—what? Tolerance at best, for a little time longer at most. After that, what? Frigid rooms and dry crusts, or no crusts at all. Jimmy shuddered.

"It's not so bad for a young man." Jimmy ground his teeth. "But for him—no, no!"

"Mr. MacIlvaine asked me to tell you—" The fear in the old man's face grew livid. "To tell you—" Jimmy blurted on. "Hang it all, I can't do it! To tell you that—Saturday half-closing ends this Saturday!" And Jimmy, very red of face, flung across the floor.

"Let Mac do it himself. I've had all the dirty jobs around this office loaded on me long enough!"

He bolted up to the cashier's cage. "Here, Louis. Here's a little matter I want you to handle for me."

"Anything you say, Jimmy," said Louis Lecamp, the cashier, cordially.

There ensued a whispered conference. At the close of it:

"For three months, you say, Jimmy?"

"Yes, for three months; or up to Christmas, anyway," said Jimmy hopefully. "By that time that blooming son of his gets his Ph.D. And see here, Louis: Mac's not to know, of course."

"Oh, he'll never know," said Louis. "Not from me, anyway. You're a good sort, Jimmy. How about the old codger himself? Is he to know it's from you?"

"Not on your life," said Jimmy.

THREE months may either lag or fly. The next three months crawled for Jimmy Whistler. They were the meanest he had ever known. When a man has been earning thirty dollars, to find fifteen in his pay-envelop makes him feel like crawling into an ant-hole. Jimmy grew gloomy and morose, and so parsimonious he grudged even the necessary nickels for carfare. He grew to count time by Friday pay-nights. Regularly every Thursday noon he would make a trip to the cashier's window.

"Say, Louis, you couldn't let me have a quarter, or, say, thirty-five cents advance on to-morrow?"

"All right, Jimmy; I'll make it fifty," Louis would reply. Or:

"Cheer up, Jimmy. Here's seventy-five cents; and—Christmas is coming."

"Hang Christmas!" Jimmy would respond viciously. Rottenest Christmas I ever knew! I feel like a piker."

For virtue may have its rewards, but Jimmy could not find them. He had not asked Miss Varick to lunch for six weeks.

"No fellow has a right to marry on a penny less than fifty a week these days," he propounded often and emphatically in her presence, with a possible ear to how she might take it. That was the trouble —she never would take it. How could he expect it? When he couldn't even come up with a decent present, the sort she was entitled to, even at Christmas!

"And here you've been with this cheap joint thirteen years," Jimmy began counting, "and can't even play the man yet!"

This developed a sense of grievance. He grew to loathe his narrow hall bedroom, and threadbare clothes, and undarned socks, and whole thankless, footless bachelor lot. He pitched Henry Schuyler's daily stack of copy viciously into his waste-basket without so much as reading it. And he grew to fairly dislike MacIlvaine—even to hate him when Mac drew up his chair one gloomy, penniless December afternoon and began to talk cordially about next year's prospects.

"I'll look out for you, Jimmy, my boy," he promised—as he had promised for five successive Decembers. "'S matter, Jimmy? You don't look so well of late."

"I've been working!" Jimmy exploded.

"Keeps your nose pretty well to the grindstone, now the old chap ain't working for you?"

"About the same," said Jimmy.

"Well, about next year," said Mac. "This fashion stuff you've been doing is corking good, Jimmy. There ought to be quite a little boost for you in that. How'd you like to keep it up, eh?"

"One thing's as good as another," said Jimmy ungraciously.

"I'd keep it up," said Mac. "You never know what might happen. And now Jimmy, my boy, here's a piece of advice. If you should find something big

in your Christmas stocking, don't go straight off and get married on it."

"What do you take me for?" Jimmy growled.

"Oh, well, we're all fools," MacIlvaine admitted, with philosophic calm. "Marriage is a noose. Ain't I been in it twice? Don't I know? Better keep out, my boy. But, if you will marry," he enjoined, "above all,—take my advice. Keep clear of a business woman. That's no wife for you."

"That so?" said Jimmy coldly.

"Ain't I seen it?" said Mac. "Time and again. It don't work, Jimmy. Give 'em ten years first in an office like this, and they're played out. Looks all gone."

Jimmy shot an involuntary glance of alarm toward Miss Varick's desk.

"No; what you need in a wife is a looker and a dresser, Jimmy. Some one like Pearl Dawson, say." Jimmy shuddered. "Now, there's a girl who could spend your money faster than you make it. That's what you need, Jimmy. What possible incentive can a man feel to work his head off for a wife who's perfectly pleased and satisfied to live within his income, and even salt down an old-age fund? It keeps a man down, I say; stifles his ambition, Jimmy. And what pride can he feel, either, in a wife without style or ambition, like Miss Varick here, sitting up nights hacking out her own shirt-waists—"

"You don't mean—she does that!"

"Sure," said Macllvaine; "she told me so herself. I can see her in spectacles at thirty. And rather a nice-looking girl I used to think her, before she lost all her color and got so thin. You've noticed how thin she's been getting lately?"

"I—I did notice something of the sort," Jimmy admitted.

"Some trouble on her mind—man trouble, of course," said MacIlvaine. "But don't you mind. You can do better—much better than that, Jimmy."

And MacIlvaine ambled over to a seat at Miss Varick's elbow.

"Now, about next year," he began cordially. "I'm going to look out for you. You're earning now how much—fourteen dollars?"

"Thirteen-fifty since last July," said the girl. "You got me the raise."

"Well, I must do even better for you than that," Mac assured her. "You're worth more. You're worth fourteen—every penny of it. Maybe I can make it fourteen this January; if not, by next July, anyway. And fifteen next year. Then you'll be fixed for life. That's the thing for you—independence —your own latchkey; no man smoking around the place."

"Men are—pretty messy," Hester Varick admitted dispassionately. "Still, not all of them smoke."

"Oh, pretty near all of them with any go," MacIlvaine insisted. "Except such dead ones as old Jimmy here. He don't count—"

Miss Varick's lips set in a suddenly straight line, though she said nothing.

"I hope, whatever you do, you don't take a dead one," MacIlvaine admonished.

"I've no idea of a dead one," she flamed.

"Oh, well, that's all right; but, this husband game is a pretty hard game for a girl," Mac resumed. "Even old Jimmy here—notice how gay he's got, chasing out with Pearl Dawson every chance he gets."

"No, I hadn't noticed it," said Miss Varick steadily. But the shot told.

"Oh, it's all right, I say. She'll do him good—put a little pep and dash into old James. He needs it."

Miss Varick's eyes flashed indignation.

"If you have those Featherloom follow-ups ready to dictate, I can take them now," she observed with frigid calm.

MacIlvaine chuckled with satisfaction. "That ought to bring 'em."

IT was four-thirty Christmas Eve that Jimmy lurched up to the cashier's window, wild-eyed and distraught.

"You couldn't lend five dollars over Christmas, could you, Louis, to the greatest mutt that ever lived?"

"I suppose I could," said Louis, "though I'm broke myself. What's the mischief, Jimmy? You look sick. Ain't that son got his Ph.D. yet?"

"That unspeakable son of his—don't mention him to me!" said Jimmy, with bitter calm. "He's had the infernal gall to get married. That's what he's done—the minute he got his Ph.D. I'd like to break his neck! The old chap's off at the wedding. Now we've three of them on our necks for life. You can kick me from here to Yonkers, Louis."

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe you've something else coming to you, Jimmy. How's this?"

And Louis picked one from a stack of blue Drygoodsman envelops, eloquent with gratitude for services to come, and tossed it to him. Jimmy opened it listlessly.

"The Drygoodsman takes pleasure in informing you that your salary after January first will be—"

"Fifty dollars," was filled out in MacIlvaine's bold, firm scrawl, and beneath: "Merry Christmas, Jimmy."

"Fifty dollars!" Jimmy nearly collapsed backward.

"I guess it's coming to you all right, Jimmy," said Louis. "Here's your five, Jimmy. Merry Christmas! Hold on—where you going?"

But Jimmy was already half way across to the desk where Hester Varick was getting out New Year's greetings to the trade. She looked up with a gesture of bright friendliness.

"Have you heard the latest from old Mr. Schuyler? He's just been telling me. His school is reopening. Yes, really. Some of his boys' fathers have written they can't do without him. So he and his son and his new daughter are starting up to Schuylerville to-night for Christmas. The son's got his Ph.D. and is going to help him. He seemed so happy with it all, the dear old fellow. He left this card for you, Jimmy."

It was a sprig of holly borne by a dove, with some wavery penciled lines beneath:

Jimmy thrust it in his pocket.

"That's all right now! I have five dollars." His voice shook slightly. "Will you come out to dinner with me?"

MacIlvaine was not a believer in night work for department heads. What was a staff for? But this particular Christmas Eve he forgot his golf-bag, and, needing it for to-morrow's game, came back after dinner to get it. Entering his large inner office, he became aware of two figures standing in the gloom. Two, was it, or one? Two voices, anyway.

"No, no. I never dreamed of this. How could I?"—Hester Varick's voice, transformed.

"And you thought I could see your dear face on the back of a Featherloom cover, when I want it all, all for myself!" Jimmy Whistler was pleading passionately.

Macllvaine closed the door softly.

They Couldn't Stand Prosperity

BY FREEMAN TILDEN

Illustrations by Jessie Gillespie

IF you want to put a man to the acid test, to find out what kind of stuff is in him, don't strip him of his worldly goods and send him out to carve a new place for himself in the sweat of his brow. No; men stand this test too easily. There is still left in mankind enough of the fighting, pioneering spirit to be whetted by adversity.

There is a much harder one. Pick out a man who has been plugging along modestly for a number of years; and suddenly, and without rehearsal, splatter him with prosperity. Suppose he has been a twenty-dollar clerk. Well, endow him with a million dollars, all at once. Then watch him—not so much to see what he does to the million as to observe what the million does to him. The cold, clammy records of publicity would seem to demonstrate that the number of men who can stand sudden prosperity is comparatively small. Whether it is the case of the easy-going chap who makes a big natlonal hit and becomes a hero, or a little Wall Street curb wig-wagger who wades into the market and makes a killing, or the son of a rich man who is tossed into possession of a fortune too enormous for his imagination to cope with—it is the same principle at work. One by one, they fall; and the newspapers sternly print the net results. Shirt-sleeves to shirt-sleeves in one generation is the usual sad story of the quickly enriched.

He Ended in a Cell

THERE were two brothers, Spanish Basques, who ran a little dairy farm just outside of Buenos Aires, Argentina. One of them bought a ticket in the big annual Christmas drawing. As a matter of fact, the Argentine government used to run the lottery every month in the year; but this Christmas drawing was the big event —the grande, so called. In a country where gambling is the very instinct of the people, and the lowliest bootblack slaves through the rest of the year to be able to take a shot at the million-peso (about $960,000 gold) prize, the drawing of the grande is a blgger event than a presidential election.

One of the Basque brothers bought a whole ticket, which cost him something like two hundred pesos. The other brother impolitely told him he was a fool. On Christmas afternoon the big winning numbers were flashed over the Republic, and the fool brother who had squandered his hard earned cash learned that he held the winning ticket. He had drawn the full $960,000 in gold! About an hour afterward the newly created financier was seen riding horseback madly up the road, driving a herd of cows ahead of him, shouting maniacally, and with a popping revolver in each fist. Evidently he had a glorious idea of expressing his final contempt for the dairy business. The cows being finally scattered or mired, he left his horse with a broken leg, and hired a special train to get into the capital and collect his winnings. Soon after his arrival in Buenos Aires, and even before he could cash in on his ticket, he was in a padded cell, where, at last accounts, he still remains.

There is a bitter irony in the fact that the "unlucky" brother, who came into control of the money, has managed it so skilfully as to multiply the original amount many times. He was of the type that could stand prosperity; the winner was not.

Year after year Wall Street turns out its grist of "shoestring" successes. They are elevator-boys who overhear "tips," errand-boys, scrubwomen, street-car conductors, who go into the market with a few dollars coined out of their flesh-and-bone exertions and make "big money."

What becomes of these and all the "boy wonders" who pause for a moment on the stage of newspaper publicity, and then go down to oblivion without sending up a bubble? The answer is simple. They couldn't stand prosperity. Not having acquired the quick money by any intelligent effort, they couldn't keep it after they got it. In ninety cases out of a hundred the market that made them gently but firmly broke them. Or, if they did actually emerge from the Street with their winnings, a few months along the Great White Way were sufficient to put them back in their class. They are still errand-boys, elevator-men, and scrubwomen.

There is the never-to-be-forgotten case of Dan Sully, he of cotton fame. From nothing to nine millions of dollars, almost overnight, was the rise of Sully. In the Street you were told, in confidence, that this man was going to be the richest man in the world.

Sully went to Boston and interviewed "Tom" Lawson. He had a plan for joining forces with the author of "Frenzied Finance" and dominating the cotton markets of the world. Lawson looked at Sully cannily and said, "How much money can you cash in for this minute?"

"But why cash in?"

"They'll get it all back if you don't quit."

"I've salted six millions where they'll never touch it," was the reply.

"They'll get it all," was the cool advice. "Cash in and quit."

Sully couldn't stand prosperity. He couldn't even recognize the priceless advice of a master, and in a few weeks his fortune was gone.

A Million in Tips

RATHER different was the case of Charles G. Gates, who in 1912 announced that he was giving away a million dollars in tips. He was the son of John W. Gates, the reckless speculator who made and lost enormous fortunes.

It might be said that the younger Gates died, in October, 1913, of prosperity. Certainly no life ever showed more plainly the danger of putting the strain of management of vast resources upon a person neither physically nor mentally prepared to meet the strain.

When John W. Gates died, he left a

fortune that was far smaller than people had a right to expect, but it was still large. Young Gates received a million in cash, and the income from several millions more. He began, immediately and literally, to trave fast. The ordinary trains didn't make the kind of speed he wanted. If he was in Wyoming and wanted to get to New York, he insisted on a special train; not only that, but the special train must break records. Somebody asked him why he spent thousands of dollars to save a few minutes. "Speed is life," he said. And the poor chap believed it. "When I start for a place I want to get there," he said on another occasion.

Without a hint of cheap wit, it may be said that he got to the logical place he started for. He died in Cody, Wyoming, only thirty-seven years old, a worn-out, prematurely old man.

He Wouldn't Quit

THE rise of F. Augustus Heintze was like the glow of a luminous rocket, and he came down like the stick. His coming out of the West was acclaimed in the financial columns of every newspaper. He had had surprising luck and facility in copper stocks. He had beaten a billion-dollar combination through the courts in Arizona, and had go far won his case that they were glad to settle with him to the tune of $6,000,000. That was the time to quit, as Lawson told Sully to do. But it's no use—they won't do it. Heintze set out to conquer bigger worlds, the principal of which was New York City. He bought the Mercantile National Bank, made himself president, and—then came 1907. In that bankers' panic he was cleaned out almost to the last sou. It was his finish, as it usually is in such cases. Somehow, the nerve is gone after the big smash. Rarely do they ever get a second chance.

It is so with a certain former broker, now said to be selling tickets at a place of cheap amusement. Time was when this man's meteoric career was the pattern of the fortune-hunters of Broadway. He gave expensive dinners; opened baskets of wine—seemed, indeed, to have found a bottomless purse. But the day comes. Frequenters of the Street remember the process of eviction, when the furniture- movers took out of his palatial offices the mahogany and the marble statuary and the expensive bric-k-brac. When the place was emptied and the door locked, it ought to have caused some thinking to those who believe in getting rich by the fastest route.

There was a bartender on Ann Street who, while he washed glasses and chatted familiarly with the clientele, conceived the idea that he could make money faster by investing in United States Steel. He went in with ten shares, and pyramided, sticking to one stock, until at one time he was dealing in thousand lots very breezily. He told somebody one day that he could quit with $60,000 that minute. It was only a few days afterward that he dropped it all on his favorite stock.

Jesse Livermore, who was all covered with the spotlight during a frantic session in which he actually ran away with the cotton market, had been a modest youth chalking figures on a blackboard. He started with nothing, had a chance to quit with pretty nearly a million, and ended with just what lie started with. He hasn't been heard of since.

Joseph Leiter began to corner wheat when it was down around sixty cents. He lifted it to more than a dollar a bushel, and then it poured on the market so fast that lie simply couldn't absorb it. Thus from the millions that he was winner of, on paper, and would have been in reality if he could have made his corner good, he came from the pit absolutely "broke."

But, of all the men who couldn't stand prosperity, there has never been any one in the class with the famous John W. Steele, or "Coal-Oil Johnny." Compared with that phenomenon of recklessness, who flashed out of Pennsylvania just after the big oil strikes of the '60's, the rest of them seem positively cautious and thrifty. Even "Butch" McDevitt—who, with $2500 new-found money in his jeans, lived the life of a millionaire for one day, and was penniless by 11 p. m.—was a mere flash in the pan beside the original coal-oil person.

Career of "Coal-Oil Johnny"

STEELE was the adopted son of the Widow McClintock, on whose little farm the first oil-well had been bored. The widow left a will, drawn some time before any one suspected the existence of oil on the land, in favor of this extraordinary young man. And so, from having been a barefooted youth in 1858, John Steele, in 1862, was in possession of amounts of coin that he couldn't count and didn't care to.

"Coal-Oil Johnny" could hardly sign his name legibly. But he didn't feel the need of signing his name. He carried with him, on his bizarre travels, a companion whose clothes were always stuffed with money. The prodigality in which Johnny indulged is almost unbelievable, but it is amply supported by evidence. He gave a negro minstrel a $5000 diamond for singing a song that pleased him. He would frequently hire a cab, purchase it of the driver, ride a block or two, and then make the driver a present of it. Once he bought a hotel and gave it to the clerk who had joked with him.

It took Coal-Oil Johnny about six months to get to the end of his rope. One morning they told him it was all over. Somebody paid his fare back to Oil Creek, Pennsylvania, and he got a job as freight handler at twenty-five dollars a month. But he was "so disgusted with oil-fields," he said, that it made him sick to look at them, and he ended his career working on a farm in the West.

Showing that Where There's a Will—

EARL HAINSWORTH'S trouble three years ago was that, at twenty-two, he was still a clerk in his father's second-hand store in Gloversville, New York, without even the advantage of a high school diploma. And all the time he wanted to be a college man and a Y.M.C.A. official.

To be sure, though he had had to give up his place in his class, he had been sticking to night school as closely as possible, keeping on with his high school studies. So, when the fall of 1912 came around, he decided to take college entrance exams anyhow, just to see where he stood. When he found that he had passed them, there was nothing for it but college, and Hainsworth boarded the train for Oberlin, Ohio, with $7.39 in his pocket.

Food, tuition, shelter, books! Where should the money come from? The freshman sat down to think it out. It is an age of specialization, and Hainsworth knew that he was an expert in no line whatever. He never had had time to be one, either at home or in the store. He was just a handy man, good at fixing things—stoves or furniture or other people's quarrels. It seemed to him that ever since he could remember he had been doing odd jobs, running errands, shoveling snow, and generally tinkering around. So he'd never had time to learn a trade. But somebody has to do little bothersome things, thought young Mr. Hainsworth. "Citizen Fixit" his mother had called him back in his kindergarten days. And if in Gloversville, why not in Oberlin?

One day fifteen hundred patrons of a hospital benefit, held in a tent near the Academy in Oberlin, received this naive announcement of Cit's versatility, and his needs, from his own hands.

The people read and chuckled, then turned to look at the attractive young chap who stated his case so engagingly. Cit placed his circulars all over the city, and that night he was the talk of the place.

Cit was a success. The Oberlin people brought on their jobs as requested; the Park Hotel gave him a job of dish-washing for his board; he was engaged to do a weekly wash; a furniture dealer hired him as an extra for certain hours each week; and he had rugs to beat, errands to run, and furniture to repair. He soon ceased to worry about finances, and made a rigid rule of six hours a day for wage-earning. Then, as a relaxation from study and work, he went into athletics, in which as a long-distance runner he had a record in his home city.

Hainsworth became a crack runner. He was made captain of the Oberlin track team; and in 1913, at the Princeton Interscholastic games in Cleveland, he lowered the record to 4:40 1/5 for a mile, and later made a record of 4:39 at Buchtel College. He also won the 5 1/2-mile race at Cleveland that year.

At the close of his year at the Academy, Citizen Fixit had paid every cent of expense attendant upon his school work by his earnings; had a fine new wardrobe; a little money to the good, and a summer job in the freight department of the Pennsylvania Railroad. His railroad position ended in December of 1913, and he returned to Gloversville, where soon after, he was engaged as helper to the assistant secretary of the new Y.M.C.A. in that city. His work there attracted the attention of prominent Association officers, and this summer he was called to a bigger position in Warren.

"It's all due to mother," says Citizen Fixit. "She gave me the lucky name."

When the Women Stood Guard

BUSINESS women sometimes make good guardians of treasure, as the accompanying photograph from Kingman, Arizona, proves. More gold bullion is received at that town than at any other point in the State.

The mines are located fully thirty miles from the railroad, and when the bullion is brought to the station some one has to guard it until it is shipped.

One day, recently, fifty thousand dollars' worth of the precious metal came to the

station at Kingman at about the noon hour, and the men wanted to go to lunch. So the women volunteered to stand on guard.

The leader of the "army" was armed to the teeth and stood ready for action but nothing happened. The bullion is cast in such unwieldy and awkward shapes that it was pretty safe from robbery, anyhow.

But that did not deprive the enterprising young women of the opportunity to show their bravery.

He Doesn't Fish on Sunday

ON week days Tom O'Brien is kept busy with his lumber-mill down in Santa Rita, New Mexico. But every Sunday morning he calls his dogs to him, puts his lunch in his saddle pockets, and strikes out for the Mogollon Mountain. Most hunters manage to keep cheerful if they bring home the skin of one bear a year. But O'Brien during the last year and a half has brought at least two bears every month: thirty-eight bears in eighteen months with his precious eight-millimeter Mauser rifle, and exactly one bullet hole in each skin.

O'Brien is a typical Westerner. He says that he isn't much of a marksman; but last Christmas, at a turkey shoot in Santa Rita, he killed eighteen turkeys at two hundred yards without missing a shot, and was barred from the contest.

"A bear is not as dangerous as an amateur hunter who gets up against big game for the first time," says O'Brien, and for that reason he hunts by himself. "You can't ever tell when a

tenderfoot is goin' to shoot, nor in what direction the bullet is liable to go," he explains.

Recently O'Brien heard about an Eastern hunter that fired seventeen shots into a grizzly before killing him. "It's plumb disgustin'," he confided to a friend. "I couldn't find enough left of a bear to shoot at seventeen times." And he couldn't.

On July 3, 1914, O'Brien killed three bears and captured one alive. The bear that he captured, which was only a cub at the time, now weighs nearly a thousand pounds. O'Brien gave it to the children of El Paso, and it now occupies a big steel and concrete home in the municipal zoo.

In the picture the hunter is seen with his guns. Every time a now gun is invented, O'Brien buys it; but he says that his Mauser is the best of all. In the picture with him are his two best friends, Airedales, who have assisted him in killing many bears.

No, O'Brien doesn't fish on Sunday. He hasn't the time.

The Wall Street Girl

Continued from page 8

answered. "He's always getting ready to fire or advance you. And that's the point," she went on more earnestly. "What I don't understand is why the men who come in here aren't getting ready too. I don't see why they don't play the game. I might stay with the firm twenty years and I'd still be pounding a typewriter. But you—"

She raised her eyes to his. She saw that Don's had grown less dull, and her own warmed with this initial success.

"You used to play football, didn't you?" she asked.

"A little."

"Then you ought to know something about doing things hard; and you ought to know something about keeping in training."

"But look here, it seems to me you take this mighty seriously."

"Farnsworth does," she corrected. "That's why he's getting ten thousand a year."

The figures recalled a vivid episode.

"Ten thousand a year," he repeated after her. "Is that what he draws?"

"That's what they say. Anyway, he's worth it."

"And you think I—I might make a job like that?"

"I'll bet I'd try for it if I were in your boots," she answered earnestly.

"I'll bet you'd land it if you were in my boots."

He raised his coffee-cup. "Here's to the ten thousand a year," he drank.

Miss Winthrop rose. She had talked more than she had intended, and was somewhat irritated at herself. If, for a second, she thought she had accomplished something, she did not think so now, as he too rose and smiled at her. He handed her the pasteboard box.

"Your two dollars is in there," he explained.

She looked perplexed.

"Shall I wait five minutes?"

"Yes," she answered, as he thrust the box into her hands.

That box worried her all the afternoon. Not having a chance to open it, she hid it beneath her desk, where it distracted her thoughts until evening. Of course she could not open it on the elevated, so it lay in her lap, still further to distract her thoughts on the way home. It seemed certain that a two-dollar bill could not occupy all that space.

She did not wait even to remove her hat before opening it in her room. She found a little envelop containing her two-dollar bill nestling in five dollars' worth of roses.

It was about as foolish a thing as she had ever known a man to do.

She placed the flowers on the table when she had her supper. All night long they filled the room with their fragrance.

WHEN, with some eighteen dollars in his pocket, Don on Sunday ordered Nora to prepare for him on that day and during the following week a breakfast of toast, eggs, and coffee, he felt very much a man of affairs. He was paying for his own sustenance, and with the first money he had ever earned. He drew from his pocket a ten-dollar bill, a five-dollar bill, a two-dollar bill, and some loose change.

"Pick out what you need," he ordered, as he held the money toward her.

"I don't know how much it will be, sir. I'll ask the cook, sir."

"Very well; ask the cook. About dinners—I think I'd better wait until I see how I'm coming out. Dinners don't matter so much anyway, because they come after I'm through work."

Don ate his breakfast in the dining-room before the open fire, as his father used to do. In smoking jacket and slippered feet, he enjoyed this as a rare luxury—even this matter of breakfasting at home, which until now had been merely a negative detail of routine.

When he had finished he drew his chair closer to the flames and lighted a cigarette. He had been cutting down on cigarettes. He had always bought them by the hundred; he was now buying them by the box. Until this week he never realized that they represented money. He was paying now twenty-five cents for a box of ten; and twenty-five cents, as he had learned in the restaurant in the alley, was a sum of money with tremendous possibilities. It would buy, for one thing, five egg sandwiches; and five egg sandwiches would keep a man from being uncomfortably hungry a good many hours.

Thus a quarter, from being merely an odd piece of loose change, took on a vital, tangible character of its own. Translated into smokes, it gave a smoke a new value. He had started in to make a box of cigarettes last a day; but he was now resolved to make them last two days. This allowed him one after each meal and two in the evening.

If at first he had considered this a hardship, he was beginning to appreciate the fact that it had its compensating advantages. This morning, for instance, he felt that he had never tasted such good tobacco in his life. Like his breakfast, it was a pleasure to be prolonged—to give his thought to. He smoked slowly and carefully and keenly. With his head against the back of his chair, he watched the white cloudlets curl upward after he had inhaled their fragrance. This was no dull habit indulged in automatically.

IN this moment of indulgence his thoughts turned to Miss Winthrop. It was nearing twelve, and perhaps this had something to do with it. He was going to miss that luncheon hour. He had come to look forward to it as quite the most interesting event of the day. From his comfortable position before the fire, he wondered why.

It was impossible to say she had any definite physical attractions, although her eyes were not bad. They piqued a man's curiosity, those eyes. One remembered them. That was true also of her mouth. Don had no very definite notion of its exact shape, but he remembered how it surprised one by changing from the tenderness of a young girl's mouth to the firmness of a man's a dozen times in the course of a few minutes' conversation.

It was quarter past twelve. If he had known her telephone number he would have called her up now, just to say "hello." He would be taking a chance, however; for, as likely as not, she would inquire what he was doing, and would, he felt sure, scold him for having so late a breakfast.

Odd, that a woman should be so energetic! He had always thought of them as quite the opposite. Leisureliness was a prerogative of the sex. He had always understood that it was a woman's right to pamper herself.

Undoubtedly she would object to his sitting on here before the open fire. Farnsworth would not waste a morning like this—he seemed to hear her telling him so. If he wanted that ten thousand a year, he ought to be working on those circulars. A man was not paid for what he didn't know. Here, with nothing else to do, was a good time to get after them. Well, he had gone, so far as to bring them home with him.

He rose reluctantly, went upstairs to his room, and brought them down. He began on the electric company that was offering gold bonds at a price to net four and a half per cent. Then Nora came in to call him to the telephone.

"Who is it, Nora?"

"Miss Stuyvesant, sir."

"Oh, yes."

He hurried to the telephone.

"Good morning, Frances."

"Dad and mother have gone to church and it's very stupid here," she complained. "Can't you come over?"

He hesitated the fraction of a second. "Oh, of course—if you don't want to—" she began quickly.

"It isn't that, Frances. Of course I

---

want to come; only, there were some papers I brought home from the office—"

"Well?"

"I can go over them some other time. I'll be right up."

A DISCOVERY that encouraged Don the following week was that by some unconscious power of absorption he grew sufficiently familiar with the financial jargon of the office to feel that it really was within the possibilities that some day he might understand it fully. He found several opportunities to talk with Powers, and the latter, after recovering from his surprise at the primitive nature of some of Don's questions about notes and bonds, went to some trouble to answer them. Not only that, but he mentioned certain books that might supply fuller and more fundamental information.

"I know these sound like fool questions," Don apologized, "but I've never been down in this end of the town much."

"That's all right," replied Powers. "Come to me any time you're stuck."

After Powers went out, Don sat down and tried to recall some of the things he had been told. He remembered some of them and some of them he didn't. But that day at lunch Miss Winthrop handed him a stenographic report of the entire conversation. Don looked over it in amazement. It was in the form of question and answer.

Mr. Pendleton: Say, old man, what is a gold bond, anyway!

Mr. Powers: I beg your pardon?

And so on down to Don's final apology.

Mr. Pendleton: I know these sound like fool questions—

Mr. Powers: That's all right—

"Read it over in your spare time," advised Miss Winthrop; "then you won't ask him the same questions twice."

"But how in thunder did you get this?" he inquired.

"I wasn't busy just then, and took it down. I knew you'd forget half he told you."

"It was mighty good of you," he answered. "But I wish you had left out my talk. Now that I see it in type, it sounds even more foolish than I thought it was."

"I've seen a lot of things that didn't turn out well in type," she nodded. "But you needn't read that part of it. What Powers said was worth while. He knows what he's talking about, and that's why he's the best bond salesman in the house."

"What sort of a salary does he draw?"

"I don't know," she answered. "And if I were you I'd forget the salary end of my job for a while."

"It's a mighty important end," he declared.

"I don't see it," she returned frankly. "I suppose you're starting on twenty-five?"

"That's all," he admitted.

"It's all you're worth. Any one to support besides yourself?"

"No."

"Then what you worrying about?"

"But, good heavens, a man can't live on that—any length of time."

"Can't? I know men who support a wife and children on less."

"Eh?"

"And do it decently," she nodded. "I live on half of that myself."

"You?"

"Of course. Did you think I drew a salary like Farnsworth?"

She laughed at his open astonishment. It appeared genuine.

"You live on half of twenty-five dollars a week?" he repeated.

She did not care to pursue the subject. It was a bit too personal.

"And so do hundreds of thousands of others," she informed him. "On that and less than that. Now, you put that paper away in your pocket, and don't ask Powers another question until you know it by heart. Then get after him again. When you run across something you don't know, why don't you write it down?"

He took out his engagement-book on the spot and made an entry.

"I've written down that you say it's possible to live on twenty-five dollars a week," he informed her, as he replaced the book in his pocket.

"Don't be silly," she warned. "You'd better write down something about not worrying about your salary at all."

"I'll do that," he returned.

He took out his engagement-book again and scribbled a line.

"Miss Winthrop says about my salary."

"I didn't say it," she protested. "Them's your very words."

"I mean—" she grew really confused. "I mean—you needn't put it down that I said it. You ought to say it to yourself."

He shook his head.

"That's too deep for me."

"Then let's drop the subject," she answered curtly. "Only don't get the idea that it's I who am worrying about your salary, one way or the other."

"No need of getting peeved about it," he suggested.

"Not in the slightest," she agreed.

But she did not wait for her éclair, and went back to the office in anything but a good humor.

ON the whole, Miss Winthrop was rather disappointed in him as a result of this last interview—the more so because he had begun the day so well. Her hopes had risen high at the way he approached Powers, and at the seriousness with which he had listened to what Powers had to say. He had acted like a man eager to learn. Then he had spoiled it all by placing undue emphasis on the salary end.

This new development in Pendleton came as a surprise. It did not seem consistent with his nature as she read it in his eyes. It was not in character. It left her doubting her judgment about him along other lines. She did not object to his ambition. That was essential. He ought to work for Farnsworth's position—but for the position, not the salary. The position stood for power based upon ability. That was the sort of success she would be keen about if she were a man.

Curious, too, that Mr. Pendleton should be so keen about money in this one direction. She had thought his tendency all the other way, and had made a mental note that some time she must drive home to him a few facts about having a decent respect for money. A man who would return the loan of a two-dollar bill in five dollars' worth of roses was not the sort of man one expected to have a vaulting ambition for thousands for their own sake. One thing was sure—he was not the type

of man who ought to occupy so much of her attention on a busy afternoon.

At a few minutes before five, just as Miss Winthrop was jabbing the last pin into her hat, a messenger boy hurried into the office with a parcel bearing a noticeable resemblance to a one-pound candy box. He inquired of Eddie for Miss Winthrop, and Eddie, with considerable ceremony, escorted the boy to the desk of that astonished young woman.

"Sign here," the boy ordered.

Miss Winthrop gave a swift glance around the office. Mr. Pendleton was at work at Powers' desk and didn't even look up. It was a remarkable exhibition of concentration on his part. Blake, however, swung around in his chair and raised his brows.

Miss Winthrop seized the pencil and wrote her name, dotting the "i" and crossing the "t" with vicious jabs. Then she picked up the box and hurried toward the door.

"From a devoted admirer?" inquired Blake, as she passed him.

Don saw the color spring to Miss Winthrop's cheeks, but she hurried on without a word in reply. He understood now what it was she did not like about Blake. Don was not at all of an aggressive nature, but at that moment he could have struck the man with the greatest satisfaction. It seemed the only adequate way of expressing himself. Blake was still smiling.

"Sort of caught her with the goods that time, eh?" observed Blake.

"I don't get you," answered Don.

"Candy by messenger? Well, I've been looking for it. And when those haughty ones do fall, believe me, they fall hard."

"Maybe," answered Don. "But I'll bet you five dollars to a quarter you're wrong about her."

Blake's eyes narrowed a trifle.

"I'll take you," he answered. "What's your proof?"

"I sent her that stuff myself."

"You? Holy smoke, that's going some!"

"I sent her that to pay for some typewriting she did for me and because I knew she wouldn't take any money."

"I lose. Come out and have a drink?"

"Thanks," answered Don. "I'm on my way uptown. Give that quarter to Eddie."

IF Miss Winthrop ever had more than a nodding acquaintance with Mr. Pendleton, she gave no indication of that fact when she came in the next morning. With a face as blank as a house closed for the season, she clicked away at her typewriter until noon, and then hurried out to lunch as if that were a purely business transaction also. Don followed a little sooner than usual. The little restaurant was not at all crowded to-day, but she was not there. He waited ten minutes, and as he waited the conviction grew that she did not intend to come.

Don went out and began an investigation. He visited five similar places in the course of the next fifteen minutes, and in the last one he found her. She was seated in a far corner, and she was huddled up as if trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. As he strode to her side with uplifted hat, she shrank away like a hunted thing finding itself trapped.

"What did you run away for?" he demanded.

"What did you hunt me up for?" she replied.

"Because I wanted to see you."

"And I came here because I did not want to see you."

"Now, look here—" he began.

"So I should think you'd go along and leave me alone," she interrupted.

"If I did that, then I'd never know what the trouble is all about," he explained.

"Well, what of it?"

"May I sit down?"

There was an empty chair next to her.

"I can't prevent you, but I've told you I want to be alone."

"When you look that way, you're just

---

as much alone as if I weren't here," he returned, as he took the chair. "And every one knows it."

She gave a swift glance about the room, as if expecting to find half the crowd looking at her.

"Maybe they are too polite to let on," he continued; "but I know just what they are saying to themselves. They are saying, 'She certainly hasn't much use for him. You'd think he'd take the tip and get out.'"

"You don't seem to care much, then, about what they say."

"I don't care a hang," he admitted.

She pushed her plate away as if ready to go.

"Wait a minute," he pleaded. "It doesn't seem like you to go off and leave a man in the dark. How in thunder am I going to know any better next time if you don't tell me where I made the break?"

"I don't believe you'd know if I did tell you," she answered more gently.

"The least you can do is to try."

She did not want to tell him. If he were sincere—and the longer she talked with him, the more convinced she was that this was the case—then she did not wish to disillusionize him.

"The least you can do is to give me a chance," he persisted.

"The mistake came in the beginning, Mr. Pendleton," she said, with an effort. "And it was all my fault. You—you seemed so different from a lot of men who come into the office that I—well, I wanted to see you get started straight. In the three years I've been there I've picked up a lot of facts that aren't much use to me because—because I'm just Miss Winthrop. So I thought I could pass them on."

"That was mighty white of you," he nodded.

The color flashed into her cheeks.

"I thought I could do that much with interfering in any other way with either of our lives."

"Well?"

"There were two or three things I didn't reckon with," she answered.

"What were they?" he demanded.

"Blake is one of them."

"Blake?" His face brightened with sudden understanding. "Then the trouble is all about that box of candy?"

"You shouldn't have sent it. You should have known better than to send it. You—had no right."

"But that was nothing. You were so darned good to me about the typewriting and it was all I could think of."

"So, you see," she concluded, "it won't do. It won't do at all."

"I don't see," he returned.

"Then it's because you didn't see the way Blake looked at me," she said.

"Yes, I saw," he answered. "I could have hit him for it. But I fixed that."

"You—fixed that?" she gasped.

"I certainly did. I told him I sent the box, and told him why."

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Then they'll all know, and—what am I going to do? Oh, what am I going to do?"

It was a pitiful cry. He did not understand why it was so intense, because he did not see what she saw—the gossip increasing in maliciousness; the constant watching and nods and winks, until in the end it became intolerable either to her or to Farnsworth. Nor was that the possible end. To leave an office under these conditions was a serious matter—a matter so serious as to affect her whole future.

"Now, see here," he pleaded. "Don't take it so hard. You're making too much of it. Blake isn't going to talk any more. If he does—"

She raised her head.

"If he does, there isn't anything you can do about it."

"I'll bet there is."

"No—no—no. There isn't. I know! But you mustn't come here any more. And you mustn't talk to me any more. Then perhaps they'll forget."

He grew serious.

"It seems too bad if it's got to be that way," he answered.

"I ought to have known," she said.

"And I ought to have known, too. I was a fool to send that box into the office, but I wanted you to get it before you went home."

She raised her eyes to his a moment. Then a queer, tender expression softened her mouth.

"This is the end of it," she answered. "And now I'm glad you did not know any better."

She rose to go, and then she noticed that he had not lunched.

"I'll wait here until you come back with your sandwich," she said.

"I don't want a sandwich," he protested.

"Please hurry."

So she waited there until he came back with his lunch, and then she held out her hand to him.

"To-morrow you go to the old place," she said, "and I'll come here."

To be continued next week

Behind the Bolted Door?"

MORE than 1600 solutions to our mystery story, "Behind the Bolted Door?" were received. None of the letters foretold the solution of the mystery precisely and therefore the reward could not be given to any one person.

Twenty-seven letters, however, did state some portion of the solution, and, rather than not award the prize at all, the judges decided that the fairest thing to do was to divide the prize among these twenty-seven contestants. Checks were mailed to each of these contestants in time for Christmas.

To all of the other 1600 readers who participated in the contest I send my thanks and best wishes. We shall have another mystery story before long, and perhaps another contest.

THE EDITOR.

Best Letter (First Prize, $100)

Miss Edith Wallace, 2657 Monticello Chicago, Ill.

Second Best Letters ($50)

Mrs. M. J. Marshall, 11 Academy St., Lowell, Maine.

Ada Sanborn, Raymond, N. H.

Four Other Letters ($25)

J. A. Cliff, 310 K St. N. E., Washington, D. C.

W. J. Fitz-Simmons, 659 No. Sorel Ave., Chicago, Ill.

Farrand W. Miller, 2351 East 86th St., Cleveland, Ohio.

Miss Helena Glinkowa, 410 Herron Ave.,Pittsburgh, Pa.

Other Letters ($10)

Ephraim Morrow, Bakerstown,. Pa.

Miss G. S. Lunt, Newburyport, Mass.

Mrs. A. C. Brodeur, Barre, Mass.

Albert Schiefer, 428 W. Division St., Chicago, Ill.

S. N. Sosman, 2942 Newark St., Washington, D. C.

R. Stockwell, Grand Ledge, Mich.

Mrs. H. L. von Steuben, 525 West 146th St., New York City.

W. H. Chapin, 172 Richview Ave., North Adams, Mass.

James Wallace, 2657 Monticello Ave., Chicago, Ill.

Mlss Hannah M. Aicher, 2718 Kirkbride St., Bridesburg, Philadelphia, Pa.

Q. M. King, 1564 Hillslde Ave. N., Minneapolis, Minn.

Mrs. Mary Louise Weymouth, 10 Marlboro St., Belmont, Mass.

A. L. Brice, Chamber of Commerce Building, Minneapolis, Minn.

Charles Kuthon, 337 Earle St., New Bedford, Mass.

D. H. von Glahir, 502 E. 17th St., Brooklyn, N. Y.

Willlam E. Astbury, 464 Fifth Ave., Detroit, Mich.

Joseph Kehoe, 448 East 138th St., New York City.

Miss Estella Woodruff, 403 S. 1st St., Aberdeen, South Dakota.

George S. Montgomery, Jr., 9823 113th St., Edmonton, Canada.

Mrs. Anna Morris, 3017 2nd Ave. S., Minneapolis, Minn.