Every Week

Copyright, 1917, By the Crowell Publishing Co.
© February 5, 1917
Beginning THE OTHER BROWN A New Mystery Serial by Adele Luehrmann

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Big Ben




Rider Agents Wanted


Get This Car


Challenge Cleanable Collars


Banking by Mail at 4% Interest


Detectives Wanted

Go Out This Spring and Increase Your Self-Respect

THE Spring term in the Greatest: School is about to begin.

The catalogs are out: instruction is free: there is no age or wealth restriction.

The teacher is Nature herself: the school is wherever a few square yards of soil can be spaded and a few handfuls of seed hidden away.

And the rewards are better health, increased respect, a fuller measure of independence.

Who among men may be called most independent?

Rockefeller? Carnegie? Far from it. Thousands must labor that they may be fed: but for the service constantly lavished upon them, their lives would not last a single day.

The man who tastes real independence is he who has delved into the earth, and planted seeds, and tended the plants up through infancy into strength, battling with their enemies, until at last he has won, and has found his reward in their fruits.

There is the truly independent man. Life knows no firmer foundation for self-respect than his. Though all the world were to cease its labor, he and his would still be fed.

He has made himself master of destiny: he has conquered circumstance: fate can not harm him. He can, if necessary, feed himself.

I ask you this Spring to enter the Greatest School. Know, for once in your life, the thrill that comes to him who has mastered the earth.

Let Nature take firm hold upon your self-respect and build you up into finer, more courageous manhood or womanhood.

"There is life in the ground," says Charles Dudley Warner. "It goes into the seeds: and it also, when it is stirred up, goes into the man who stirs it. The hot sun on his back as he bends to his shovel or hoe, or contemplatively rakes the warm, fragrant loam, is better than much medicine."

There is health for you in the Greatest School, as well as an increased self-respect.

And there is money also—if you are the sort who will not enter any road unless first he sees the dollar signpost beckoning.

Probably never in your life-time will the cost of vegetables be so high as this year. Never again will a little wholesome labor in your back yard be so munificently rewarded.

Health, self-respect, money—yes, and a deeper stirring of the imagination, a fresh impulse to reverence.

I do not envy the man who can look without a reverent wonder on the miracle of a garden.

We bury in the earth the foulest refuse, and, behold, out of it springs the lily. We cast two tiny pellets side by side—dry little fragments, colorless, dead—and lo, where we cast the one comes the pansy, and out of the other the hollyhock.

We pick a speck of dust from an Egyptian mummy's wrapping-cloths. We drop it into the soil, and—wonder of wonders—there is life in its heart. Out of the tiny seed buried with the Pharaohs rises a stalk of wheat to feed a modern world.

Who can stand with head covered in the presence of miracles like these? Who can work in a garden without a feeling that he walks on holy ground? Who can miss the consciousness that he follows in the footsteps of the Creator—himself handling and delving in the deepest mysteries of life?

"He that walkes with God," said that quaint old gardener, Sir William Waller, "can never want a good walke, and good company."

Make a garden this Spring. It need not be a large garden. He who merely touches the hem of Nature's garment is rewarded by her. Into him flows new life from the Mother of all life, and new reverence, and self-respect.

Bruce Barton, Editor.
Herbert Durand has written for our readers a book, "Seventy-five Dollars' Worth of Vegetables for Less than $10." You may have it by sending a nickel to my New York address, 95 Madison Avenue.

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45c 6-Piece Library Set

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Painted for Every Week by Wladyslaw T. Benda.



MARK thou thy garden—and not spare
Thyself as honest laborer:
Break thou the earth and turn withal,
So the live airs thereon shall fall.
Then set thy little seeds in rows,
With the kind earth for swaddling clothes;
And these shall presently awake,
And into life and praise shall break.
Soon shall the sweet spring trumpets ring,
And all the world sing songs of spring;
Then from the wormy bed shall rise
Creatures that wear the peacock's eyes.
Here shall resort the butterfly,
The birds set up their loves hereby.
The mealy-mouthèd bee shall come
For honey for his queen at home.
Brown shall the man grow being wooed
With the sun's kisses, bravo and good,
Shall be an-hungered, and, being fed,
Shall find his bed a golden bed
The wonders of the skies for him
Shall open, nor his eyes be dim:
And, seeing the first leaf unfold,
He shall praise God an hundredfold.

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"Immediately, from force of habit, he began mentally to size up his companion, point by point, as if for future reference: Age, twenty-three; height, five-eleven; wiry, athletic build. Hair, blond, thick, wavy. Complexion too dark for a blond.


Author of "Who Was Marie Dupont?"

Illustrations by Lucius W. Hitchcock

IT was sheer luck—so Tim Scarborough himself says—that led to his curiously fateful discussion of dual personality with a total stranger. It chanced that the latter was reading a magazine story based on dissociation of personality, a very striking story that Scarborough happened to have read, and he had seized upon it as a means of starting a conversation, nothing more. And he had begun to talk for no other reason than that he found it unbearable to eat with a human being and behave as if they were animals feeding at a trough.

He had barely glanced at his table companion as he dropped hastily into his seat—hastily because the conductor of the dining-car was waving him toward a seat farther on, the one opposite Valentin Gil; and Tim had an excellent reason for not wishing to dine face to face with that particular person. The reason was simple: he did not wish Gil to remember him if they should ever meet.

True, Scarborough's appearance; as he well knew, was of the nondescript kind not easily impressed on the memory. Rather short, rather thin, sandy-haired and sallow, the average man might have passed him in the street a dozen times without noticing him. But Gil was not an average man, for one thing, and, for another, Tim was taking no chances. If the Mexican should—by some unavoidable mishap—become aware of his existence in the near future, it was highly important that he should not be able to recall the fact that they had left Washington and arrived in New York by the same train.

All of which Tim could not well explain to the conductor of the dining-car; so he merely ignored the waving hand and slid into the nearest empty seat.

At the abrupt advent the young man across the table looked up from his magazine, and Tim greeted him with a friendly nod, which was pleasantly returned and the reading resumed.

"A handsome youngster," thought Scarborough, remembering now that he had seen his neighbor before, back in the parlor-car. His seat was the third behind Gil's, and he had come aboard at Philadelphia while the Mexican was in the smoker. These trivial details Scarborough would have taken his oath to; for to recall with exactness anything he had once noted was a valuable part of his stock in trade. And immediately, from force of habit he began mentally to size up his companion, point by point, as if for future reference—though that he should ever have need of it did not occur to him.

"Age, twenty-three; height, five-eleven; wiry, athletic build—weighs about one sixty. Hair, blond, thick, wavy—takes a world of brushing to keep it flat. Eyes, blue—clear and frank. Complexion too dark for a blond—looks like tropical tan. Face, clean shaved, a trifle broad; nose, a trifle short; straight, pleasant mouth; chin, round but firm. Clothes in quiet good taste, rather loose fit—look London made: All told; a healthy, honest, intelligent, friendly chap—probably a young 'plute' who goes in for sports."

AS Scarborough summed up his conclusions the subject of them suddenly raised a well browned hand and smoothed down, from the careful part dividing them, first one half, then the other of his mop of crisp blond hair. The action brought a smile to his observer's eyes. "That's a habit," thought Tim. "I was right about the brushing. Well, my young friend, the gods have been too good to you, anyhow. You ought to have something to worry about, if it is only your curly hair."

A waiter now arrived with a plate of soup, and the favorite of the gods shifted his magazine to make room for it—without, however, removing his eyes from the printed page. The soup looking appetizing, Scarborough ordered some, and was already in the act of consuming it before his neighbor gave evidence of being conscious that his own stood untasted before him. Flattening one hand upon the magazine to hold it open, he began to feed himself with the other, absently, between paragraphs. But the reading soon monopolized his attention again, and the soup plate was presently removed only half empty.

WONDERING idly what literary product could have the power to distract the interest of a husky young male from his food, Tim leaned forward a little and spelled out, in the inverted letters at the top of the page: "Her Other Self," and opposite the name of the periodical. Instantly he remembered having read himself to sleep a few nights before with that very story. And he had found it interesting too, he recalled, though hardly so absorbing as this chap seemed to.

The reading came to an end, finally, with the arrival of various dishes that crowded the magazine from the table, and the reader reluctantly closed the book.

"Hard to quit, isn't it?" Tim said, in the soft drawl he had brought up from the South ten years earlier, and which made him seem just the easy-going, sluggish, unobservant person he was not.

The blue eyes of his companion widened blankly upon him for a moment, as if their owner, absorbed in his thoughts, had not at once caught the question; then he answered pleasantly: "Yes, rather. I had stumbled on a good yarn."

Scarborough nodded. "It is a good one."

At the words the young man, who had turned away to dispose of his magazine, looked back quickly.

"Oh, you've read it?" he asked with interest. "Then you can tell me how it ends. I've just got to the elopement—when she's in the abnormal state, you remember. What happens when she changes back to her normal personality and finds out she is married to the man who ruined her sister?"

"She kills herself."


Scarborough had to smile at the frank disappointment in his companion's tone.

"It couldn't very well end any other way, could it?" he said.

"But what did the sister do—and the man?"

"It doesn't say; the story stops with the suicide."

"Of course; that's always the way," said the young stranger disgustedly. "Writers always kill off their people when they don't know what else to do with them. But it isn't true to life, is it? Now, that story would never have ended that way in real life. Even if the girl had killed herself, that wouldn't have ended things. The sister went on living; so did the man. Somebody always goes on living."

"Well, I reckon a story has to end sometime," drawled Tim indifferently; but from beneath their heavy lids his gray eyes shot a keen glance across the table. Something in his companion's final words had struck him oddly: Was it the words themselves, or the emphasis, or just the speaker's odd accent? That accent puzzled Tim. He had taken its owner at sight for an American, but at his first words had decided that he was English.

Now he did not know what he was. His speech was markedly British; yet there was in it something that seemed quite foreign to the English tongue. Hardly definite enough to be called an accent, it yet indicated—at least, so Tim decided—that the stranger, at home as he obviously was in the English language, might be still more at home in some other. But what other? That was where Scarborough stuck. The variation was so slight, so intermittent, that it defied classification. Only a keen ear would have detected it at all. Being baffling, it became interesting; Tim wanted to hear more of it.

But, with a little shrug of assent, the young man now turned his attention to his food, and from the absent manner in which he served himself it seemed likely

that, if left to him, the conversation would end there. So after a moment Tim spoke again.

"Of course, all the author cared about was the girl's two personalities," he observed, as if his thoughts had never left the story they had been discussing. "Queer, isn't it, what a fascinating subject dual personality is?"

His companion's gaze, which was wandering abstractedly down the car, came back at once, and he nodded; but, as he did not speak, Scarborough went on:

"In fiction, that is, of course—not in life. Take, for instance, Stevenson's 'Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr Hyde.' Jekyll is a decent, kindly man who, by means of a powder that he has compounded, transforms himself into a cowardly ruffian calling himself Hyde. With another powder he turns himself back to Jekyll. It's a fascinating idea for a story. But just take a real case of it. Change a decent, quiet, reasonable man into a noisy, irresponsible beast,—not with a powder, but with alcohol,—and it isn't fascinating at all. It's disgusting. Or let a poor devil get the notion fixed in his addled brain that he is John the Baptist or Napoleon, and there is nothing entrancing about that, either."

"But drunkenness and insanity are not change of personality."

"Why not? The victim changes completely—becomes something altogether different from his normal self. Isn't it as near dual personality as we ever get, outside of books?"

"But it isn't dual personality at all!"

The repeated assertion was emphasized by a slight note of astonishment, and the speaker looked curiously at Scarborough, as if wondering that any one so intelligent should be so mistaken.

"Dual personality is the result of dissociation of personality—that's the technical term," he explained. "It's the splitting up of a personality into separate parts, which in turn dominate the faculties. Each is conscious of itself as a distinct and complete individuality; and neither has any direct knowledge of the other's existence. That is what is meant by double personality."

"Yes, I know," said Tim. "But I don't believe that it exists outside of fiction."

"Why—there are cases of it on record!" protested the young man earnestly. "Some of them are as strange or stranger than the one of that girl in the story. I've read the records!"

"I know," said Tim again. "I've read several myself—the doctors' reports, you mean. But it seemed to me that they all boiled down to some form of insanity."

HIS companion's lips parted to speak, plainly in contradiction, but closed again silently. Then, as if reaching a decision, he said with courteous firmness: "I am sure you are mistaken, but I dare say most people would agree with you," and took up his knife and fork as if that was all he cared to say on the subject.

Then, almost at once and before Scarborough could reply, he laid down the knife and fork again, and, as if impelled by some hidden feeling, he leaned forward.

"Don't you see that that is just why anybody afflicted with double personality would do anything in the world to keep it from being found out?" he demanded, adding at once: "And don't think for a minute that he couldn't do it! For, far from being insane and irresponsible when in the abnormal state, as you suppose, a man may be quite as intelligent as he is normally. And he can learn all about his normal self and imitate it so well that no one guesses the truth. Of course he's different, in some ways, and people notice that. He may even be so changed that they think he takes a drug or—or drinks. But that's better than being thought insane and being locked up, isn't it?"

Scarborough laughed.

"If I had known you were a doctor I'd never have got into an argument with you," he said.

"A doctor?" the other echoed. Then, seeming to feel that his attitude required explanation, he said: "I've read up on the subject a little, just because I happened to be interested. You see, I—I know of a case."

"Of dual personality?" exclaimed Tim, frankly incredulous.

"Yes—a genuine case."

"One that you came in contact with personally?"

"Well—I know all about it."

"How? From people who—"

BUT Tim's question was cut short by the sound of his own name and a vigorously friendly hand on his shoulder, and he looked up to greet a grinning, red-haired youth who had just come down the aisle from another table.

"Dozy! Where'd you come from?"

"Been down home," said the boy. "Hope I'm not butting in," he added, with a smile across the table. Then, with out waiting for a reply, he sat down in the confident manner of one used to "butting in" and having people like it. He and Scarborough were cousins, of a kind—a Southern kind, no one knowing just how far removed. The relationship was traditional in their families, and their mothers, being friends, had always emphasized it. And, indeed, there was a certain likeness in type between them. Dozy, like Tim, was rather short and meagerly constructed; but his hair and eyebrows had more color, and the broad white teeth that his engaging smile frequently displayed furnished him with at least one striking feature.

"You are butting in, decidedly," his kinsman informed him cordially. "But I don't suppose it will help any to tell you so. I was just having a most interesting discussion with Mr. ———?"

"My name is Brown."

"Thanks. Mine is Scarborough, and this is my friend, Dozier Cullop."

"Glad to know you, Mr. Brown," said Dozy, offering his hand.

"Mr. Brown was just saying that he knew of a case of dual personality," Scarborough said, to bring the conversation back to the point of interruption. "Was it a man or a woman?"

"A man."

"And just how did it affect him?"

"Oh, about like that girl in the story. He didn't know, in one mental state, anything that happened in the other. This beef is pretty tough. If you ordered any of it I advise you to get something else."

"I didn't, thanks," said Tim. "Was the change in him very noticeable?"

"Very," said Brown shortly. "Don't you find it warm in this car?"

"Of course; they're always over-heated," Tim returned carelessly. "Just how did it change him?"

A swift frown crossed Brown's face, and Tim, noting it, smiled to himself. He was determined not to let the young man change the subject. People were always making positive statements about things, and trying to slide out when one began to pin them down to facts. He felt sure that the facts in this case would uphold his own contention, and wanted to make Brown admit it. "How did it change him?" he repeated, knowing that a direct question is hard to evade gracefully.

"Well, he didn't change physically—exactly," the young man answered, after a pause of evident reluctance. "But his expression, manner, and way of speaking were so transformed that people who knew him well sometimes failed to recognize him. His tastes changed too, and his feelings toward people."

"Why, that's like a play I saw last winter," Dozier Cullop put in. "The girl changed right on the stage, and, believe me, it was uncanny. She didn't walk or talk or act the same—and she looked different. It was the most—"

"Was the difference between the man's two personalities anything like that between Jekyll and Hyde, for instance? Tim questioned, cutting short Dozy's digression; for he feared, that Brown, who had nearly finished his dinner, would leave and thereby escape him.

"Oh, not at all," was the instant response. "Hyde was a monster. There was nothing like that in this case. The difference was that, while normally the man was quiet, self-controlled, and— temperate, in the abnormal state he was nervous, high-strung, and rather reckless."

"And intemperate? He drank, you mean?"

"Well—yes," Brown answered after a moment. "But it was not the drink that caused the change in him," he added hastily. "He never wanted it until after the change had come over him; never touched it—hated the taste of it."

"That was funny!" said Dozy.

"Not at all," Tim answercd. "There are many periodical drinkers who loathe liquor between sprees. But I don't quite see, Mr. Brown, how you can be so sure that this man's trouble was not a form of insanity. You didn't know the case at first hand, you said—"

"Pardon me, but I wonder if we couldn't have a window opened?"

As he spoke Brown half rose as if to open one himself.

"Wait a minute; here's a waiter," said Dozy.

"You English just can't bear to be comfortable, can you?" he said, as he turned back laughingly to Brown.

Instantly a dark flush mounted under the tanned skin of the stranger.

"I'm not English," he said quietly; "I'm an American. But I haven't been used to steam heat lately and it suffocates me."

"We overdo it, especially on trains," said Scarborough, wondering at the flush. "But, to return to our mutton, just how did your man come out with his two personalities? What's the story?"

But Brown, his patience exhausted by his inquisitor's persistence, did not answer. He straightened sharply in his seat and looked at Scarborough, his face rigid, his lips tight.

"If you will excuse me, I prefer not to say anything more about the case," he said coldly. "It happens to be that of a member of my family."

"Oh—I beg your pardon!" Tim exclaimed, surprised and mortified. "I had no idea of such a thing. Of course, we will say no more about it." Then, to relieve the awkwardness of the moment, he turned to Dozy with a question:

"Had dinner?"

"All I want. My class is giving a banquet in New York to-night and I'm saving my appetite. I'm to respond to a toast," he hurried on, anxious to help Tim out by keeping up the talk. "I'm as nervous as a cat. Wish you fellows would join me in a drink."

"Not drinking, thanks," said Scarborough.

"Thank you, I never take anything," Brown answered.

"Better join us and stay sober, kid. Better for your speech. How did you find the old town?"

"Same as ever. Nothing'll ever change it but an act of God. I went down to sister's wedding. Tried to get her to postpone it on account of the dinner to-night, but she said it would be bad luck, so I had to leave before it was half over to make this train, and I've been worrying all the way up for fear we'd go off the track or something. I wouldn't miss that dinner for a farm! The sophs are planning to break in and raid us—if they can. Anyhow, that's what we think. They're up to something, that's sure."

THE boy, rattled on, and gradually the conversation became general, Brown taking part in it also as the constraint passed off.

Scarborough meantime had kept a careful eye on the table at which Valentin Gil was dining, timing his own dinner in accordance with the Mexican's progress. And when, at length, he saw Gil paying his check, he called at once for his own. At that, Brown, who had settled his score and had lingered to listen to Dozy's chatter, rose to leave the table; and it chanced that just as he did so Gil passed, and they came face to face.

With an exclamation of surprise, the Mexican stopped and held out his hand, only to withdraw it again instantly. "Beg pardon," he said; "a mistake," and turning walked on.

For several moments Brown remained staring after him.

"Do you happen to know who that is?" he asked, looking over at Tim.

Scarborough shook his head. "No idea," he said.

"Looks like a Mexican, don't you think so?"

"Yes, rather. Ever been to Mexico?"

"Just came from there," Brown answered; and, with a pleasant bow to his dinner companions, he turned away.

"So long, Brown. Hope I meet you again sometime," Dozy Cullop called after him.

"Thanks." Brown returned heartily, looking back to smile. "Shouldn't wonder—world's pretty small." And he moved off.

Scarborough got up.

"Here," he said, thrusting a bill at Dozy; "stay and pay my check." And, without a word of explanation, he followed Brown down the aisle.

He kept some distance back of him, and when they had reached the car in which they both had seats Scarborough stopped in the narrow passage that ran beside the smoking-room, and furtively watched the other as he went on. The faces of the car's occupants were toward him, and half way along sat Gill, his dark head lowered over a newspaper. He did not even look up as Brown went by him.

"Probably just what it looked like—a mistake on the part of Gil." Tim said to himself, reassured, and walked back to the vestibule to wait for Dozy.

"WHAT'S up, Tim?" Dozy inquired breathlessly, the instant he appeared.

"None of your business," Scarborough informed him pleasantly, as he pocketed his change:

"I hear you're working for Uncle Sam now."

"Is that so? And where did you collect that valuable news item?"

The faintest frown ruffled Tim's placid brow.

Dozy grinned at it. He knew how keenly Scarborough disliked discussion of his affairs.

"Your mama told my mama, and my mama told me," he mocked.

"Well, son, now that you know it, the first thing to do is to forget it. Especially," Tim added seriously, "if our good-looking young friend Brown should happen to ask you."

"Brown!" The boy stared his surprise. "Tim! You're not after him!"

"Why not?"

"He's no crook!"

"Took a fancy to him, eh? Well, so did I. And you're probably right about him; but I'm taking no chances, so don't talk."

Dozy wanted to ask why, and many other questions. But he had learned from experience that they would not be answered. So he contented himself with repeating emphatically: "He's no crook. He's all right, if anybody is." He added: "And, if you ask me, I think he acted mighty well about that dual-personality business. What in the name of decency made you keep after him until he had to admit it was in his own family? Couldn't you see he didn't want to talk about it?"

"Well, you riled him some yourself when you called him English," Tim evaded. "Notice that?"

"Notice it? I should say so. He got as red as if I had insulted him. You don't suppose he's German!"

"He says he's an American. Come on."

Tim led the way back to his seat, and as they passed Brown Dozy gave the latter a sharp, appraising glance, covered by his broadest grin.

"You're plumb crazy—he's no crook," the boy growled into his companion's ear. "And he can't be German, either—with his accent."

Scarborough made no reply. He had, as it happened, just decided that the young man in question could be German; that that indefinable something in his speech might be thus accounted for—though, one had to admit, it would have been accounted for equally well by the theory of French or Italian birth.

Not caring to discuss the point with

Dozy, he led him into talk of people and affairs "down home" until the porter came along with his whisk-broom to tidy up his charges for their arrival in New York.

"So long," said the boy, rising to go to his own seat in the car behind. "If you get lonesome in the great city, look me up."

"Sure thing. Still living with your uncle uptown?"

"Uh-huh. He's a good old scout—never gives me any trouble."

With a parting grin, Dozy was off.

LEFT alone, Scarborough gazed thoughtfully down the aisle at the back of Brown's blond head, then on to Gil's dark one. The Mexican's hair was the color of charcoal, straight and coarse—Indian hair. Other marks of aboriginal descent he bore in his high cheek-bones, high nose, long eyes, and pale copper skin.

He was a man of middle age, a lawyer who for fifteen years had practised with only moderate success, drawing his clientèle from among his compatriots resident in New York. The number of these having been greatly increased in the past few years by the revolutions in their own country, business with Gil had been good, and in the last months he had also added to his list of clients several rich Americans for whom he had acted as agent in the purchase of mining properties in Mexico.

These had been secured at bargain prices from small holders unable longer to continue non-paying investments, and Gil was supposed to have profited handsomely by the deals. Certainly the quality of his clothes, his well groomed aspect


"'My God!' gasped Dozy, yelling back. 'Stay where you are,' Scarborough ordered, kneeling and making rapid tests of the man's pulse and heart."

and self-satisfied air spelled prosperity in capitals.

So far, so good. But an intimation had now reached Washington that these transfers of Mexican holdings, legitimate enough in themselves, had a sinister significance that gravely concerned the United States government. The new owners, it was said, had no intention of waiting indefinitely for dividends. Already plans were under way for the instigating of raids of Mexican bandits into Texas to force the administration to send troops to the border—a step that it was hoped would lead to war and in due course to the resumption of industrial occupations under control of the United States.

Gil's complicity in this treasonable project was as yet only suspected, and Scarborough had been assigned to the task of keeping him under observation. It was work that might prove of the utmost importance, and Tim, who was a newcomer in the Secret Service, felt intensely his responsibility.

After a full minute's speculative gaze at the black pate of the Mexican he looked again at Brown. Here, he knew, was a man of very different caliber from Gil, so different that it seemed absurd to couple them, especially without better evidence than had appeared. This Scarborough told himself again and again; yet the feeling persisted that between the two men there was a hidden bond. And, though he suspected that his feeling might be due entirely to his own nervous apprehension, he yielded to it a few minutes later, when the train was pulling into New York, by stopping at the seat just vacated by Brown to pick up two crumpled bits of paper that he had seen the young man toss away while the porter was brushing him. From their color he knew they were Pullman checks, one doubtless for the chair near which it lay. But the other might tell where Brown had come from—probably he had only changed at Philadelphia.

Dropping the checks into his overcoat pocket,—there was no time then to examine them,—Tim followed Gil. Brown he soon lost sight of on the crowded platform, nor did he again see Dozy. He had, indeed, all he could do to keep up with the Mexican. Unencumbered by a bag, the latter forged ahead, and it was only by walking almost on his heels that Tim managed not to be separated from him.

"Keep that taxi in sight!" he ordered his chauffeur, as he plunged into the cab following Gil's.

THE two machines rolled out of the station, units in a long procession, and turned north on Seventh Avenue. Tim dropped the window in front of him, and, leaning forward, studied the license number of the other car until it was stamped upon his memory. Then he stared anxiously ahead. It was nearly eight o'clock, and a few blocks farther on lay the junction of Forty-second Street and Broadway, which at that hour, like a mighty vortex, sucks toward itself all the traffic of the city.

"Get alongside," he directed sharply, fearing that if he did not keep abreast of the taxi he was following he might at any corner be parted from it by a cross-current of travel. At last, however, they were safely through the worst congestion, out of the roar and blaze, pointed toward Columbus Circle.

From this pivot they swung to the right and entered Central Park West, where in the early evening north-bound vehicles are scarce. For half a mile they proceeded without a break in the course; then, at a street in the lower Seventies, the leading cab suddenly turned, slowed down, and stopped before a house near the corner.

"Look out, now," warned Scarborough. "Pass them! Now turn round and stop on the other side of the street—I'll tell you when."

Plainly unsuspicious of espionage, Gil mounted the stone stoop of the house before which he had stopped, rang the bell, and stepped into the vestibule to await admission. This came, as it happened, at the moment that Scarborough's taxi halted at the opposite curb, and Tim was given a brief but very distinct view of the tall, gray-haired man who opened the door—distinct enough, at least, for him to see that the man was not a servant.

The house, like all the others in the long block, was four-storied, narrow, and brown. Nothing was noticeable about it except that it showed fewer lighted windows than any of the others, none at all above the first floor—though that was hardly a matter for remark.

Five minutes passed, ten; then, of a sudden, the door was opened again, this time by Gil himself. Closing it, he came quickly down the steps to the sidewalk and reentered his cab, which at once started back along the way it had come. At the first entrance into the park, how-

Continued on page 20

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Is There Any Chance in Latin America?


"CAN I make money in South America?" "Do I need to know the language?" "Is capital required?" Questions like these are being asked by many young men. Here they are answered by Dr. Aughinbaugh, whose authoritative knowledge of South America has been recognized by the adoption of his book, "Selling Latin America," in many colleges and universities, and by his appointment to the Chair of Foreign Trade in New York University.

I HAVE spent eighteen years of my life in Latin America. I know it as you know the streets of your home town. I have traveled through every republic south of the Rio Grande, not once but many times. From Mexico to Patagonia I have been in Indian villages, small towns, big cities, and busy ports. I am repeatedly asked, "What are the opportunities for an American in Latin America?" My answer invariably is the same: "If you are the right type of man, Latin America offers exceptional chances to amass a fortune with a minimum of effort."

Latin America comprises twenty distinct States, with a population estimated between sixty-five and seventy-five millions. The majority of the inhabitants are Indians, mixed breeds, negroes, and a comparatively small proportion of whites, excepting Uruguay, Chile, and the Argentine, where the Caucasian predominates. In all of these countries Spanish is spoken, excepting Brazil, where Portuguese is the language.

Every one of these republics is in the process of development and expansion. They have in profusion the things the busy world most needs. They are the largest producers of raw materials. Their mines are the richest known to man. Some have been worked literally for thousands of years and are still productive. Their broad fields are destined to make them the granaries of the world, while their extensive acreage means that they will contribute largely to its meat supply. Their vast virgin forests will enable them to provide humanity with cabinet and other woods for centuries. Large and small rivers afford easy and cheap means for transportation, and can be converted into power, heat, and light generators.

All Latin America is in the process of awakening. Railways are being built; natural resources exploited; agricultural methods modernized; municipal and national improvements contemplated. Just think what must be the opportunities in Brazil—a country larger than the United States and its foreign possessions by more than 200,000 square miles—with only 20,000,000 people; or the possibilities in the Argentine—spreading over as much territory as all of Europe, less Russia and Austria-Hungary—with but 6,000,000. These conditions are duplicated in the other countries.

Latin Americans will never be inventors or manufacturers. Climatic conditions, racial and inherited traits, make them follow the lines of least resistance, and they have become farmers on a large scale, or cattle-raisers. Comparatively few enter commercial life. Their markets are easily reached. Their credit is good. Possessing the things the world most requires,—wheat, cereals, meat, coffee, cocoa, sugar, rubber, wool, nitrates, minerals, woods,—they are relatively immune from any great financial crisis.

Socially, Latin Americans may be divided into two great classes—the politician and the business man. The former lives by exploiting his country and his countrymen. He has the interest of neither at heart. To his door may be traced all the revolutions and other disturbances in these places. On the contrary, the merchant and estate owner has the welfare of his land and its citizens always in mind: for he knows full well that peace means prosperity, that prosperity induces capital to come for the development of latent resources. The politician is in the minority, but his voice is heard loud and often in public places, and his speeches are reproduced by the press. Upon his actions and his utterances we are prone to judge the masses. Unfortunately, we of the North are unacquainted with the real Latin American—the dignified, courteous man of affairs, the man who contributes his capital, his ability, and his best efforts to the up-building of his nation; for he keeps in the background.

With the use of ordinary judgment and due respect for the customs and habits of the natives, by simple tact, ordinary honesty, energy, and small capital, one is sure to succeed in these lands. The truth of this statement is demonstrated most completely by the fact that thousands of Europeans, many of them uneducated, possessed of no great ability, and practically without money, have settled throughout these countries and established themselves in prosperous occupations, acquiring in a relatively short period of time sufficient to keep them in affluence for the remainder of their lives.

But let me warn those contemplating a business life in these fields that the pitfalls are numerous. Life is primitive in all but the few large capitals and ports; government officials exasperating, especially those of the customs; transportation facilities poor; everything expensive; procrastination everywhere; disease stalks through most of the lands; social rules are more exacting than ours.

Above everything else, it is imperative that one know the language of the country wherein he expects to reside, if he wishes success to crown his efforts; for ability to speak grammatically the local idiom brings one in closer contact with the people and aids materially in properly interpreting their thoughts.

Given such a condition of affairs as I have outlined, it becomes apparent that Latin America is a land for strong men only—strong mentally, morally, and physically. It is no place for the waster or the loafer. It is without hope for the tippler or the defective. It does not beckon to the weakling or the dreamer. But to the man of small capital, a high sense of honor, ambition, downright integrity, and faith in himself and his ability to make good, it offers brilliant prospects.

For women few, if any, opportunities exist. Schools are scarce and teachers sadly underpaid. Feminine help is not employed in offices. Trained nursing is done almost exclusively by religious orders. In short, women in trade are ostracized and looked down upon. Unquestionably the larger cities, such as Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro, Santiago (Chile), Montevideo, and Havana, will sooner or later recognize the fact that special fields exist in which women are paramount, and when this time comes the possibilities for women will be as good as in the United States. I am sure, however, that this day is not at hand.

A Vacant Lot Garden that Paid

VERY early in 1916 I took a little walk around a vacant lot that lay just across the alley from my home, and resolved that when summer came again it should no longer be an eyesore, but should blossom as the rose and yield all manner of delightful things for the table, instead of its present abundant crop of briars and tin cans.

While it was still too cold and wet to do any outdoor work, I planned my garden. The space with which I had to work was sixty by one hundred and twenty feet. This was more than was needed for vegetables, considering that I had a smaller back-yard garden, so I decided to grow some sweet potato, cabbage, and tomato plants. These always sell readily in our community through April, May, and June.

Early in February I went to one of our local wholesale seed men and contracted with him to grow for him several thousand sweet potato plants, and told him that I would have cabbage and tomato plants for sale, too.

Feeling that my market was now assured, I went ahead with the garden.

I had it cleared off and fenced with a substantial wire fence five feet high. It was then thoroughly plowed, which is always preferable to spading or digging, wherever a horse can work.

A walk four feet wide, outlined with stones picked up on the ground, was made through the middle of the garden, and rose bushes set out on both sides. Twelve out of fourteen bushes lived and throve, delighting us with lovely roses the first season.

The first thing planted was English peas, on February 25. (It must be remembered that these planting dates are for the South.) The rows were half the length of the garden, that is, from the walk over to the fence, and I will tell just here how that space was utilized throughout the season.

Before the peas were nearly ready to pick, cucumbers and cantaloupes were planted between alternate rows, and by the time the peas were done bearing these vines had grown so that they almost covered the ground. The pea vines were then pulled up and the ground given over to cucumbers and cantaloupes. The


Photographs from Mary H. Northend

Does your back yard look like the picture above? If so, why not make it look like the picture below? A few pennies spent for seeds, a few hours of pleasant work in the warm sunshine, will add beauty to your home, health to yourself, and money for your pocket-book.

third crop for the season on this space was turnips, which were sown late in July.

The space corresponding to this, on the other side of the walk, was used for tomatoes. These were set very deeply, and bore abundantly all summer. Being set so deeply, the hot, dry weather did not affect them at all.

The wire fence gave me 360 feet of support for pole beans, of which I planted two varieties, the white creaseback and the Texas pole.

I sold my sweet potato plants at a good price—$419. The cabbage and tomato plants did well, and the demand was greater than the supply.

Late in October I bought the sash from an old building that was being torn down, for almost nothing, and from this and some old lumber my two boys and I constructed some hot-beds and cold-frames. All winter these gave us lettuce, spinach, parsley, and greens; a mixture of mustard and turnips.

My actual net cash return from my vacant lot garden, not to mention the fresh vegetables enjoyed by the family all the year, was $254.

Gardening certainly does pay.

Tabulated Yield of Garden

Things planted When
Yield Returns 
Peas Feb. 25 All vegetables
yielded well.
They were
used all season
and no ac-
count kept. 
Spinach Mch. 12 
Turnips Mch. 12 
Carrots Mch. 12 
Pole beans Mch. 15 
May 1 
Corn July 5 
Bush beans July 5 
Lettuce July 20 
Sweet potatoes
Mch. 20-25 230,000 plants $402.50 
Cabbage, 3 oz. Feb. 15 9,000 plants 9.00 
Tomatoes,4 oz. Mch. 15 5,000 plants 7.50 
Wire, seed, fertilizer, extra labor, etc. 165.00 
Mrs. J. N. C., Alabama.

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Illustrations by Edward L. Chase


"TAKE it from me," sighed Jessie, "I'm tired of this life. I'm tired of these buyers from up-State. I'm tired of these summer bachelors, so devilish in July and August and so darned good after Labor Day. I'm tired of men with rolls of fat on the back of their necks that they think they can get away with because they sport fat rolls in their pockets. I'm tired of thin, sleek ones and short, stubby ones. I'm just as tired of 'rah-'rah boys as I am of their naughty grandfathers. My feet hurt me, and I've got to part with seven perfec'ly good dollars to-morrow to have my hair touched up. I'll bet that bluefish sauté I had for lunch was bad, the way my insides feel. I'll bet I'm coming down with that kind of poisoning they have. My pink crêpe de chine waist was spoiled in the wash, and the landlady has raised my rent, the cat! And if I should sit up nights thinkin', I couldn't think of a living soul that loves me!"

And with this Jessie put her head down upon the dressing-table, amid a litter of little boxes having the names of actresses on their outsides and pink stuff within, and wept. Immediately a chorus went up from the other three Gayley Sisters:

"Aw, now, Jess, buck up. Aw, say!"

"Dearie! My heavens, dearie, your eyes—"

"Cut out the weeps, girlie! Somewhere the sun is shining, somewhere the sky is bl-lue!

They patted her on the back with soothing, pink-polished hands; they besought her to tell them why, all of a sudden, these tears, this ennui, this general limpness.

"It's that black cat her and Bobby run over in Bobby's car yesterday. It's double-crossed her!" Mamie Corcoran cried; and the other two shuddered fear-fully.

Jessie sat up suddenly.

"Thank God, I'm not superstitious. It ain't that cat—it's my mother."

She looked into the mirror tragically, and met three startled pairs of eyes.

"Your mother! We didn't know you had one."

"You always told us," cried Mande Corcoran, "that your mother give you away when you was two years old, and you've never seen her since. Have you heard from her, then?"

"Has she come to claim you, Jess?" eagerly cut in Sally Peacock, who was soaked in paper-covered romances.

Jessie shook a mournful head.

"No, but I dreamed about her last night. Listen. I saw her just as plain! She was sitting in a rocking-chair on the front porch of a white house with green shutters and roses climbin' up the sides. And there was a white picket fence, and a gate with an old flatiron on a rope to keep it shut. And there was a hammock under two apple trees. And a rain-barrel around by the cellar door. And the street was one of those village streets with maple trees making it all shady and cool, and five or six women sitting out on their porches embroidering and calling across to each other like they do in those small towns. And my mother had on a white apron, and she was shelling peas for supper. And—listen. I opened the gate like this"—Jessie sprang to her feet and dramatized. "'Mother!' I dreamt I said. And she jumped up. 'Jessie, my long lost daughter!' she cried—and just then I woke up. It was the grandest dream I ever had."

A long sigh came from the other three Gayleys. Superstitious to their little trained toes, they were ever enthralled with a dream.

"I wonder what it's a sign of?" one of them whispered. "Do you think maybe you're going to see her?"

"I don't know," replied Jessie, reflectively but skilfully kalsomining her straight, sensible nose. "I must say, I haven't thought much about her for years—being given away when I was such a kid, y'know, and never hearing from her. But that dream has got me going. I ain't thought about another thing all day. And do you know what I've just about made up my mind to do?"

"No!" they chorused. "What?"

"Go back to Kerseyville and live with my mother!"

Wails, expostulations, lamentations broke forth. They were sincere, too. The Gayley Sisters, through the medium of voices and toes and youth, and pulchritude a-plenty, had become one of the most popular of cabaret quartettes. For four years they had worked together with much greater harmony than if they had been real sisters. They had nursed one another and protected one another, and quarreled and made up. They had kept straight and clean in spite of poisonous surroundings that had given them enough precocious wisdom to put a gleam in the eyes of angels. And now they faced the loss of their cleverest member. In two minutes they were all on the verge of tears. They argued and pleaded and exclaimed.

BUT Jessie was bewitched by a dream. She had had a vision of a village street, of a cleaner, greener land, of faces that were familiar and kind, of home cooking, a motherly bosom, and peace, after a somewhat grimy and stressful youth. The more the other Gayley Sisters argued, the more set became Jessie, until at last they all were obliged to leave the dressing-room for the cabaret below, where they gave the most feverish, depressed, and uneven performance of their career.

When they got back to their dressing-room again they advanced one last plea. If she cared nothing for them, what about Bobby Morell?

"That boy thinks a lot of you, Jessie, believe me," said Sally Peacock. "I shouldn't wonder if he'd kill himself driving that car, when he knows about you going away."

"I'll bet he'd marry you without a struggle," subtly interposed Mamie Corcoran.

Jessie bristled.

"I'd have you know," she said coldly, "he proposed to me this afternoon. He'd have driven straight to Tiffany's for the ring if I'd said the word. But I couldn't get that dream out of my head. I says to him: 'Would you promise to live in the country, Bobby, where we could have rose bushes and a rain-barrel and a flat-iron on the gate, where I could sit on the veranda and embroider with the woman next door, and you could come home at night and mow the lawn?'"

"What did he say?" they chorused.

Jessie sniffed scornfully.

"What could you expect a fellow to say that never goes into the country except to scorch up to Shanley's in Yonkers? And whose grandfather was one of the first drivers on the Broadway stage-coach? Why, he laughed so he almost fell out of the car. Regular city Rube, he is! No; I have a hunch"—here Jessie leaned out of the window and dreamily contemplated the Sixth Avenue Elevated roaring by at the end of the street—"I have a hunch that I am going to marry the son of a bank president and have a big white Colonial house with an acre of lawn in the best residential part of Kerseyville."

After this they gave her up. For three days they watched her with commingled awe and grief as she made her preparations for her new life. She dug out from the candy box in the bottom of her trunk the forty-two dollars she was saving for a fur coat and with it she bought a fluffy gray taffeta dress she had had her eye on for two weeks, a fascinating gray hat, a white fox boa at a place on Sixth Avenue where many a family cat has met an untimely end and a new pair of high white shoes.

Thus arrayed, at noon on a bright summer day she stepped from the train at Kerseyville.

NOW, Jessie had known all along that she would probably make some stir in Kerseyville. A tout ensemble that would make Broadway turn around for another look might naturally be expected to attract notice in a town where the noon train is an event. So she walked with apparent unconcern, but with some natural inward exhilaration, past the startled stares of twenty or thirty assorted males down Railroad Avenue to Main Street,.

She had not the slightest idea where her mother lived. The aunt to whom Jessie had been given at the age of two had always spoken of Jessie's mother as living in Kerseyville, and, although Jessie had never seen the place and had not heard a word from or about her mother in many years, her dream had looked to her like Kerseyville; therefore she had every right to believe that in a few minutes she would be unlatching the gate with the flatiron hung from it.

REFLECTING on the joyous surprise her mother was about to receive (she had not written to announce her coming, for in the dream her mother had been undoubtedly surprised), Jessie walked along lower Main Street, past a restaurant, two pool-rooms, and a barber shop. The barber, glancing out in time to see her passing, nicked the left ear of a customer, and ended by following to the door the two men that were waiting for a shave.

"Gee-whillikens! See who's here! Wonder where she's goin'?" breathed one.

"I heard they was wearin' 'em short," sighed the other, "but I wouldn't uv believed it. An' fur in summer! What're women comin' to?"

Jessie turned in at the post office, and walked up to the delivery window. Two girls of about her own age were waiting to distribute the mail that had not yet come up from the station.

"Can you tell me, please," began Jessie in her throaty contralto "where Mrs. Lily Cooper lives'?"

And she was thinking, as she asked the question, that maybe some day these two nice-looking girls would be friends of hers. Maybe she'd entertain them in that white Colonial house with the lawn. Maybe—

"What did you say?" demanded the girl behind the window sharply, in a strange voice.

Jessie repeated her question sweetly. Into the girl's eyes a queer expression leaped. She turned and over her shoulder addressed the outer girl.

"She wants to know where Mrs. Lily Cooper lives," she said in a strangled voice.

The second girl came to the window.

"Did you say Mrs. Lily Cooper?" Her voice also sounded strangled.

"I did," replied Jessie, somewhat tartly now, for she did not like the way the two girls were looking at her. Their eyes, narrowed and strangely gleaming, made her say to herself suddenly: "Cats!"

At last one of them spoke. "I'm sure I couldn't tell you," she said coldly. And Jessie turned away. But, as she reached the door, the first girl called after her: "You had better ask at the drug store." And the second girl gave a giggly snort.

Jessie proceeded along Main Street to the drug store. The drug store was cool and dark, with the front awning down. Like all drug stores, it smelt of sponges and iodoform and damp floor behind the soda fountain, and, like all drug stores, it was the headquarters for the Business Men's Leisure Moment Club.

At the moment Jessie appeared in the doorway the B. M. L. M. C. was in after-dinner session. The three stools in front of the soda fountain were occupied by a doctor, a lawyer, a merchant; and the chief of Star Hose No. 1 sat in the window.

"I tell you what it is," he was saying, "them Belgiums are a wonderful little people. Look at the way they—"

Here he stopped; for over the faces

of the three men on the stools a dazed expression had come. The chief turned himself toward the door and beheld Jessie.

Jessie advanced into the store with a self-possession due to several years of earning her own living under the public gaze, and smiled from one to another of the B. M. L. M. club. The doctor tried to look austere, and failed; the lawyer half rose and nervously felt of his tie; the merchant blinked in stolid admiration; and the chief grinned openly.

"Can you tell me," asked Jessie, in the voice that had become slightly stagey with the use it had been put to, "where Mrs. Lily Cooper lives?"

NOBODY answered; but into the four pairs of eyes leaped one expression. It was an expression very difficult to describe. One would say that defensiveness was its principal ingredient. They looked at one another quickly, and looked away.

The chief was the only one that spoke, and he didn't say much.

"Did you say—" he stammered. "Who was it you said—"

"Mrs. Lily Cooper," repeated Jessie.

The doctor looked sardonically over his shoulder at the proprietor of the drug store, the younger of the Jenkins brothers.

"Lonny," said the doctor, "she wants to know where Mrs. Lily Cooper lives."

Lonny came out from behind the soda fountain. His face was one agonized blush; he scratched his head.

"I dunno as I—I know," he said in a pale voice.

The lawyer snorted meaningly.

"Oh, yes, you do, Lonny. You know, if anybody does. You tell the lady where Mrs. Lily Cooper lives."

Lonny walked toward the door, followed by a very perplexed Jessie.

"You go down Main Street two blocks; then you turn to the right, and go along till you come to the Presbyterian Church; then you turn to the left and go up toward the cheese factory. It's the second house on the left after you cross the crick—if you don't fall in."

He added these words in a lower tone; and Jessie, looking at him, observed a slight twitch of his left eye that might have been, in a bolder soul, the beginning of a wink. She turned swiftly, and walked out in bewildered silence.

Her spirit did not recover its buoyancy until she had left Main Street and


"'You never lifted one finger to stop me. You just believed what you wanted to believe—the worst. Say, do you know what I think of the kind of minds you've got?'"

taken the street past the Presbyterian Church. This was the very street of her dream. Maple trees made over it a cool green canopy; well trimmed lawns bordered it; prosperous small houses smiled upon it. It was something she had never known—so orderly, so permanent, so peaceful.

Something inside of Jessie soared and sang. She wandered along until all at once it occurred to her that she did not know whether the drug store man had told her to turn to the left or the right. She looked about her for some one to inquire her direction from; and then she saw that on the vine-embowered veranda of the house at her right a lady sat sewing.

With this new friendly and peaceful feeling wrapping her about, Jessie did not hesitate to turn into the front walk that led to the veranda. The lady was a plump, well kept little matron, very, very neat in a piqué skirt and thin shirt-waist. She did not see Jessie until Jessie said:

"Beg your pardon, but I have lost my way, and I thought I'd stop and inquire—"

Then the lady looked up with a start. She winked rapidly, and took in a general impression of Jessie that seemed to bewilder her somewhat.

"Won't you—come up and sit down?" she stammered, before she hardly knew what she was saying. In Kerseyville white fox in summer is unknown, and a gray taffeta dress, beruffled in a very modern old-fashioned way, and revealing above the shoe-tops two inches of pale pink silk stockings, is enough to rob the smuggest matron of self-possession.

"Thank you, I don't care if I do," replied Jessie, smiling radiantly. "Some veranda, this is. What a lovely vine! And what adorable rag rugs! I think this is the prettiest street I have ever seen."

"It is a pretty street," the matron murmured absently.

She had just decided, rightly, that Jessie's shell-pink complexion was not her own, and her eyes were narrowing a little. Poor Jessie did not know it, but in Kerseyville no nice girl ever makes up except at the New Year's ball, and then it is done so feebly and spottily that it deceives no one and is therefore all right. It is only when making up enters the realm of art that it becomes an indication to be suspicious of.

"Did you come in on the flyer?" asked the matron.

"If that's the twelve-forty, yes." Jessie leaned her head contentedly against the immaculate towel on the back of her chair. "I could stand a good deal of this," she sighed. "It's so green and quiet. Does the president of the bank live on this street?"

The matron was obviously surprised, but she pointed out the bank president's house farther up the street. Jessie was day-dreaming when the lady put her next question:

"Were you looking for his house?"

"Goodness, no!" Jessie gave a start and a laugh. "I am looking for Mrs. Lily Cooper."

For so simple an answer the result was surprising. The plump little matron became perfectly rigid. She clutched the embroidered centerpiece and stood up.

"If you will excuse me, I am busy," she said icily. "I am not certain exactly where Mrs. Cooper lives, but I believe it is somewhere down there."

She swept her arm in a vague gesture, as if toward a horrid limbo she had heard about but never seen. She died not exactly draw her skirts aside, but that was the effect she produced as she retreated behind her chair toward the door.

JESSIE stood up, struck dumb for the second time that afternoon. Thinking rapidly and bewilderedly, but somehow not able to put her thoughts in the shape of a question, she went down the steps with a murmured "Thank you!" And the woman looked at her back with a sort of fascinated curiosity, as one looks at a snake. Jessie did not see the look, but she felt it, and a depressing disquiet began to trouble her blithe heart.

It was not until she turned out of the prosperous street into one that was not much more than a lane that her disquietude suddenly shaped itself into a terrible thought. She had come to the creek now, and at the thought she leaned hard against the rail, staring down into the shallow water.

"My God!" she whispered. "What if my mother is—is that kind of a woman?"

SHE stood there for a long time, thinking. At the other end of the bridge a path led up to a forlorn group of bleak little houses. All of them were empty except the second. Evidently there had been a factory of some sort beyond the creek, and these were the employees' houses, long since deserted. Jessie contemplated this group for a few minutes; then she set her mouth in a straight, hard line, and walked slowly to the second house.

It was a long time after her knock at the door from which the paint was peeling before she heard a hesitating footstep inside. She was trembling now, and she had her hand clenched at her side. The door opened unwillingly. A blond, hard-eyed, weary woman looked out at Jessie. And Jessie looked back at her with fear and a terrible anxiety in her eyes.

"Are you Mrs. Lily Cooper?" she whispered.

The woman nodded.

Jessie made a choking noise in her throat, and leaned forward.

"You are not my mother, are you?"

The woman's dead eyes did not lighten by a single gleam; but a queer smile flickered across her lips and was gone.

"No, I'm not your mother," she said simply. "Who was you looking for?"

"My mother's name is Lily Cooper," Jessie answered faintly, because she felt all at once weak and shaky. Out of the depths of her knowledge of the hard old world she knew now what this woman was; but because of the depth of her knowledge she felt nothing but pity.

"Can I sit down here a minute?"

"Why, yes," the woman hesitated. "But I don't know as I would, if I was you."

"Oh, that's all right," said Jessie, and smiled up at her. "What I want to know is if there's two Mrs. Lily Coopers in this town?"

The woman thought for a moment.

"When I first come here, five or six years ago, there was a woman by my name. I know, because we used to get our mail mixed. But a long time ago she married a farmer, and they're living up Cummin's Crick, I've heard. I guess she must be your mother."

"Yes, I guess that's it," returned Jessie dully.

She had had a bad shock back there on the bridge, and it left her feeling numb and tired. The woman slipped into the house, and came back with a glass of milk and a home-made doughnut.

She sat there quite a while. She and the woman talked a little, in ordinary woman fashion, about cookery, and the weather, and the view from the little porch, and whether Kerseyville was hot in summer. When she got up to go, she put out her hand, and the other woman took it limply.

When she reached the bridge, she turned. The woman was staring after her, one might almost have said, wistfully. Jessie waved her hand, and the woman waved back. And then Jessie walked with a gathering purpose along the lane to the prosperous street.

AS she walked and thought over the events of the afternoon, she grew angrier and angrier. The pretty street no longer looked pretty to her. She remembered her dream of a friendly street, kindly neighbors, and a motherly woman shelling peas on a rose-trimmed porch, and the hot tears welled in her eyes.

"That was punk dope," she thought mournfully. "Never again! Never, never again shall I believe in a dream!"

Then she looked up, and saw that she was opposite the house where lived the plump and tidy matron. The lady herself was on the porch again, rocking and sewing. Jessie marched up the walk. The matron glanced up, and a frightened ex-

Continued an page 19

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Metro Rolfe.

HAVE you a little grandmother in your home? And does she go on about "how different girls were in her time"? Does she worry about the fewness of your petticoats and the shortness of your dresses, and the way you ruin your hair with curling-irons? And has she really made you think that twentieth-century girls are the most silly, extravagant, flighty creatures that ever were? Bear this great truth in mind: grandmothers were not always grandmothers. The youngest crop, for instance, are none other than the giddy belles of the seventies, with their nineteen-inch waists and shocking dust-catcher skirts. And when one of them begins, "In the good old days," answer quickly: "Yes; and what about the good old ribs and the good old germs?" Says a contemporary historian of the sixties: "The younger generation can never fully realize what extraordinary exhibitions their polite ancestresses made of themselves during that terrible reign of crinoline. Lady Neville, standing too near the fire, nearly burned to death in the presence of half a dozen other ladies, who could not assist her on account of their wide-spreading hoops. And thrifty young ladies of the fifties paid $200 for a bonnet without a murmur.


Photograph by White Studio.


Courtesy of David Belasco.

SO much for the grandmother myth of sense and thrift and never, never flirting. Only one thing can be said in behalf of the gay deceiveresses. Their grandmothers put the same fraud over on them. Great-great-grandmother told grandmother that "girls were different in her time," and so probably grandmother feels obliged to keep the fairy-tale going. Poor worried Lord Byron got so upset in 1820 about the thin dresses and fast customs that followed the introduction of the waltz, that dreadful new dance, that he wrote an impassioned poem about it. And a Paris gossip hoped "that the short sleeves originated by ladies with particularly beautiful arms will go, and that next winter will bring along with its rigours that modesty which alone renders a female desirable."


Courtesy of the Fuller Sisters.

AND the further back one goes the worse it gets. Grandmother talks and her mother talked of the "sweet naturalness" of the girls of yester-year. This wholesome titbit of advice was given to young ladies of the forties by an influential journal of the time: "Let the skirt flow in long, full folds as if loth to leave the sweet, tiny waist, but expand gradually as if fearing to fetter the fairy feet." And, "If a lady sport a shawl, let it be always falling off or being drawn on, thus producing pretty action." At the same safe and sane period a poet felt constrained to remonstrate with our grandmothers thus:

Be wiser, ye maidens, nor seek admiration
By dressing for conquest and flirting with all.
You never, whatever your fortune or station,
Appear half so lovely at rout or at ball
As when with modest demeanor apart
You sit plying the needle with exquisite art.

And an English visitor in Washington at that time nearly had heart failure watching "those mad American girls (1830) skip over the snow to their sleighs, with their poor little toes pinched into miniature slippers far too low and thin to exclude so much as a drop of moisture."


Photograph by Whitt Studio.

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Photograph by Brown Brothers

OUR teacher used to say, "Turn out your toes and mind your p's and q's." Now the Woodcraft League girls who go to Ernest Thompson-Seton's school maintain that "when a woman turns out her toes you may know she was brought up on sidewalks. Keep your feet straight. It lengthens the stride." Besides that, they can make fires without matches. They wear knickerbockers most of the time and they receive honors for "riding a horse a mile in three minutes, clearing a five-foot hurdle and a twelve-foot water jump." Part of the curriculum is the sign-language. For instance, to say "crazy," tap forehead with index finger and then draw a circle around it.


"RESPONSIBILITY, work in which every one takes part," says Robert H. Hutchinson, of the Stony Ford School. "No rewards or punishments. The child always receives the consequence of his deed." If the child whose job it is to bring in the milk every morning doesn't bring it on account of his pillow-fight activities, there just isn't any milk. And, somehow, before the school has finished its oatmeal porridge the milk-boy knows something about Nemesis. In the picture the children are working at the spring garden with a will, realizing that a winter without good baked potatoes would be a cheerless thing.


© Brown Brothers

"KEEP out the poisonous night air," our teacher in the little red schoolhouse used to say the first thing in the morning, as she stuffed slate-sponges in the cracked window. Nowadays children in all-over suits of wool study and play on the roof of a tall building where the winds from the northeast whip the red blood into their cheeks. The teacher is a benevolent person who brings up bread and butter and jam and a caldron of hot chicken broth in the middle of the morning.


THIS is the kind of school we and Mark Twain and Ulysses S. Grant and the rest of the great Americans went to. We had to walk four miles waist-high in snow, carrying pie and beans in a lunch-pail. We learned that George Washington couldn't tell a lie, and every Memorial Day we recited "When-in-the-course-of-human-events-it-becomes-necessary"—with gestures. Modern educators say that to make a little growing child sit still all day "is nothing less than stultifying." But how we used to slide down hill on those big geographies.

Brown Brothers.


Photograph by W. A. Sprinke

Fifteen years ago Miss Mabel Kittredge rented a four-room flat in the New York slums, and invited thirteen little tenement girls to come and study housekeeping. They cleaned and painted and drew designs for the simple furniture; discovered the value of well made beds and clean sheets; washed windows the right way; canned fruit; and learned how to save coal and heat. Now these housekeeping schools have spread to a score of cities. "Everything was perhaps unscientific," says Miss Kittredge; "but when I look into the sweet, orderly homes of some of these girls, now married women, I believe we started right."


The boys are seeeing what progess the young lady has made in rendering the "The Three Bears." "Learn to do by doing," said Miss Mary L. Read of the New York School of Mothercraft. Then she rented a pleasnt house, and filled it with children from a few months of age to seven, guaranteeing their parents that they would receive the most advanced care. Girls who aimed to make an intelligent job of of being mothers, mothers' helpers, and teachers came there to study. A graduate of this school never diagnoses colic when it is a safety-pin the baby is crying about.


© Brown Brothers

FREEDOM of movement and appreciation of rhythm is more valuable for a child than a painful understanding of the ablative case, say the teachers of natural dancing. These children are tanned through their draperies. They live on fruit and nuts, and learn history and literature when it is too hot to dance. "If your muscles and mind are so well controlled that you can move your arms to three-eighths time and leap to four-four time," says their rhythmic teacher, "it will be easy for you to concentrate on logarithms."


WE gladly donate this picture as a frontispiece to the author of the next book on the American drama. It is a scene from an original play entitled "The Wind and the Tumbleweed," conceived and produced by the two actors in the picture. Children in the public schools of Gary, Indiana, are allowed to give their own original plays in the school auditorium. In this bill Octavia Smith (left) gave a breezy interpretation of Wind, while her brother Woodrow played the more exacting part of Tumbleweed. Two other successes of the month were "The Rent Collector" and "Why We Should Keep the Streets Clean."


IN the Gary public schools, of which William Wirt is superintendent, you go to school day and evening, Saturday and Sunday. First you learn the necessary three R's. Then you go in swimming; you play the seventh-grade baseball team; you do a necessary bit of plumbing; you help work on the new tennis-court; you feed the menagerie of raccoons and rabbits; or you give a play in the auditorium that you made up yourself. "Every child is a natural scientist," says Mr. Wirt.


© Brown Brothers

IN the House of Children (Margaret Naumburg's Montessori school in New York) one sees some of the pupils intent at little tables with their crayons. Others are making letters on the blackboard, while in the corner a pair find the notes of a song that one of them has just composed. Later the whole group set the tables for milk and crackers, and then neatly clear up in order that they may dance. Finally, they button on their own wraps and see their nurses or parents safely home. How can these wonders be? "At home the child was in the world of his parents," says the teacher; "here he is in a world of his own."

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HENRY I. NEWELL lived in Brooklyn for thirty-six years, and simply had to have some excitement. He found it in Lanesboro, Massachusetts, where his farm raises all the best crops, including four regular boys. When you have listened to the music of the katy-dids for a few nights, says Mr. Newell, you don't care if a hurdy-gurdy never plays under your parlor window again as long as you live.

Photograph from Clair W. Perry


Photograph from Charles M. Stewart.

"COME into the garden, Maud," said Tennyson, who probably never weeded onions in his life. And many a good man and true has taken that advice. Among others, Eugene A. Keefer, who for years labored as an accountant in the city, but now hoes rows of vegetables instead of adding rows of figures. Mr. Keefer is also engaged in solving the following mathematical problem, viz.: Why does a woman wearing a Mother Hubbard look like a Hubbard squash?


Photograph from Charles M. Stewart

DR. R. L. SHENT of Philadelphia one day grew weary of the eternal feminine plaint: "I don't know what's the matter with me, doctor: I just don't have any energy at all." "Away from the maddening girls," he said to himself, and straightway sold all his goods and bought 350 acres of Pennsylvania farmland. On this he has already raised the following crops: electric lights and running water; tennis-court; six-cylinder automobile. Please send sample of the soil for analysis, Doctor.


Photograph from Charles M. Stewart.

IF he were to take the notion, S. A. Floyd could leave his farm and go back to the Floyd Building in Harrisburg, and ride up and down all day in his own elevators without it costing him a cent. But all his city real estate has no attractions for him compared with his orchards and broad acres and fragrant meadows. We go out in the country for a walk every single May ourselves, but never yet have seen any Maud Mullers as good as those on Forty-second Street.


SPEAKER TOM REED was entertaining a group of friends at luncheon on his Maine farm one day. At his elbow were two bottles. One contained milk and the other champagne. "Which will you have?" asked Tom of his friends. "They cost me just the same." Tom was an agriculturist. Charles Forney, Sr. (above), is a real farmer. "I got tired of handling so many men and so much money in the city," he says, "and so I came out here." We can understand the part about being tired of handling so many men, but tired of handling money! Probably our hands are extra strong: we can carry home our whole pay in one hand and not get tired—not very tired.


"I HAVE always had a hankering to be a farmer. I'm green at it—very green," says William T. Gillies, who left the city for the farm. "But, now that I have a chance, I'm going to prove myself a real farmer or bust my suspenders trying." We wish Mr. Gillies every luck: we know he must succeed in being a farmer, because he simply can't bust his suspenders trying. As the picture proves, he hasn't any on.

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To Roll This Old World Along



Photograph front Albert Maude.
Photograph from C. V. Geiger

Earl Hanson may have solved all the wireless telephone problems that are baffling the engineers of the world. His apparatus is light enough to be used by a bicycle policeman.

ALMOST under the great towers of the Los Angeles wireless station, amid the clacking of all Los Angeles' amateur wireless operators, a twenty-three-year-old youth demonstrated his wireless wonders to the most distinguished group of men in Los Angeles. Not an interruption from the amateurs or the big commercial set was heard. It may be that this boy has surmounted all the obstacles that are at present baffling the engineers.

Earl Hanson has been experimenting with electricity and taking out patents since he was twelve years old. The demonstration that he gave to the mayor of his city, the president of the telephone company, and others showed that his apparatus could send music, talk of any kind, whispers, and signals without wires, even though all around him the air was broken and split by the operations of other stations. He gave receivers to various members of the party, and sent them out on the street to listen to whispers and music from within the house.

His devices are so light and small that one of them was attached to a bicycle used by a policeman, and the latter was able to keep in constant touch with the laboratory. One or a thousand receivers can be attached to his wireless telephone, so that every listener hears as distinctly as if he were in the room from which the sounds emanate. When the listeners are all in one room, it is possible for the sounds to be received in a megaphone, which enables all the occupants to hear every sound received.

The only explanation that Hanson has seen fit to make regarding his remarkable achievements is that he uses very low frequency wireless waves in a new way. All the great sending stations of the world are enabled to send signals without disturbance from other local stations only by using very high frequencies. The Arlington station on the Atlantic uses so high a tone that the sound in the telegraph receivers at a distance closely resembles the tone of a high-pitched bell. This requires a great deal of current and a very powerful sending station.

Words and music have often been sent limited distances by wireless telephone, but rarely has this been possible when any other wireless station was using the air. The greatest drawback to wireless telephony and telegraphy has always been that the air is one great "line" and that it is usually busy.


AS you stand in the little mining town of Summit Hill, Pennsylvania, just after dusk, looking up the mountainside, do not cry "fire" and turn in an alarm. The natives know all about that fire: it has been burning for more than half a century, and the local department


Photograph from L. M. Edholm.

The boy's feet are hot because he is standing on a burning mountain. The vein of coal beneath him has been burning for sixty-eight years.

has absolutely given up hope of ever extinguishing it. Patches on the mountainside glow in flame; wisps of smoke rise from crevices. The whole interior of the hill seems to be afire. In reality it is only a vein of coal that is slowly being consumed. As the fire progresses the side of the hill caves in to the depth of the vein.

Every device that Summit Hill knows of has been tried in the effort to put out the fire, and water has been pumped into the mine almost continuously for sixty-eight years. If you have a solution of the problem, run up to see the fire chief. The price of coal is still going up.


UNLESS you have a tropical submarine garden you can not grow the ordinary animal sponges, such as those for sale at the corner drug-store; but if you would be satisfied with a vegetable sponge that will do everything an animal sponge can do, grow them yourself. A vegetable sponge can be grown as easily in the United States as a pumpkin or a gourd—in fact, it is the interior of a certain type of gourd which grows on the luffa plant.

The luffa plant requires a long, hot summer, but it can be started in a cold-frame early in the spring and then be set out. It is a beautiful vine, and a decoration to any garden; but, best of all, there is money in the gourds. An Ohio woman sold more than a thousand vegetable sponges from her vines last summer to a garage company in her town for use in cleaning automobiles. She uses them for dish-rags, scrubbing-brushes, and the ordinary purposes of a sponge.

The luffa gourd is approximately four inches in diameter and about a foot long. The interior is composed of thick, tough fibers, which, when sundered, make the sponge. By cutting the husk in quarters the interior mass may be lifted out; then spread it out on a roof to dry and bleach. When bleached it forms a hairy mass, which is as hard as an animal sponge; but as soon as it is placed in water it swells up, and becomes soft without losing its toughness. It feels to the touch like a coarse Turkish towel.

Experiment with a vine next summer—the seed dealer will answer your call for luffa seed.


THE mosquitoes that live along the shores of Lake Nyassa, in Africa, are so numerous and so large that even the proud New Jersey singer is put to shame every time it thinks of its relative of the Eastern Hemisphere—especially when it realizes that there the native considers its race an asset instead of a pestiferous liability. The natives eat them, relish them, welcome everything concerning them, except the sting. Hunters go forth to the marshes with large bags on their shoulders, into which they toss handfuls of mosquitoes. These are then pressed into cakes an inch thick and six inches in diameter. Kungo the cakes are called, and one of them will bring many beads and potatoes in the open market.

Mexicans are very fond of cakes made from the eggs of the "water boatmen." Bees, wasps, and locusts are to be found in some savage delicatessens. Epicures of some regions are fond of white ants, butterflies, dragon-flies, and moths—this in territory where the chocolate cream would be considered messy.


BATHING at Summerland, California, is an oily affair, so the most popular beach sport is digging in the sand with a drill. Just where youngsters once dug for shellfish at low tide stands a long row of oil-wells with their towering supports, looking like a gigantic fleet of pile-drivers taking refuge on the sandy shores. Some time ago a bather investigated the film of oil that unaccountably floated continuously on the surf, preventing the rollers from breaking as they normally would. No Californian has to look twice to think of oil, and before long this man was in the back wash with a drilling outfit, which he had placed on stilts so that it would not be carried away by strong tides and storms.

Beneath the surface sand he found a strata of oil-bearing sand that was rich in crude petroleum, and wells sprang up all through the surf as far as the vein extended. Undoubtedly the ocean bottom is rich in everything that man covets, and this is the only case on record in


Photograph from Monroe Woolley.

The oil-seekers have invaded the ocean sands at Summerland, California, where superstructures dot the surf like huge pile-drivers. Man will go to sea for anything.

which mineral products have been extracted from the sea. When we learn how to push back the waters another story may be told, and another race of millionaires, sea-born, may spring to prominence.


THE high price of sisal, the hemp from Yucatan which has been monopolized by Governor Alvorado, is boosting the price of heavy cord. Hot on the trail of the Governor, without his knowing it, is the United States Forestry Laboratory at Madison, Wisconsin. They are making twine out of paper out there, on the ice-bound shores of Lake Mendota. To make twine from paper, cut long narrow strips and twist them together as tightly as possible without tearing them. The resulting string is quite usable.

Several hundred packages, each containing a medium-sized book, were sent out from the Madison laboratory, tied with paper twine. In each case, according to reports, no damage to the book occurred because of failure of the twine. The greatest difficulty, and one that is not yet overcome by the experimenters, is the fact that paper is soluble and hence the new twine can not be used where it would be exposed to the action of water.


THE most convenient method for sterilizing tooth-brushes is with that most common household germicide, table salt. After years of effort on the part of the makers of dental confections and the dentists themselves, the American citizen has cultivated the tooth-brush habit. Teeth can not be kept clean without its use. But, unfortunately, the brush can not be kept clean without some attention also. The campaign begins:

After the gums and teeth have been properly brushed, sufficient salt is placed in a glass of warm water to make a saline solution. This is used as a mouth wash. The brush is to be cleaned as well as possible by holding it under the hot water tap. Salt is then sprinkled on the brush, and it is hung up to dry. It permeates to the center of the tufts of bristles, and sterilizes them as well as toughens them.

The next time the brush is used it will be sterile and incrusted with salt crystals, which may be shaken off.


THERE is no lead in a lead-pencil, because it is made of clay and graphite. Graphite is a close chemical relation to the diamond and to coal, but it does not even speak to lead. The price of pencils depends upon the wood, the decorations, and the quality of the clay and the graphite.

THE Forest Products Laboratory of the Department of Agriculture has made a census showing that there is enough Osage orange wood in the United States to supply the needs of American dye manufacturers, who use the wood in their new enterprises, for a long time to come.

IT has been discovered that military reconnaissance by an aviator is most easily carried on when the aviator dictates his news into a phonograph and tosses the record earthward to the waiting officers at headquarters.

THAT beauty is spreading in the United States is shown by the latest government statistics on cosmetics. The industry that produces hair tonic, hair dye, talcum powder, enamel, rouge, and other things the Puritan fathers never heard of is one of the fastest growing enterprises in the country. Four million dollars' worth of talcum powder was used last year. The women of the country spent fifty millions on such accessories in total.

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The Sport of Kings


Illustration by A. I. Keller

BY the grace of God, the scheme against me had gone astray. I use the phrase "grace of God" thoughtfully and with full reverence. Surely the grace of God it had been that had awakened Colonel Buckmaster to the act that had saved me from ruin—nothing less than that. And without that action of his all my caution, all my plans had surely counted for nothing. Had it not been for his repudiation of the plot at the last moment, I'd have been disgraced, ruined.

These were the arguments I used to him as we sat in my room after dinner—he, Jerry, and I. Without the Colonel's aid Vivandière would have been declared a loser, and I wouldn't now have had in my possession thirty thousand dollars, less the fifteen hundred for Murphy and five hundred more which, in my joy, I had given to the stable-hands.

"Eighteen thousand dollars velvet, Colonel," I told him, "and all owing to your act. You've certainly got to accept half of it—it's yours. But for you, I'd not have it, and—no protests, Colonel, please. It's yours."

"Simply foh doin' the propeh thing, Mr. Kernan, eh?" The Colonel smiled sadly. "Of co'se, Mr. Kernan, I know that I've lost my position heah, but—to take money foh doin' what a gentleman should do—" He shook his head.

"Colonel," said I, "you knew that there was a plot to ruin me. You thought it would succeed. You warned me to withdraw my mare. I didn't do it; I went ahead. Then, because the plot was low and vile, you refused to be a party to it. You were to gain by remaining a party to it. You lost by not being a party to it. And I can not permit any man to lose by his friendship for me."

"My regahd for the remnants of my honah," he said. "That's what it was.

"Whatever it was, you must accept," I said. "Your daughter—"

He winced at that. Then he reached for the money and buttoned it inside his waistcoat. Poor old Colonel! I'd have been an ungrateful dog if I hadn't split with him.

"And, Colonel," I said to him, "don't You fret about what's happened. You've nothing to reproach yourself for. When the test came, you did the square thing. Let those dogs yelp till their throats crack—it'll do 'em no good."

"They'll do more than yelp, Mr. Kernan," he said. "I don't know just what is behind all this, but— I'm ahmed, seh. Are yoh?"

I shook my head. Jerry chuckled.

"Misther Sale's fists is arrums enough. And I think they've had enough. Their pocket-books is flat and—"

WHATEVER bit of wisdom would have fallen from Jerry's lips then I do not know. There came a knock at the door. Jerry opened it. A bell-boy stood outside.

"Sev'al gemman, seh," he said, "wants to see yoh, Mr. Ke'nan, seh. Mr. Holt and Mr. Kendrick—"

"Tell them I'll be right down," I said. I looked at my two companions.

"If they intend starting anything, it would better happen in the lobby, where every one can see it," I said. "Come on downstairs."

A group of men stood at the clerk's desk. Holt and Kendrick were there, and others whom I recognized as men interested in the ownership of the Grantham track. Nervous and ill at ease, all of them seemed. Instead of truculence, instead of a menace of violence, there was a furtiveness in the eyes of the group I approached.

"Well, gentlemen?" I said coolly.

"We wanted to see you—alone—in your room," said Holt.

I laughed.

"When I meet you gentlemen, I prefer

"The Sport of Kings" began in our issue of December 11.
the whole world to be witness. What particular form of bulldozing have you in store for me now?"

"Oh, why rub it in! You put it over on us. Aren't you satisfied? What more do you want to do?"

These were the amazing words that fell from the lips of Holt. I stared at him.

"Would you mind being a little more explicit?" I asked quietly.

"Oh, you understand, Kernan. You've got us on the hip. The question is, are you going to tell all you know? It's a nasty bird that fouls its own nest, Kernan. Racing has got enough black eyes, especially in this State. Are you going to hand it another one?"

"What do you mean?" I managed to ask. He shifted nervously.

"Well, now, we know pretty well about how much you know. Now that Classon's dead—"


"Haven't you heard?" he asked.

I shook my head. He thrust into my trembling hands a "latest extra" of the


"Mrs. Kernan, gentlemen, I give you the winner of the Manhattan ! The best horse on the track—Vivandière!"

Grantham Times. In red letters across the top of the front page were the words,


I read the story—a brief telegraphed account:

Francis Classon, head of the firm of Classon & Co., bankers and brokers of New York City, steward of the Jockey Club, and well known in business and sport circles, shot himself at four o'clock this afternoon. Mr. Classon had been watching the news ticker in his private office, and died clutching a piece of the tape which had on it the result of a race at Grantham. On his desk was found a statement, evidently written in anticipation of his suicide. In it he confessed to the embezzlement of funds intrusted to him by clients and stated that he was insolvent. His chief clerk, Adams, admitted that he had known of his employer's defalcations, and that Mr. Classon had lately been betting heavily on the races in Mexico and Florida in the hope of recouping. Adams further admitted that Classon had been backing a chain of pool-rooms. This is interesting in view of the fact that a well known trainer was barred from the turf last fall because he accused Classon of crooked practices on the track.

That was all in the brief despatch. There would be more to-morrow, but—this was enough. I looked at Holt and the others.

"Now that the big gun is out of the way and can't protect you—you're nervous, eh?"

"If you talk there'll be investigation of Classon's affairs and—"

Holt shrugged his shoulders hopelessly.

"If I talk—for publication—this track will be closed, eh?" I asked.

"Your winning this afternoon cost the pool-rooms half a million," snapped Holt, "not to mention what it cost the books down here. And it made Classon—"

I nodded thoughtfully.

"Of course," I said, "it wouldn't be hard for me to prove that Classon and Smiler Smith—"

"Dane said you knew that," interrupted Holt.

"I do. Classon backed Smiler Smith with the understanding that the pool-rooms would know what horse was going to lose—certainly."

"I thought Dane tackled a buzz-saw when he picked you," snapped Holt. "If he'd let you alone—"

"I thank Colonel Buckmaster," I said.

Holt glared at the Colonel; but the Colonel smiled contemptuously.

"And to-day's race was the last straw that broke the financial back of Classon," I said. "Well, gentlemen,"—I emphasized the word, and they had the grace to flush,—"I ought to tell all that I know; I ought to have you scoundrels barred from the track! But—Classon is dead. I don't want to mire the name of a dead man any more than it is already smirched. Murder will out! You gang of high-binders will get yours. Racing will be killed in this State. But you're safe—from me! Good evening, gentlemen."

My companions and I walked away from the desk.

"Well, Jerry, and you, Colonel," said I, "a little drink—"

"Lady wishes to see you in the parlor, Mr. Kernan, seh," said a boy.

I asked Jerry and the Colonel to excuse me, and followed him to the drawing-room, where Miss Leland waited for me.

If I had been inclined to feel at all puffed, my conceit would have vanished before her sad eyes. For they were sad, and red with lately shed tears.

"My dear Miss Leland," I cried, "what's wrong?"

"I understand that the evening paper has something about Mr. Classon's—"

"Yes," I said. "He—is dead."

"Mrs. Clarke just left me," said the girl. "She—got a telegram from Mr. Classon's office. She—Mr. Dane has been talking to her—they blame me and you and Colonel Buckmaster. Mr. Classon was involved in—"

"I know all that," I said, to spare her the recital. "But as for blaming you—absurd! Classon's a thief. Dane—well, the least said the better."

"I know," she said. "But Luella—Mrs. Clarke—she carried on so! I wanted to talk with a real friend."

I bowed. "Thank you, Miss Leland," I said.

"You are a real friend, Mr. Kernan," she told me. "You—Mrs. Clarke is leaving for New. York to-night. She seemed to think that racing is business and that anything is honest in business. She could not understand why I felt so—"

"Don't talk about it, Miss Leland," I begged her. "There's nothing to be gained by it. It's all over—"

"But it isn't," she cried. "Mrs. Clarke's telegram said that there'd hardly be a dollar to pay the Classon bills—not enough money to pay a small percentage of the accounts intrusted to his keeping; barely enough to bury him; and—"

She paused.

"Well?"' I prompted her.

"Mr. Classon was custodian of all that father left me. Everything I possess, except the farm at Stephanie, was in his hands: Mrs. Clarke some time ago advised me to intrust my affairs to his firm, and—"

She stopped short.

"Why, Mr. Kernan, you look pleased!"

SHE told the truth. Why? Isn't the answer easy? A man may dare to ask a poor girl the question that he hesitates to put to a girl of wealth.

"Pleased?" I stammered. "Why—why, Miss Leland—I—"

"Aren't you sorry that I'm to be poor?" she asked.

"Poor?" I dodged the question. "But you aren't. You have Vivandière! She'll earn a fortune up North this year. I'll train—I'll be reinstated beyond a doubt. We'll clean up—"

"But I haven't enough money to afford a trainer; I'll have to sell Vivandière—"

"Miss Leland, will you take me as a partner?" I asked.

"Partner?" she echoed.

"I've nine thousand dollars of my own money," I said. "I'll pay you that much for a half-ownership in Vivandière!"

"The mare wouldn't bring more than that at auction," she protested.

"People don't realize how good she is," said I. "But I do; I know! Will you accept me as partner? With that money we can last through until the season opens—have lots left over—up North. Then we'll win enough to—"

"You really want to give me your money?"

"I want to buy something from you," I replied.

"Give," she insisted.

"Why should I want to give you anything?" I demanded.

"Yes, why?" she asked. "Why did you risk your life for my horse?"

My lips were dry, my throat parched.

"I know why, Miss Leland," said I; "but I don't exactly dare to—tell you."

"I'm not afraid," she answered. "And—and—while I'd not let you acquire a share of Vivandière by purchase—there's another way—"

"Miss Leland—Roberta—I'm just a trainer. I—do you mean—"

She lifted tear-wet eyes to mine.

"For a man so clever with horses, Sale Kernan," she said, "you are awfully dull with women!"

I looked at her. Then I looked behind me. A clump of potted palms hid us from prying eyes. Then I kissed her.

BEAUMONT. Velvet lawns, prancing thoroughbreds, stands riotous with the colors of the rainbow. Ten thousand beautiful women—and the loveliest of them all at my side. My wife!

The barrier lifted; the Manhattan was being run, for a purse of twenty thousand dollars and the glory of victory.

"They're off!" Thirty thousand voices cried the word to heaven. I felt a small gloved hand grip my arm.

"Where is she, Sale? I—I don't dare to look!"

"Third," I answered.

"She'll be first soon enough," boomed the heavy voice of old Sam Benton. "Nine to two I got for my money—average. What'd you get, Sale?"

"Didn't bet," I answered.

"Not bet! For the love of—Mike, why not?"

"I didn't want him to," said my wife. "Sale, where are they now?"

"Lady wife," I said, "you aren't being game! Here!" I thrust the glasses into her hands. "Report to me. I like your voice."

"Rounding the second turn! Vivandière's dropped back. Oh, the beasts, that weight is too much! One-seventeen, and Marigold is only carrying one-twelve! It's too much—she's back to fifth!"

"Nice ride Murphy's giving her, Sale," commented Benton.

"She's back to sixth. What's the matter, Sale? What's wrong with her?"

"It's a mile and three eighths, dear," I replied. "This race will be won at the wire. Where are they now?"

"At the third turn. Vivandière—Sale, she's creeping up! She's fifth—they're at the last turn—they're in the stretch. Sale! Sale!"

"Nice ride Murphy's giving her," boomed old Sam.

I needed no glasses now. But my wife still told the story of the race.

"She's fourth, Sale; she's fourth! She's third! She's—"

She dropped her glasses and stood up. I too! Hand in hand, we watched the daintiest lady of the year show the Northerners what a race-mare really was! She got to the shoulders of Minot! He tried to shake her off; she would not be denied! Ding-dong, ding-dong! She was by him. She was at the neck of Marigold, crack filly of the year and best horse on the track to-day, so wiseacres said. A hundred yards from the wire Vivandière caught her.

Side by side, neck and neck, they spurned the earth in the final dash for the wire. Thirty thousand voices cried, encouragement: "Marigold! Marigold! Vivandière! Vivandière!"

But the blood of Lexington told. Thirty yards from the wire, Marigold faltered; only a second, and then her jock had her in hand. But the race was won and lost then. The dainty lady that sported the blood of all the Waters and the blood of mighty Lexington could not be denied. By an eyelash, perhaps! But still—a winner! Vivandière, ruled off


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the track, had been reinstated and—come back. I, ruled off the track, had been reinstated and—come back.

My eyes were misty as I saw Murphy hoisted into the floral horseshoe and carried down the track and past the grand-stands. My wife turned to me, and I saw her sweet lips tremble.

"You mustn't, dear," I said. "Why, we've won!"

"Yes, we've won, and—some one else has lost," she said. "Sale—take me to the hotel."

Past the outstretched hands that would have shaken the hand of the trainer of Vivandière—past old Soren, who from his private box waved to me and cried, "Well done!"—past every one that knew us, we made our way out to the parked automobiles where stood our car.

"To the hotel," I told the chauffeur, as I assisted my wife into the car. I turned as a black hand twitched at my sleeve. It was the "Reverend Yancey."

"I heahs yeah hawss bein' cheeahed, seh," he said. "I jes' wanted to wish yoh luck an' moh of it, seh."

"Well, you black socundrel," I snapped. "You have the nerve to speak to us after leaving us in the lurch the way you did last winter at Grantham!"

"Lawdy, Misteh Ke'nan," he grinned. "You ain't min' dat. Yoah hawss win anyway, an' dat man Dane act as fierce! He threaten to cut ma heaht out an'—I ain' got a jitney, seh," he said.

Well, he'd wanted to help us. Fear had prevented him from doing so. I tossed him a coin.

"I ought to have hit him," I said to my wife, as we rolled away.

"You didn't hit poor little Pete when we found him at Stephanie," said my wife. "You gave him a job. Sale Kernan, you wouldn't hurt any one."

She was silent a while; then:

"Sale, did you see Carteret Dane to-day?"

"Dane? No!"

"I saw him as we entered the track. He was shabby and unkempt and—That's why I didn't want you to bet."

"I don't get the connection," I told her.

"Don't you? Sale, it's the betting I hate! It's ruining racing, isn't it? Isn't it common talk that the new candidate for Governor will make his campaign on the race-track issue? And that he'll be elected?"

I had to admit that it was even so.

"WELL, Sale, when racing ends—and it will end—it will cease to be until it can be cured of the betting evil—what then, Sale?"

"Why—I don't know," I answered. "I suppose we'll take the stable to England, or—"

"Chased from pillar to post," she said bitterly. "Sale—I don't believe in betting. A few dollars—for fun; that's all right. But thousands—no! I've seen to what it leads. Look at Carteret Dane; think of Mr. Classon, who killed himself because of his betting—on stocks or horses: it doesn't matter! Betting is evil. They say that racing can't exist without it. Then, Sale, if it can't—racing should die!"

I stared at her. "This is heresy, Bobbie," I said.

"No; it's truth, and you know it. Think of Grantham—think of all the crookedness that the greed for sudden riches caused there. Think of all—Sale, you remember that I told you that I wished Vivandière run under the Leland name and not under the name of Kernan? Well, there was a reason. I didn't want my husband to be known merely as the owner of a string of horses. I didn't want—Sale, your father raced for pleasure—at first. When he ceased to race for pleasure the gambling bee stung him. He bet on horses, then on stocks—then ruin. Colonel Buckmaster ceased racing for pleasure; he was ruined. My father rarely wagered anything on a race; betting was indifferent to him. He was not ruined; but the fortune he left me was lost by a man who gambled. Sale, I hate it! I want you to quit racing!

"It was right that Vivandière should be given her chance; it was right that you should come back into the world from which you had been driven and win a great triumph. It was right for us to take a purse we'd honestly won. But above all this right looms the figure of wrong—the figure of the betting evil. Sale, I want you to quit—until racing is redeemed!"

I LOOKED at her. Passion was in every line of her face, in every intonation of her voice. Suddenly I saw with her eyes—saw all the sordidness of the betting game; felt the mire spatter me; heard in memory the suspicions, the rumors, the lies, the deceptions of it all. Racing without betting? Could it be? I wondered; I shook my head. Later, perhaps: but, first—racing must cease. I faced what I had always known: the fact that without racing there would be no race gambling. The sport of kings had become the sport of the money-lust. And the man who would surely be elected Governor would stop it—for a time at least. I turned to my wife.

"Your word is law, my dear," I said. "What would you have me do?"

"We have, including to-day's purse; about forty thousand dollars; my place at Stephanie will fetch thirty more. I saw Kernan's Farm advertised for sale in the Breeder's Guide the other day. Fifty thousand was the price asked. We could buy it; you'd have enough left to stock it with horses—not racers only, but cavalry horses. They're raising them in Vermont; why not in Kentucky, Sale? There'd be no feverish excitement; there'd be peace, calm, content, certainty. Sale —could you—would you—"

"And if, after racing is killed, it is revived again, and the evil of betting is gone—then, dear—if Vivandière—or her get—"

"When racing is lifted to the plane of honor, Sale, then—then I'd be the last person in the world to stop you from flaunting the Kernan colors to the winds of the turf. But now—"

Kernan's Farm! The home of my father, his father, my great-grandfather. Always had I thought, remotely, of acquiring by purchase the place where I was born. And now—

"Dear," said I, "I'll close the deal tomorrow if it's possible. If you think you'd be content away from the gaiety of New York; if you think the dullness of a Kentucky farm will not get on your nerves—"

"Sale Kernan, you stop talking that way," said my wife. "As if I could ever be dull—with you!"

In our rooms at the hotel I dug out of my trunk some old pictures of Kernan's Farm. We were looking at them an hour later, when Sam Benton and Jerry Kenney entered.

"Well, what does this mean? Run away from all the glory and applause—"

"We've run away for good, Sam," I told him. "Mrs. Kernan has begun to sense the fact that racing to-day is built upon a rotten foundation; she sees it must totter and fall. We're through."

"You mean Vivandière—"

"She doesn't race again—until racing is cleansed."


THIS is Arthur Somers Roche, who wrote this story, "The Sport of Kings." We hope you have liked the story: we liked it so much that when we read it we immediately arranged with Mr. Roche for two more serials.

The first of these is called "The Flag of Lollonois." Mr. Roche is of the opinion that it is the best story he has written up to this time.

Mr. Roche is a young man: our belief is that his success has only just begun.

"Give you fifty thousand for her! Write the check now," snorted Sam.

I shook my head.

"She's not for sale. Some day, when racing comes back, Sam, you'll have the privilege of watching her run; but—not now."

"Gone crazy?" he snapped.

"Become sane," said I. "Sam, all my folks spent their lives raising thoroughbred racers, useless for anything save sport. I'm going back to Kentucky and raise animals that are useful. Racing is great sport, but—no business. It's hard for a Kentuckian to admit that; but—it's so."

"And we're going back to Kernan's Farm," cried Roberta.

"Where the folks is honest and the horses is honest and the grass is honest and the trees is honest and the liquor—glory be!—but the liquor is honest!" cried Jerry.

For, of course, he knew that he'd go with us. Sam stared at us.

"Sale," said he, "for a pudd'n'-headed jay that'd throw away a chance to make a fortune with the best race-mare in trainin'—I say, for a pudd'n'-headed chump, you sure have brains! Or your wife has. Racing—it's at its glory now; but the handwriting is on the wall, and you are wise to read it."

He rose and walked to the telephone.

"May I?" he asked.

"Certainly," said I.

He spoke to the clerk downstairs. "Send up a bottle of the 'ninety-three," he ordered.

THE waiter that brought the champagne brought also a telegram from Colonel Buckmaster, who was now quietly living with his daughter in Covington, in a house that he had bought with part of the nine thousand I had given him, and earning a comfortable salary as military instructor in an academy.

"All hail the gallant Vivandière, the telegram ended.

"Right," cried Benton, rising to his feet and lifting his glass on high. He bowed toward my wife.

"I could drink to you, Mrs. Kernan, with pleasure. I could drink to your husband with keen enjoyment. I will do both later on. But just now I'm going to offer another toast. The little lady that brought you together; that made you, Mrs. Kernan, wire me to tell you all I knew about the man you've married, when the ship that bore you to your joint destiny stopped at Charleston—so interested were you in him at first sight; the little lady, Mrs. Kernan, whose honesty is such that you hate to let her remain in dishonesty or in the equally evil places of greed; the little lady that has redeemed the Leland and the Kernan fortunes, in so far as she might; the little lady that knows no fear; the little lady that always gives the best that's in her; the little lady whose sturdy, courageous, win-or-die-tryin' honesty should shame the crooks that fatten on the betting ring; the little lady who's the best race-mare in trainin'! Mrs. Kernan, gentlemen, I give you the winner of the Manhattan! The best horse on the track—


The End

everyweek Page 19Page 19


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Jessie Passes

Continued from page 10

pression replaced the bland vacancy in her face. She half rose.

"Don't get up," said Jessie crisply. "I'm going to say what I've got to say from here. I found Mrs. Lily Cooper. She isn't the person I was looking for, but she is the friendliest and most decent woman I've seen in this town, bar none. She warned me against sitting on her veranda, but you showed me the way there. Say, look at me. Do I look to you like the kind of girl that woman would be having in her house? Tell me that; do I?"

UNDER Jessie's fierce eyes the plump matron opened her mouth feebly, but no word came forth. Jessie made a contemptuous gesture.

"You're just a plain fool," she said. "You don't know enough to know a decent girl when you see one, because she happens to have on clothes that wasn't made by Sally Singmaster at a dollar a day in your back bedroom upstairs. You've lived in this gingerbread house in this woolly town, with some one to support you and let you live soft, all your life, and you just take it for granted that you're the goods. You probably never done more than half a day's real work in your life, and you couldn't take care of yourself any more than a kitten if you was cast adrift. Some man would have to do it. But you sit up there on your veranda and embroider wabbly flowers, and look down on the Cooper woman. Not that I'm standing up for the Cooper woman, y'understand. But I can see a reason and an excuse for her—and that's more than you've been able to do in all your silly life for any human being that wasn't just like you and the other women on this street. This street!" Jessie made a wide and contemptuous gesture. "Why, I wouldn't live on this street if you'd give it to me. I'm too honest."

With that she turned on her heel with a swish of her taffeta skirts, and walked rapidly away.

Her dream was shattered, but there still remained to Jessie the joy of telling Kerseyville exactly what she thought of it. She clicked her heels rapidly toward the drug store.

The B. M. L. M. Club was still in session, with the addition of one or two others that had strolled in to while away the dull hour from three to four. The newcomers had heard about Jessie; in fact, the subject of Jessie had been discussed in all its aspects exhaustively, and the club was settling the Balkan situation when Jessie smote open the screen door.

Stepping into the middle of the store, she swept the group with her quick dark eyes. One by one, she picked out the four that were her original acquaintances in the club, and to them she spoke.

"Remember me?" she began in her crisp staccato. "You told me the way to Mrs. Lily Cooper's an hour ago. Well, I found her. And say, believe me, when I found her I got the number of four men in this sweet little village—five, counting that imitation behind the counter there. She wasn't the Cooper I was looking for, but there wasn't one of you stopped to think that there might be two by that name and that I was looking for the other one, was there? You didn't waste any time giving me the benefit of the doubt, did you? You didn't say: 'Too bad to let a girl go up to that place without finding out if she knows where's she going'—did you? You never lifted one finger to stop me. You just believed what you wanted to believe—the worst. Believed the worst! Why, you couldn't believe it quick enough. You ate it up and wanted more. Say, do you know what I think of the kind of minds you've got?"

Now, it has been hinted that Jessie's girlhood had not been of the sheltered kind. She had missed a good many of the amenities of life; but, on the other hand, she had gained certain weapons that the hot-house product knows nothing of. For one thing, she had a certain working knowledge of human nature, especially of masculine human nature. Also she had a piquant vocabulary, acquired during ten defensive years on Broadway.

She proceeded now to let it loose. With an enormous, weary scorn in her voice, she told her astounded audience precisely what she thought of them—of their mental and moral equipment, of their social and business standing in the world, of their town and their women-folk. She told it to them in detail, picturesquely and fluently. And then she dropped her personal grievance to tell them what she thought of men in general and their part in the Lily Cooper business of the world.

From the huddled group before her there came no word. The faces of the four she directly addressed were varying shades of purple from astonishment and embarrassment.

"I came here to find my mother," said Jessie. "I thought it would be nice to live in a quiet, decent little town and have decent, friendly people for neighbors. But I wouldn't live here now if you'd give me the place. In six weeks I'd be a hypocrite, like the rest of you, and in another six weeks I'd—"

JESSIE paused and looked out at the somnolent street. The butcher's dog crossed the street to exchange languid greetings with another dog; a woman came out of the ten-cent store with a bundle under her arm; and in front of the ice-cream parlor two girls met a hatless youth and stood giggling.

"Oh, thank the Lord!" cried Jessie fervently, "I don't have to live here. What time does the next train go east?"

She looked at Lonny over the counter, and Lonny blushed deeper than before.

"F-five-twenty," he gulped.

"Thank you so much," she returned sweetly. "That leaves me just time to make another call."

And she walked out. The screen door banged behind her, and the hypnotized group stirred, blinked, and met one another's eyes. But in the eye-meeting and the laughter and the slapping of shoulders and the remarks that wasn't that the richest thing that ever happened, and did you hear how she hit old Doc, there was a hint of hollowness, a trifle of forcing,


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that an ear as keen as Jessie's would have caught.

But Jessie was now walking briskly toward the post-office. Both of the post-office girls came to the delivery window as Jessie appeared in front of it.

"I want to thank you girls," she said, all manner and cordiality, "for the perfectly sweet way you helped me to find Mrs. Cooper. She wasn't the person I was looking for, but that doesn't matter. The point is that everybody has been so dear to me here. If you ever come to the city, I wish you would look me up, at the Waldorf, you know. I would be glad to put my car at your disposal."

She paused, and ran her eyes over the painstaking exterior adornment of the two in front of her.

"I see you get your clothes made here. Well, of course one does one's best in a dear little hamlet like this, but you must really let me help you shop when you come to New York. You'd really not be bad looking if you knew how to dress. But, of course, in such a little village—Heavens! is that my train?"

She rustled out; but, once on the sidewalk, she sped toward the station. An awful fear grew in her heart that she might miss this train. All at once homesickness seized her. She thought of the other three Gayley Sisters with an uprush of tenderness. She thought of how joyously they'd receive her, of the celebration they'd indulge in when she got back. She thought appreciatively of Bobby—good, honest old Bobby, who had never looked at her with anything but affection and respect in his eyes.

She was just in time to be hauled aboard by an enthusiastic porter. She turned as the train pulled out, and waved her hand at Kerseyville, and at the drug store across the square, under the awning of which four men stood gazing at the departing train.

"I don't bear 'em no grudge," she thought happily. "They have to live here; but I'm going—home."

The Other Brown

Continued from page 7

ever, it turned in, apparently headed for the east side of town:

And then, just Scarborough's taxi had passed, the gate and was following the other down the broad parkway, something went wrong with it. It stopped.

"What's the matter?" gasped Tim.

The chauffeur returned an inarticulate groaning reply which said only too plainly that he knew what the matter was.

Deciding that in such a case the wisest course was to leave him to it, Tim jumped out, thrust a bill at him, and sprinted back to the street in the wild hope of picking up a cab there. The hope was vain.

"All in the day's work," he told himself stoically. Anyhow, he had the license number of the Mexican's cab, and it would be a simple matter to locate it later and find out from the driver where he had gone. In the meantime he decided to find out what he could of the occupants of the house at which Gil had called.

RETURNING to Central Park West, Scarborough walked north. Near the corner of the street in which the house stood he met a policeman, a big, genial Irishman.

"Know the name of the people living in Number Seven?" he asked.

"Number Sivin, is it now?" echoed the patrolman. "Sure, what's in a name?" he queried, chuckling. "A rose be anny other name would smell the same—as the poet says."

Tim's blank gaze brought another chuckle from him, and he continued:

"Sure now, if I knew the name I'm thinkin' I could av made me blissid fortune a-chargin' for the information this week gone. If there's wan man there's twinty has asked me the same question. But I don't know, and that's the truth av it. She moved into the house a week ago about."

He regarded Tim seriously.

"Ye're right, though—she's a queen, a rale wan if iver there was. Did ye iver now see the loike av thim eyes? Velvet stars they are, and that's the truth av it."

Scarborough smiled, not sorry to have his interest misinterpreted.

"Think she's married?" he asked.

"Married! 'Tis but a slip of a gir-rul she is!" ejaculated the patrolman. "Thim's her folks she lives with—the ould man and woman. I've niver had a good squint at the mother, but the ould man looks to be English. But thim eyes av the gir-rul niver come out av England—or Ireland, neither."

Seeing that the man had nothing more of value to impart, Tim presently said good night to him and walked on toward the house. And as he did so it occurred to him that it was in that very block that Dozy Cullop lived with his uncle. And Dozy had a sharp eye for a pretty face. With the thought Tim quickened his pace.

"You is wanted at the telephone, Mr. Dozy."

Young Cullop turned from the chiffonnier glass, before which he was putting the finishing touches to a hurried toilet, and glared at Mose, the old negro who for years had filled the double role of butler and valet in his uncle's bachelor household.

"I'm not here," he replied impatiently. "I've no time to talk to anybody. Didn't I tell you to say I'd gone out?"

"Yas, sah; an' de gent'man say he knows it, but he's 'bleeged to talk to you des de same. It's dat Mr. Caucus."

"Kaukie! Why, what the devil—" And Dozy leaped for the hall.

"Hello, Kaukie, what's up?"

"Plenty—and then some. They're trying to kidnap the speakers. They got Beasley yesterday and carted him to Newburgh; but we chased up after him—and got him! Say, you missed some doings, Cullop."

"My luck!" groaned Dozy. "And all for a fool wedding!"

"I called up to tell you that you want to look out. They are probably laying for you in front of your house, and your stunt is to go by the roof."


"Sure. Dead easy. Call up somebody at the other end of the block and ask 'em to let you out through their house. That's how I got here. And hurry up. It's eight-ten now!"

Dozy hung up the receiver and dashed to a front window, where, carefully pulling back the shade, he looked down into the street. A black shadow in the area of a house just across the way caught his eye. Watching, it seemed to him to change, to move. That's where they were—a bunch of 'em—waiting!

He ran back to the telephone and unhooked the receiver, then stopped short and hung up again. Why, he didn't know the name of a single soul living in that block. Nice, neighborly place, New York! He shouted for the negro.

"Mose, who lives in the corner house at the other end of the block?" he questioned.

"Dey ain't nobody libbin' dere now—dey's all gone to de country."

"Who lives in the next house?"

"Nobody don't lib dere—it's a boardin'-house."

"What's the name of—do you know the name of anybody living near the other end of the block?" Dozy demanded.

"Why, yas, sah. Dey's a fambly of de name of Harris libbin' in de fo'th house, or maybe it's de fifth—I disremembers which. Dey's a ve'y fine fambly."

But Dozy was already tearing through the H's in the telephone book. The Harrises were numerous, but he finally located the one in that block. He called the number, and a woman's voice answered—a maid's, he soon discovered; for when he had finished his rather breathless plea she said she would speak to Mrs. Harris.


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ONE of the regular contributors to this magazine whom we value most is Barton J. Hendrick. Few writers go deeper for their facts than he: few have the power of compressing so much real information in a little space.

Next week we publish an article by him which we have called "Exit—the Goulds." It is a fascinating story of the rise of the Goulds to power, their decline, and final elimination as important factors in the railway world.

There followed a minute's wait; then another woman's voice spoke to him, inquiring in an astonished tone just what it was he wanted. When, however, he had repeated his request and explained its urgency, she acceded to it graciously.

"When is it you wish to come?" she asked. "At once? . . . Very well; I'll have one of the servants go right up and open the trap for you. Oh, not at all. I'm very glad to help you out of your predicament." And she laughed.

Thanking her gratefully, Dozy hung up, rushed back to his room for his overcoat and hat, and was already half way up the steps to the roof when it occurred to him that he had not asked Mrs. Harris just where her house stood in the block. He would have to count up till he got to the number. He appealed to Mose, who stood waiting to lock the trap.

"Yas, sah; ef it ain't de fo'th it's de fifth, and of de fifth it's de fo'th."

"All right. The trap will be unlocked—I can tell it that way," said Dozy. "Good night."

IT was a cold night, one of those tag-ends of winter that often outlast April in New York, and it was dark, with neither moon nor stars; but the lights in the higher buildings in the next block shed a faint illumination on his path. Fortunately, there were no higher buildings in this block. He had a clear way, with no barriers except an occasional low wall.

As he neared the end of the row of houses, Dozy stopped and counted. He had reached the sixth from the corner, so his goal was either the next or the one after that. Ah, it was next! Even in the dim could see that the trap-door was not only unlocked but stood open for him. He hurried over to it and looked down, half expecting to find some one waiting below to receive him. But there was no one; there was not even a light. No doubt the opening to the roof was through a closet with no light fixture.

He began the descent, which was down a steep, ladder-like stair, and when he had gone far enough he closed the trap and latched it. With the outdoor light shut off, he was now in total darkness.

At the foot of the steps he stopped, and felt in his clothes for matches. Of course he had none! There was nothing to do but feel for the door. It was a dusty task, but he presently located it and let himself into the hall; then, closing the door behind him, he looked about.

A light rose dimly from somewhere below, probably from the street floor three flights down, for it was barely enough for him to see his way to the top of the stairs. Arrived there, he looked down. The hall below seemed as dark as this one.

He was on the point of calling out to announce himself,—for it was extremely unpleasant to be groping his way through a strange house like a burglar,—but he reflected that the family must all be on the parlor floor, and there was no need to give them any further trouble on his account. Descending to the floor below, he found all the doors closed as above; but here through the key-hole of one light showed, and as he passed this door he walked as heavily as possible, hoping to be heard by somebody. He even waited for a moment or two at the top of the next flight of stairs; but no one appeared.

Impatient, he ran down these steps and hurried through the second-floor hall. Here two doors stood open; but the rooms were dark, and without stopping again he went on to the floor below, which he could see was lighted. He gave no thought to whether he went quietly or not, but the thick stair carpet deadened the sound of his steps. At any rate, no one seemed to hear him, for he found himself still alone when he reached the bottom and stood under the lighted chandelier near the front door.

The hall was merely a narrow passage such as is found in many New York houses. Below the stairs he had just descended was another flight leading to the basement, and at the head of these stairs was a door, closed now, opening into what was no doubt the dining-room, as in his uncle's house. Opening from the hall in front were the double doors of the parlor.

One of these, he saw as he turned it that direction, was partly open, but not far enough for him to see into the room. He could, however, see that there was a light there, and after a moment's hesitation he stepped to the door and rapped gently. There was no answer. Then, raising his hand to knock again more loudly, on a sudden impulse he pushed the door back instead and looked in. Several gas-jets were ablaze in the ornate chandelier, and one glance down the long stiffly furnished room sufficed to tell him that there was no one there. The room was empty and the double doors leading to the dining-room were closed.

Retreating to the hall, he stood there, at a loss. Eager and impatient to get away, he had only to open the front door and walk out. But he could not think of leaving like that, without a word of thanks. Possibly the family had been on the point of going out when he called up, and instructions about him had been given to a servant who had forgotten them. Still, there had hardly been time to forget—he had started almost immediately after telephoning. Besides, somebody had opened that trap-door for him.

Puzzled, he waited. Perhaps he had arrived sooner than was expected, and the servant had gone down to the basement for something and would be coming up presently. Walking back to the railing of the basement stairs, he looked down; but there was no light below and no sound of anybody stirring there.

But suddenly, as he turned away; he did hear something, and coming so unexpectedly after the curious silence it made him start. It was the first sound not made by himself that he had heard since entering the house. He listened. It came from the dining-room. Some one was closing drawers there—no doubt a servant.

He took a step toward the door to knock; then stopped and opened his

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lips to call out instead; then changed his mind about that too. Knocking on doors and shouting in strange houses was not at all to his liking. The thing to do was to ring the front door bell. That would bring somebody. It was what he should have done in the first place, instead of waiting there like an idiot for somebody to turn up.

Opening the door, he stepped out to the bell; but as his finger touched the button he drew it back without ringing, and looked down the street toward the house opposite his uncle's. From the top of the stoop on which he stood he could not see into the area, the ambush of his enemies, but what he did see set his heart to pounding.

Two slender forms had emerged and were coming his way, advancing at such a slow, slinking gait as made it plain that they were prowling about for no good purpose. Somebody must have smelled a rat!

He pressed the bell-button sharply, and heard the loud shrilling of the bell within; then, turning, he again looked apprehensively down the street. If only he could cut and run now, while the coast was clear! But of course he could not—anyway, now that he had rung. He simply had to stay and let somebody know he had been there.

Impatiently he stepped back into the house, expecting to meet the servant who answered the bell half way and so expedite matters; but there was no one in sight, nor could he hear any one approaching. It was plain enough that the family were out and the servants doing as they pleased.

Exasperated, he started forward, intending to go straight to the dining-room and rout out whoever was there without any more ceremony. But at his first step a noise from the parlor stopped him. He heard the double doors to the dining-room drawn back and then closed again. Evidently the person he had heard was coming through that way instead of through the hall.

It flashed across Dozy's mind that in the low scraping of the doors as they slid back there was an odd suggestion of stealth; but he was too impatient to indulge the idea, or to wait an instant longer, and wheeling he gave the half-open door of the parlor a shove and marched into the room.

NEXT moment he found himself face to face with a young man. Both recoiled; then Dozy laughed out wonderingly.

"Why, hello, Brown—you live here?"

The young man's bare blond head shot up with a start, and he stared at Dozy.

"Oh," said Dozy, his jaw falling as he saw that he had made a mistake. "I beg your par—"

But he got no further, for the stranger suddenly dashed past him to the hall; then came the sound of his flying feet on the stairs.

Dozy ran into the hall, just in time for a last glimpse of a disheveled head as it disappeared above. Arriving at the second story, the owner of the head did not pause, but could be heard running along the passage and thudding up the steps to the floor beyond.

"Well, what do you know about that?" Dozier Cullop said to himself.

Then out from the upper darkness of the house came a scream, a woman's scream—a single piercing shriek.

It ran along the boy's taut nerves like an electric current, shocking him into a palsy for several seconds. Impetuously he started up the stairs, then as abruptly stopped again and listened. But there was no second scream. All he now heard was the running footsteps through the hall and again mounting the stairs.

He started up again, but wheeled sharply at a new noise from behind him—hurrying feet outside on the stoop. The next moment, through the front door which he had left ajar, a man plunged into the house. It was Scarborough.

"Dozy! What are you doing here? What was that scream?"

Dozy stumbled limply down the steps to meet him.

"I don't know, Tim—I don't know!" he gasped. "It was up there. Listen!"

From above came the distant slamming of a door.

"What is it?" said Scarborough, staring at him: "What happened? What are you doing here?"

"I don't know—we'd better go up and see."

"Wait." Scarborough caught him back. "What are you doing in this house?"

Breathlessly Dozy began to explain but half way through Scarborough cut him off:

"You must have got into the wrong house."

"Wrong house?" echoed the boy blankly. "But the scuttle was open. Oh! Why that must have been where he was going!''

"He? Who?"

"The man. When I got downstairs and found no one about, I went out and rang the bell, then came back. Then I heard somebody in the parlor, and went in, and—there was a man there."

"What sort of man?"

Dozy hesitated. Back to his mind had come suddenly the memory of what he had said to the man, of his odd mistake.

"Why—a—a young man," he faltered.

"What did he say?"

"He didn't say anything. He just turned and ran out to the hall and up the steps—and on up. Then the woman screamed and you came in."

"And you didn't hear anything at all until after you rang the bell?"

"Yes; I heard some one in that room back there—the dining-room, I reckon it is. I thought it was a servant."

"And you saw no signs of any one about upstairs, you say?"

"No. Oh, yes, there was a light in a room on the third floor—where the woman was, probably. Oughtn't we to go up and see about her?"

"In a minute. I'll just take a look in that back room first."

Scarborough walked swiftly down the hall. At the head of the short flight of basement stairs he stopped and looked down. He saw only darkness. He heard nothing. Then he turned to the door or the room behind the parlor.

It was not locked, but did not open more than a few inches. Something was pressing against it. Placing his left hand on the knob, he slipped his right back to his hip pocket.

"Open this door," he said quietly. There was no answer.

He tried the door again. It gave a little, then a little more. Then suddenly he stopped pushing, closed it, and turned a queer look on his face.

"What's the matter?" asked Dozy.

Without replying, Scarborough brushed by the boy, who at once hurried after him down the hall and through the parlor to the double doors opening from it to the back room.

The doors slid apart with a scraping noise under Scarborough's pressure, and the two men looked into the room.

"My God!" gasped Dozy, falling back.

The room was not a dining-room, but a library or study. Large curtained bookcases lined the walls, and in the middle there stood a flat-topped desk. So much one took in at a glance, and at that moment a glance was all any one could have spared for it. For on the floor, crumpled against the door that led to the hall, there was an object that drew the eye like a magnet.

IT was the body of a man. He was about fifty-five, gray-haired, thin, well dressed, lying face up. Near him lay a red leather wallet from which the edges of papers jutted irregularly, as if they had been crammed into it in haste.

"Stay where you are," Scarborough ordered his companion, and, crossing to the body, he knelt and examined it, making rapid tests of pulse and heart. Then he came back to .

"Dead—a blow on the temple," Scarborough announced calmly—"and still warm. Here, take this and go call a cop." He dug a police whistle from a trousers pocket, then turned to a telephone.

"Police headquarters," Dozy heard him say, as he himself dashed for the street.

To be continued next week


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How Can I Invest $100 Safely?


ALTHOUGH many newspaper and magazine articles have been written on the subject of $100 bonds, it is obvious that great numbers of investors are as yet unaware that very small sums may be placed in the soundest and strongest bonds.

Almost every week at least one new issue of bonds available in small units is announced. Yet I am regularly in receipt of letters from readers who have never heard of the opportunities that exist for putting their money where it is safe and available, and at the same time more remunerative than in the savings bank:

Will you inform me of some plan by which very small amounts, such as $100, may be invested in bonds or other securities which are reliable and safe and will pay a reasonable return?

What is the best investment for one with $300 or $400 who can not afford to lose?

I should like to know how and where to put savings in small amounts at regular periods and have them earn a reasonable interest.

Hundreds of Good $100 Bonds

NO matter how small the saving, there is a way to invest it in a good $100 bond. If you have as much as one hundred dollars the problem is very simple. There are hundreds of bonds bearing a face value of $100 and sold at prices varying from $80 to $115.

Many of those that sell at less than $100 are just as strong, or stronger, than those selling for more. They are lower in price, in many instances, not because they are weaker, but simply because the rate of interest is smaller. Southern Pacific-San Francisco Terminal 4 per cent. first-mortgage bonds may be had at $87.25 apiece. They are so secure that savings banks in Connecticut and California are permitted to buy them. Yet the interest amounts to 4¾ per cent. on the investment.

For $100.75 one may purchase a Seaboard Air Line first consolidated 6 per cent. bond. This is almost 6 per cent. on one's money. Attractive bonds, especially for persons living in the Pacific Northwest, are the Home Telephone & Telegraph Company of Spokane (Washington) first-mortgage 5s. They may be had at $97, which means 5¼ per cent. on one's money. They are guaranteed by the Pacific Telephone & Telegraph Company, which in turn is part of the main Bell concern, the American Telephone & Telegraph.

At $90 there are the St. Louis & San Francisco prior lien mortgage 5 per cent. bonds, a net return on one's money of 5.65 per cent. This railroad has just been through receivership, and has been carefully reorganized, so its bonds are almost certain to prove sound.

European Bonds

FOR those who are willing to buy European bonds there is a choice of several. An Anglo-French 5 per cent. may be had around $93, and pays almost 7 per cent., provided it is paid off in 1920. The American Foreign Securities Company three-year notes may be had at $99, and the return on one's money is about 5.40 per cent. There is no question here as to their safety, because the British Government has deposited valuable American stocks and bonds in New York City as security.

Bonds of the cities of Lyons, Marseilles, and Bordeaux are to be had to pay nearly 7 per cent. Any one who has confidence that France will "come back" should consider these a bargain.

Among the safest of small bonds are those of gas and electric companies, whose earnings naturally are not affected by the war. Fortunately, there is a wide choice.

All of these bonds and many others equally good are to be had from numerous dealers in high-class securities.

But it is not necessary to pay for such bonds outright. Many of the bankers will sell them on the partial-payment plan, often for as small a sum as $20 or $25 down and $5 a month. Of course, the broker keeps the bond until it is fully paid for, so it is necessary to be careful to deal only with a house of good reputation.

Nearly all banks would be willing to lend up to 60 per cent. of the value of a good bond. That means, if you have as little as $25 or $30 in cash, you can buy a hundred dollar bond by giving a note for the remainder to the bank and buying the bond from a broker for cash.

There is really no excuse in these days of $100 bonds for a person investing small sums rashly.

Further information on $100 bonds is given in "Making Your Money Work for You," in the Every Week Library, which, will be sent to any address for five cents in stamps. Also in Mr. Atwood's article in the July 10, 1916, issue of this magazine.

Free Booklets that You May Have for the Asking

Write Slattery & Co., Inc., 40 Exchange Place, New York, for current issue of their fortnightly publication, Investment Opportunities, which describes many sound and attractive investments. Ask for 35-E, including booklet explaining the Twenty-Payment Plan.

The popularity of a partial-payment plan by which you can "buy as few shares as you wish" of stocks or bonds, and "pay when you are able," is steadily growing. Write Sheldon-Morgan & Co., members of the New York Stock Exchange, 42 Broadway, New York, for Booklet L-2, entitled "The Partial-Payment Plan."

The Citizens Savings & Trust Co., of Cleveland, Ohio, will furnish to our readers, upon request, Booklet P, which contains some very interesting information on banking by mail.

John Muir & Co., members of the New York Stock Exchange, whose main office is at 61 Broadway, New York City, are devoting special attention to helping investors who hold securities to place their funds on a permanent investment plane. Circular Q-33, dealing with the subject, will be sent on request.

Every one interested in securities should have a copy of The Investor's Guide. It discusses all classes of bonds thoroughly and intelligently, and is adapted to the purposes of the large or small investor. E. F. Coombs & Co., 120 Broadway, New York City, will send you a copy on request.

A new circular, showing how to obtain a dividend every month through the Odd Lot method, has been issued by Hartshorne & Picabia, members of the New York Stock Exchange, 7 Wall Street, New York City. Ask for circular O-14. The firm also offers special inducements in the way of advice to small investors.

The Odd Lot Review presents concisely and in a readable manner financial news and views written tersely and in plain English, such as will interest the average man and which he can understand. Sample copy will be sent on request to 61 Broadway, New York City.

Phelps-Eastman Company (Farm Mortgage Bankers), 500 McKnight Building, Minneapolis, Minnesota, are specializing in the best farming district of the prosperous Northwest—Montana, the great wheat State. This company will select 6 per cent. mortgages to cover specified amounts, and send full description. Write for booklet, "Questions and Answers."

"Scientific Saving" is the title of a booklet comparing different methods of saving and showing how quickly small amounts accumulate. This booklet and a copy of Bond Talk, a bi-monthly magazine discussing investment bonds, will be sent on request. Ask for booklets "E" and "W," by P. W. Brooks & Co., 115 Broadway, New York City.

Investors desiring to acquire $100 bonds of the best known issues, and of a class that is legal for investment by Trustees and Savings Banks, should send for the special list ES that has been prepared by Merrill, Lynch & Co., members of the New York Stock Exchange, 7 Wall Street, New York City.

Of special interest to investors is the January Public Utilities Letter, issued by Williams, Troth & Coleman, 60 Wall Street, New York City. This may be secured without charge by writing for Report "2."

Any one interested in the security market should send to L. R. Latrobe & Co:, No. 111 Broadway, New York, for their statistical books on Copper Stocks, Motor Stocks, Standard Oil Stocks, Investor's Guide (270 pages), or Weekly Market Letter. This firm will mail you any one of these books free on request. Partial-Payment Plan.

A special letter on Argentine Conditions and Argentine Railway Securities, with full reports, is available to all investors without charge. Send to Messrs. C. W. Pope & Co., 15 Broad Street, New York City, for letter "E."


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