Every Week

$100 a Year

Copyright, 1917, By the Crowell Publishing Co.
© February 19, 1917
Albert Hencke

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"I can earn $2 a day at home"

Your Own Little Bed Is Your Best M.D.

ONE reason for many of the world's tribulations is simply lack of sleep.

Men who ought to be firm-nerved and resolute are vacillating and irritable, ready to believe the worst about one another, quick to take offense.

Troubles that would be laughed away by rested men are bungled into bigness by sluggish brains.

The world is too much ruled by tired-eyed men.

Look at the next picture of Mr. Asquith if you would know why England has not made more progress in the war. His face looks as if he were 7000 hours behind in his sleep.

Look at any one of the flash-lights taken of our prominent men at public banquets. It will help you to understand why our government is not more efficient.

To avoid overeating and alcohol and the cigarette habit are matters of self-control [says Dr. Richard Cabot in the American Magazine]. To get the sleep one needs (which means all that one can possibly soak into one's system in twenty-four hours) often takes courage—the courage to refuse invitations, to invite ridicule, to seem odd or "puritanic." I believe that more minor illnesses are due to lack of sleep than to any other recognizable factor. A person catches cold, gets lumbago, is constipated or headache-ridden because his vitality is below par, his physical expenditure beyond his physical income. Sleep would set him square with the world; but to get sleep means sacrificing the evening's fun. This he won't do, and so he runs in debt, and is chronically edging toward a breakdown.

A few men seem to be able to operate indefinitely with very little sleep. Edison is one of these. Napoleon seemed to be.

But Napoleon in his later years showed plainly a loss of punch due to accumulated fatigue. He often dropped asleep in the midst of vital matters.

Gladstone, on the other hand, considered regular sleep of first importance, and sacrificed everything to it.

When Perseus, the last king of ancient Macedonia, was confined as a prisoner at Rome, his guards wished to put him out of the way without leaving any marks on his person or bringing down the displeasure of their superiors upon them.

They accomplished their purpose by making it impossible for the poor prisoner to get a single moment's sleep.

Napoleon sent 30,000 of his trained veterans to Haiti at one time to reduce the negro population, who were being led by the redoubtable Toussaint L'Ouverture. A few months later 5000 of them—all that were left—withdrew, bedraggled and defeated.

What had happened to the other 25,000? Shot? Not many of them. Toussaint did not have ammunition enough to shoot very many.

No. He adopted the simpler and more effective plan of starving them to death for lack of sleep. Night after night, when the French lay down to snatch a few moments' rest, he would threaten an attack. All night long a few of his men would continue the pretense—and all night long the French would toss in sleeplessness.

They had faced the best men of Europe and won: but they could not conquer the loss of sleep.

I have seen an abject coward lie down to sleep, and rise up a strong, courageous man. I have seen a liar go to bed, and awake ready to tell the truth and take the consequences. I have seen vigorous, determined executives step out of the same beds where doddering ineffectives lay down the night before.

"Those who are habituated to full and regular sleep are those who recover most readily from sickness," says Dr. Benjamin W. Richardson, and adds: "The observation of this truth led Menander to teach that sleep is the natural cure of all diseases."

Menander was right. We should have fewer doctor bills; fewer deaths of men between forty and fifty; fewer quarrels—yes, even fewer wars—if the nerves of all men were kept toned and sweet by a generous measure of sleep.

In all the world of literature there is no finer line than this:

He giveth His beloved sleep.
Bruce Barton, Editor.

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Sensational Sample Bargains

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From the original painting by Howard E. Smith.


PERHAPS because suffering in children is so hard for grown-ups to bear, men have turned all the forces of Science to battle against it. One of the most inspiring of human victories is charted in the descending curve that marks the death rate of infants. In every civilized nation the chance of a baby to grow up to manhood or womanhood is twice or three times—sometimes even ten times—as good as it once was.

Men have not solved the problem of their own health. They still wear themselves out between forty and fifty, when they should be in their prime; they still cast their lives away prodigally on the battle-field. They have not learned to save themselves from suffering—but the suffering of the little chilren becomes every year less and less.

Not merely physical suffering, but mental and spiritual suffering as well. Fifty years ago some visitors to a tenement found Mary Ellen screaming behind a door. She was covered with welts where her mother had beaten her. The visitors brought Mary Ellen into court, and out of the turmoil which her bruised body created come the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, which in New York alone has helped and protected 218,715 children.

The world has progressed a long way since Vincent de Paul, shocked by seeing a child deliberately mutilated for the trade of beggary, persuaded Louis XIII to found the first refuge for homeless children. We are beginning to understand that the Future is in the hands of children, and can be a better Future only as they are given better health and happier lives and a better chance.

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"ISN'T the slaughter terrible?"

Everybody who returns to the United States from the war in Europe is asked this question, trite as it seems.

My answer must always be:

"Dying or killing are not the most terrible things that war brings to a man, woman, or child. In Europe you see worse things than dying or killing. Worse things happen to European folk than being killed or crippled."

The first dead men I saw in the war, back in those early and old-time days in Belgium, struck me as having been uselessly murdered, and the sight left a baleful impression on my mind, for a time. To my surprise, however, I soon beheld such sights without emotion. But there was one sight—one manifestation of the horrors of war—that I could not accustom myself to view without a mental shudder. This was the sight of vast bodies of men marching or camping.

There they were, men of family, of business, of ideals, of religion, all brought down to the same level—all alike. Like barrels whose hoops have boon removed, these men, individually, in their lives and in their characters have fallen apart since the binding support of their home environment has been taken away from round about them. The impression that they were like animals, like herded, unthinking beasts, was so strong upon me that at night in my sleep, instead of seeing dead and mangled bodies, I saw in before dreams vast bodies of soldiers passing before me, each man wearing the head of some beast instead of his own. They were not brutal, leonine men-animals I saw: only patient, dumb, obedient, long- suffering, kindly ones, such as cattle, deer, horses, dogs.

To be turned into such a man is worse than death, and among thinking men in the seven armies that I saw at close range I often found soldiers and officers who realized what sort of beings they had become. There are penalties just short of death for men in the various armies who sicken of being unthinking men-animals and try to find a way out of their plight by suicide—who stick their heads above the trenches or who wound themselves with their own rifles.

It is worse than death for a man to get into his head the idea that he has the right to kill. Such an idea destroys his value as a citizen and heads him toward the gibbet. Yet this idea is fastening itself in the minds of thousands of men in Europe. On a battle-field killing may not be murder; but when a man takes the killing idea into his private life and uses it as a solution of his personal and private difficulties, he might better be killed in war and have it over with.

A BIG, pleasant-faced chap whom I know enlisted in this war two years ago. The other day came it letter from him. If I had not known his handwriting I could not have believed he wrote it. It was the letter of a bloodthirsty savage. It is what war does to the men who do not die that is most terrible: and this aspect of war—its blasting effect on the characters of the living warriors—has nowhere been more vividly presented than in Mr. Shepherd's article. THE EDITOR.

The other day in London a soldier, home on leave of absence from the front, tried in vain to take an afternoon nap. He shouted from his window to a group of women and children in the courtyard that their jabbering and laughing were not to his liking. They jeered at him. The soldier took a hand bomb from his pack, the sort that he had thrown in the trenches by the hundred with intent to kill, and tossed it into the courtyard. He killed three people.

I once carried a Russian rifle—which an Austrian officer had presented to me as a token of Austrian prowess in the capture of Przemysl—into a little hotel in the town of Alt Sandee, where a dozen minor Austrian officers were sitting at a table. They viewed the trophy with excited and somewhat jubilant interest. Then one officer drew a Russian rifle cartridge from his pocket, placed it in the rifle, raised the weapon, and, deliberately pointing it at the white-haired Jewish proprietor of the hotel, who stood some twenty feet distant, pulled the trigger. The bullet missed the old man, but it was a close call. The room filled with powder smoke, which rose slowly to the ceiling.

Powder has two different smells. As a police reporter I have gone into rooms in various American cities where murder or suicide has been done, and I know the scent of powder under such conditions. As a war reporter I have smelled the smoke of powder on the battle-field. There's a difference in the odor, even if the powder be the same. The murder-powder smoke in the little hotel in Alt Sandec that night gave me a feeling of nausea, and I jerked my memento rifle from the laughing young subaltern and went away from the place.

Only a few months before the young fellow had been a rising young architect in the city of Vienna. Later in the evening he hunted up Robert Dunn, then of the New York Evening Post, and myself, and asked us to tell one of his superior officers that the rifle had gone off by accident. The officer had threatened to punish him for—drunkenness!

Some terrible change had come to the mind of that young man, a change that brought as great harm to him as anything that could happen to him, even death itself.

In Villers-Cotterets, in September of 1914, during the aftermath of the battle of the Marne, I was arrested by the British for being out of bounds, and was held for several days in the village, with the privilege of going about the town as I pleased. Villers-Cotterets had been fought over twice. The Germans had taken it once, and the French had regained it, so that the village folk had been given

plenty of opportunity to know what war looked like.

In the afternoon, after school was out, I used to go to the grounds of the old chateau to watch the boys of the village play "soldiers," as they called it. They did not play "soldiers" as American boys who have never seen war might play it. They did not have paper caps and wooden swords and drums and tissue-paper cockades; in fact, their game was not "soldiers," but "war." They chose sides, these French school-boys who had seen dead men, killed in battle, like American boys choosing sides for "one old cat" or "pom! pom! pull-away." Then, under the chestnut trees, with huge horse-chestnuts—and sometimes with stones when the supply of chestnuts gave out—they fought it out.

I have seen a boy of ten with his scalp laid open, his face covered with blood, grunting with exertion, cursing, wild-eyed, playing "war" in this fashion on the beautiful sward under the majestic chestnuts of the old château at Villers-Cotterets, heedless of his wounds, desperately trying to bring blood to the surface on the persons of comrades with whom on that same afternoon he had sat at his studies in the village school.

These boys were only imitating their fathers. All their lives these boys of Villers-Cotterets, like millions of other boys in Europe on whom war has worked its change, will be ready for war, alert to make their boyhood play come true.

Wars come about every thirty years, it is said. Is this because of the fact that every thirty years the boy who played "war" grows to be a man and wants to see his play made real? With this question in mind, it was gruesome business to watch the youngsters of Villers-Cotterets at play. It was like seeing new war clouds form in the mists of the distant future—storms of war that were to be brought down on the head of humanity by statesmen still in smocks and knee-breeches. It was like seeing an eternal death sentence of war passed upon human-kind.

"Which side are the Germans?" I asked the general of one of the chestnut armies.

"The side that is whipped, monsieur," he said, grinning in spite of a black eye.

You'll never weed hate for the Germans out of the minds of French boys who fought at their play, as they did, to draw imaginary German blood. War slaughters, which is bad enough; but it creates new and distant slaughters, which is worse.

The moral and mental disintegration that is caused by military service in individual cases is shocking. This applies to all armies that I have seen.

"That fellow would he better dead," said a friend of mine, as an Englishman we had known in peace times walked away from its alter a chance meeting in the Strand. "Everything that was good in him is dead already."

Only a year before, this man had been a star of Fleet Street. He wrote with a sympathy and an understanding of human nature that made his work stand out. But as we saw him, after a year in the army as an uncommissioned officer, the grime of war was on his soul as well as on his body.

"I've quit writing," he said, with a weak grin that displayed the absence of two front teeth. "Something's happened to me. I can't ever write again. I don't even try to do it. Anyhow, what's the use? It's all war."

The man that he had been a year before world have killed himself with his own gun rather than become the man we saw and talked with that, afternoon in the Strand.

His was only a typical case. Every mother, sister, and wife in Europe has seen some change of this sort take place among the men-folk she knows. Sometimes it is less, but sometimes death would be better than the upheaving conversion to baseness which war produces.

"No more books or music and no more women. I'm simply rotting mentally." I have had officers make this confession to me in five different languages in seven different armies. "I'm rotting, and I can't help it."

Not all the bad things of war happen to human bodies.

The Omitted Question


Illustrations by W. C. Dexter

I'VE been running a grocery on this corner for twenty-six years, come the seventh of March. When I moved here the town was five miles from the city; now the city's grown five miles past the town, and I suppose I ain't a country groceryman any more. That's what know-it-all folks say when they stand around advising me to put in a fancy glass front and a lot of doo-days and what-d'ye-call-'ems. But it don't have any effect on me, you can bet your bottom dollar. I'm the man that's running this store, and as long as I run it I'm going to do as I darn please. Anybody that wants to trade with glass fronts and dingle-bobs can find them, I calc'late.

The trouble with the grocery business now is that it's just business. All folks want is to buy sugar and tea and baker's bread. Nobody wants to stop and talk any more. Why, time was when I figgered to know a leetle more about my customers than they did themselves. But that was before the business run down to a point where it wasn't anything but swapping stuff to eat for money. But it don't make no difference to me. I do just like I used to.

To say the thing short and sweet, nowadays people who come into groceries to buy are just customers. Well, with me they hain't—they're folks.

I call to mind the time I hung up one of those canvas hams filled with sawdust and painted yellow. You've seen them. Sort of advertising affairs. Well, along come Mrs. Wilkins, and looks at it, and says what a lovely-looking ham and how much? She snapped it up quick before somebody got ahead of her. I learned subsequent that they didn't consider it appetizing. But did Mrs. Wilkins get mad and quit trading with me? Not any. I calc'late she enjoyed the joke as much as me. But nowadays—huh—I s'pose I'd be arrested for violating the pure food act.

Of course there's families that's lived here eighteen, twenty year that hain't changed much, folks that's traded with me since the World's Fair and before. And the second crop is coming along—young wimmin that I used to give a stick of candy to on the sly when they wasn't far removed from nursing bottles, and boys that used to come sneaking up to swipe my bananas. They're getting married, and some stays in the neighborhood. A number of them calls me Uncle Eli and brings in their new babies for me to see. But them kind is in the minority. Most people—'tain't right to call 'em folks—calls me Mister Popple, or else "my good man." Makes me feel like sending 'em cold-storage eggs.

There's the Cushmans, now. Twenty- three year ago Eli Popple was all the caterer Mrs. Cushman's ma could afford when Mabel got married; and, though Cushman's got rich in this here automobile flare-up, they're still buying of me, and Elinor, who's 'most her ma's age when I done that catering, calls me Uncle Eli. She favors her ma consid'able, though prettier, I'd say. Twenty she was last spring, and she was as tickled over gettin' a birthday present from me as she used to be fifteen, sixteen year back. Why, dum it all if she didn't kiss me when I come fetchin' it to her!

Her father gave her one of these electric automobiles, and nothing would do but I must go out to see it and go for a ride in it.

"Kin you run the dummed thing?" says I.

She just looked at me so scornful I pried open the door and got in without saying a word. She grabbed hold of the dingus and started to navigate her out of the garage and down the driveway. We made it without damaging anything but the door and a bunch of shrubs; but then, there wasn't anything else to get in the way. I begun to have misgivings. But we got into the street and turned, and Elinor twisted the thing's tail again, and we went scooting along like we was hurrying to catch a train we knew had just left.

"Elinor," says I, "you hain't but twenty and kin afford to spend a month or so in the hospital; but me, I'm sixty, and my time's short. I don't want to waste none of it lookin' up into the kind face of one of them trained nurses."

"Shucks," says she.

AND then, all of a sudden, a coal-wagon and a baby cab and an automobile and a milk-cart and what not sort of popped out of nowheres and surrounded us, and we started to dodge, and the rest hain't just clear to me. It was sort of like riding over a plowed field in a merry-go-round hitched to a runaway engine. Then we brought up leaning against a front porch, facing nor'-nor'east, as the sailors say, and straddling a young man with white flannel pants on.

I reached for the door.


"To me people who come to buy groceries hain't just customers—they're folks."

"Much obleeged, Elinor," says I, "but I got to be gettin' back to the store. You're a dandy driver," says I. "You never missed one of 'em."

"Don't be scared," says she, after she had watched the young man with the flannel pants crawl out and take spring inventory of himself. "Nobody's hurt."

"No," says I, "except in the feelin's. As for me," says I, "I felt like I was sittin' up in my casket shootin' rapid for the judgment day. To a man with as much to answer for as me, that hain't no holiday picnic."

Elinor wasn't paying much attention to me, apparently, for she opened the door and scowled vindictive-like at the young man with the white pants. I didn't blame her, and I says over her shoulder:

"Young feller, hain't you got more sense than to be goin' along in daylight wearin' that rig? This here travelin' payin' teller's window shied at them pants, and like to have throwed us out."

But he wasn't paying any attention to me, either—just standing there looking hard at Elinor.

"Good morning, Elinor," says he, reaching for his hat, which wasn't where he thought it was. The automobile was standing on it.

"Miss Cushman," says she coldly. "I thought, Mr. Bundy," says she, "that I asked you not to annoy me again."

"Really, Miss Cushman," says he, with a grin you couldn't help liking, "when I let your car skid up and run over me, I hadn't the least idea it was you. If I had known, I beg you to believe I should have dodged. It was not done with the slightest idea of obtruding myself on you."

She just sniffed dainty-like.

"Has this young man with the pants been botherin' you, Elinor?" says I.

"He has," saws she. "He asks me to marry him every time he sees me."

"That is annoyin'," says I, "especial in a feller with his idees of dress. But," I says, "I dunno's he's to be blamed such a sight, neither. If I wasn't sixty and smelled of coffee and soap and sick, I guess maybe I'd git to be a nuisance myself."

She sniffed another sniff.

The young man looked right at her, still grinning, and says:

"It's customary, when drivers run down pedestrians and injure them, for the drivers, as aforesaid, to ask solicitously if they can't drive the pedestrians home."

"Young man," says I, "you kin have my seat. I'm through with it."

"He can't," says Elinor. And, before I could leap out, she started the automobile to backing, and the next I knew we was heading for home, with me experiencing the pangs of terror.

Maybe that ain't exactly precisely the way the thing happened, if I was made to testify about it before a jury; but there's the substantial facts. You can glean the main idea from them.

WELL, sir, the next day or so went along quiet, with me doing nothing but sell groceries to folks' hired girls and explaining over the doggone telephone that I didn't put in one had egg in the dozen out of personal spite, and pointing out to wimmin with eye-glasses that I was the proprietor of that store and proposed to run it like I wanted to, letting my kerosene tank stand jest exactly where I stood it, even if it was next to the molasses. Some folks is that persnickety! Then I looked up from opening a case of canned corn, and there was the young fellow with the white pants—only he'd left them to home this time.

"Howdy," says I. "What kin I do for you?"

"Well," says he, "I'd like a quart of lard and a pack of eggs and about five hundred beans."


"'Has this young man been botherin' you, Elinor?' says I. 'He has,' says she. 'He asks me to marry him every time he sees me.'"

"Mister," says I, "if you're jokin', it's a good one; if you hain't jokin', there's information you're needin' bad."

"What do you think?" says he, sober as a bride buying her first ten pounds of baking powder under the impression it's used as a substitute for flour.

I LOOKED him over, sort of sampling him with my eye; then I turned without saying a word, and cut a hunk of cheese and dished up a scoopful of crackers from the barrel under the counter.

"Slack time of day," says I; "set and nibble and tell another joke."

"I want to know," says he, with his mouth full of as good cheese as was ever sliced, "if I'm to regard you as a rival?"

"No, sir," says I. "I'm a groceryman and nothin' else."

"But," says he, "she seems to think a heap of you."

"She," says I. "What she?"

"Elinor," says he.

"Hum," says I. "When we upset you with that movin' show-window of hers, she didn't seem to think a heap of you."

"She didn't," says he, and took another hunk of cheese to cheer himself up; "and that's why I came to see you."

"I hain't to blame," says I, "though I'll admit them white pants of your'n might 'a' led me to make disparagin' remarks."

"She thinks she hates me," says he, paying no attention to what I said about his pants. "She thinks she's got cause; but she hasn't, and she won't give me a chance to explain."

"I'm suspicious," says I, "of young fellers that's always got explainin' to do. After they git married they may not bother to do it."

"Look here, Mr. Popple," says he; "I'm playing this thing on the square. I need her like the deuce—and if I can get her I'll make you a good bet she'll never be sorry for it. What I came here for is this: She won't see me or talk to me. I know she comes here almost every day. Now, won't you mix in a bit, and fix things so I get five minutes' talk with her?"

"Your name's Bundy, hain't it?" says I.

"Yes," says he.

"Any relative of Pete Bundy, that was born in Peory, Illinoise?"

"Peter Bundy's my dad. He came from Peoria," says he.

"Huh," says I. "Fam'ly hain't to be trusted. I got the facts. I got 'em right, because I was a party to the crimes. Your dad and me used to swipe melons and apples and peaches and hick'ry-nuts and peanuts and other groceries and vegetables when we was kids. We was a gang, him and me," says I, "with crim'nal leanin's. Your pa," I says, "give promise then of occupyin' a swell suite in a jail."

He grinned the kind of a grin I like to see a young feller own, and says: "That almost entitles me to call you Uncle Eli too, doesn't it?"

"Havin' confessed the crime," says I, "I can't dodge the penalty."

"Then," says he, "you'll help me about Elinor."

"That," says I, "is eggs out of another crate. Young man, in the absence of her father, I got to look into you some. What's your prospects?"

"Good," says he. "I have a good job, and it's getting better."

"Hum," says I, wonderin' what to ask next—just like a girl's father would when he liked the young feller and felt he'd do, but wanted to go through with the part. Not just thinking of anything, I kept quiet and looked stern and thoughtful a spell. Then I says:

"No reasons appearin' for black-ballin' you, I'll have to admit you to the lodge. But walk sweet and careful, young man. What's your front name?"

"Tom," says he.

On account of them white pants I was afraid he'd say Percival or Ruthven or some of them names, and if he had I'd have chased him out of the store.

"And you'll help me out?" says he.

"Some," says I, "and that with discretion. I never meddle with other folks' affairs," says I, "unless, in my judgment, there's reason for it; and there gen'ally is."

HE reached out and shook hands—a regular shake, not one of them limp shakes that make you feel like you got hold of a piece of tripe.

I looked at my watch.

"Most likely," says I, "she'll be here this mornin'. She usually is. Now, you hang around the back of the store—see? I'll loaf around the front. When I see her comin' I'll waggle my hand at you, and you duck into the big ice-box there; but don't go meddlin' with my fancy cheeses. It'll be a leetle mite chilly, but you jest stay there till somethin' happens. I'll do what I can."

So he sat at the back alongside a barrel of pickles, and I'll bet he et a dime's worth of them before I seen Elinor's automobile slide up in front. I waggled at him, and he ducked in the ice-box, like I said.

Elinor got out and came in.

"Morning, Uncle Eli," says she.

"Howdy," says I. "Any killed and wounded to-day?"

"I can run my car as well as anybody," says she, getting a leetle peevish. "Just because I got excited once—"

"True," says I. "I was hopin' you'd come in this mornin'."

"Why?" says she.

"I got somethin' to show you," says I.

"What?" says she.

"It's a surprise," says I, "and I sha'n't tell. You got to look for yourself." And I led her back to the ice-box.

"In there," says I, and opened the door and shoved her inside quick. Then I slammed the door and waited to see what would happen.

AT first I figgered on sounds of violence; but there wasn't any. Perty soon, after about five minutes, I got tired of standing by the door, and went off and sat down. In another fifteen minutes I begun to get worried for fear both of them had froze solid and I was the author of a tragedy; but I didn't quite dast go to look. And then they come out, him with his arm right around her waist, and her with one of them happy looks that folks don't get to wear but a few times in this life.

"Oh, Uncle Eli!" says she, and runs up and kisses me.

"I guess you seen what I wanted you to see," says I.

"Isn't he a dear?" says she.

"Who?" says I. "Tom, here? Wa-al, not bein' in love with him, some of them there endearin' qualities prob'ly escapes me; but he'll do."

"Uncle Eli," says Tom, "you get a medal for life-saving. I couldn't have lived without her."

"There hain't but about a thousand different kinds of languages in the world," says I, "and that p'tic'lar remark hain't been made in each one of 'em more'n ten million times."

Elinor looked up at Tom adoring-like, and then spoiled it by sneezing.

"It was chilly in there," she says, "and "I'm afraid I caught cold."

"I know a heap of girls," says I, "that would be willin' to catch a cold and a husband at the same time."

But Tom he got worried right away, and says they better hurry home and fix her up, with allusions to doctors and hot- water bottles and cough syrup and sich things. The way he hurried her off, you'd think she was being rushed to the operating table as a last resort.

As they was going out of the door I yelled after him:

"Say, there was a question I just thought up. What do you do for a livin', anyhow?"

"I'm an engineer," says he, "in the experimental department of the Universal Motor Company."

His grandfather was an engineer, too; but it was on the Illinois Central.

SO they went off together as happy as if there wasn't wimmin in the world that would take half an hour over the telephone to get you to knock a cent off of the price of a pound of lard. And they kept on being happy for all of a month. Then complaints begun to come in about their joy being adulterated and not up to guarantee. Elinor was the complainer.

"He—he acts funny," says she one morning; and there was evidence on hand that she'd been crying. "I don't believe he loves me any more."

"Did he mention that there point?" says I.

"No," says she, getting a little het up; "but he don't mention that he is."

"Oh," says I. "Does his brutality take any other forms?"

"It's nothing to laugh at," says she. "He is acting funny and neglectful, and not a bit nice."

"As how?" says I.

"He comes to see me," says she, "and then forgets I'm there. He does, Uncle Eli. He'll just sit and look at the floor. And then all of a sudden he'll leap up and walk back and forth like a tiger in a cage. He acts," says she, with a sort of a whimper, "like he was tired of me—and—and couldn't get up courage to tell me."

"H'm," says I, "I'll take a look at him."

But I didn't get a chance to take a look at him. He wasn't to be seen, and I got considerable worried on account of having mixed into the thing the way I did. If that young man had discovered he didn't think so much of Elinor as he let on he did in the beginning, I made up my mind him and me would have words and likely acts, me being of a violent temper.

THEN Elinor came in looking like she was sick, and went right to the back of the store behind the molasses barrel and begun to cry.

"Here," says I; "careful where you're cryin' all over things. This here," says I, "is a quality grocery, and folks 'u'd complain of findin' salt water in their goods."

"Oh, Uncle Eli," says she, "I'm afraid."

"Of what?" says I.

"I'm afraid that the trouble with Tom isn't that he doesn't love me any more."

"Sufferin' salt mackerel!" says I, swearing violent. "Do you want to git rid of him now?"

"No," she says, and sobs right out; "but

Continued on page 19


"'I want to know,' says he, 'if I'm to regard you as a rival?'"

everyweek Page 8Page 8


All Right—We'll Do Your Reading for You. $300 Worth of New Books and Magazines Are Read Every Week for These Two Pages



Photograph by Aimé Dupont.

BILLIE BURKE has a baby daughter, and her name is Florence Patricia Ziegfeld; and whether her hair is going to be Titian, like her mother's, is a question that nobody, so far, has had the temerity to decide. Babies usually arrive with just any old kind of hair, and select the variety they want to keep after they have looked around a bit. Thus it is with little Florence Patricia.

But, if Miss Ziegfeld is taking life easy in her airy nursery in a big New York hotel, it is far, far otherwise with her busy parents. At the present moment they have her career planned all the way from this bassinette up to voting age. "She shall be brought up to be a regular home girl," says her father. "But she must have her special bent, whatever it may be, developed," says her mother, "so that she will be able to have an independent career if she wants it." "She must have poise and tact and consideration for her elders," says her father. "Nothing like the training the English girls get," says her mother; "plenty of out-of-doors is the thing." And so they go on. Florence Patricia doesn't mind. Between naps she kicks off one of her hundred-odd pairs of birthday booties and speculates gravely about the color of her hair. She knows that, after all, that will make all the difference.


HAVE your business letters degenerated into a repetition of stilted, routine phrases?

Most business correspondence is guilty of that charge, as William Cushing Bamburgh points out in his Talks on Business Correspondence (Little, Brown & Company). You would never think of talking such phrases as "came duly to hand," "thanking you in advance, I beg to remain." Why spoil your letters with them?

"Carefully avoid such words and stock phrases as 'beg to acknowledge,' beg to advise,' beg to inquire,' etc.," continues the author (quoting from System). "Don't 'beg' at all.

"Don't say 'kindly' for 'please.' Avoid 'the same' as you would the plague.

"Don't write 'would say.' Go ahead and say it.

"Don't say 'inclose herewith.' 'Herewith' is superfluous.

"Don't 'reply' to a letter: 'answer' it. You answer a letter and reply to an argument.

"Don't use a long or big word where a short one will do just as well or better.

"Carefully avoid the appearance of sarcasm.

"Beware of adjectives, especially superlatives.

"Finally, don't forget that certain small words are in the language for a purpose—'and,' 'a,' 'the,' are important, and their elimination often makes a letter bald, curt, and distinctly inelegant."


EVERY year in America $1,200,000,000 goes up in smoke.

How much of this do you spend? According to the Monthly Health Letter of the Life Extension Institute, you spend enough in a year to buy a billiard or pool table. Even the poorest man spends on the average more than he would need to enjoy the theater, music, books, travel, games, sports, and other brain-resting, body-building enjoyments.

You spend more than this. According to the evidence gathered by physicians, you pay for your smokes not only with trouble in heart and circulation, but with acid dyspepsia, insomnia, catarrh, and even blindness.

As for the writer who assures his wife that he can't work without a cigarette in his mouth, the health bulletin says:

"To hear some smokers talk, one would suppose that literature and art had always been created in an atmosphere of tobacco smoke. The Greeks set a mark in literature and in art which has never yet been reached by cigarette-, cigar-, or pipe-smoking moderns. The great religions of the world, the great works of art of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, were produced without the aid of tobacco. Until 1560 tobacco was unknown to civilized nations, and there is no record of any wonderful artistic production by the American Indians, who prior to that time were alone familiar with its use."


© H.C. White Company.

Of course Mark Twain never stopped smoking one big black cigar after another. But then, Shakespeare was a total abstainer.


WHEN Villa was a boy of sixteen, delivering milk in the streets of Chihuahua, he killed an insolent government official, and had to take to the mountains. Once a refugee, he committed the unpardonable sin of stealing some cattle from a rich rancher. From that time on there was a price on his head.

"In all these outlaw years," says John Reed in Insurgent Mexico (D. Appleton & Company), "he learned to trust nobody. Often in his secret journeys across country with one faithful companion, he camped in some desolate spot and dismissed his guide; then, leaving a fire burning, he rode all night to get away from his faithful companion. That is how Villa learned the art of war."

Three years ago Villa's faithful retainers decided to give him a medal for personal heroism on the field.

"The officers of the artillery, in smart uniforms, were banked across one end of the audience hall of the Governor's palace. From the door of that chamber all the way down to the street stood a double line of soldiers with their rifles at present arms."

The band struck up the Mexican national air, and Villa came walking down the street.

"He was dressed in an old plain khaki uniform with several buttons lacking. He hadn't recently shaved, wore no hat, and his hair had not been brushed. He walked a little pigeon-toed, humped over, with his hands in his trousers pockets. The band threw off all restraint, and as Villa entered the audience chamber the great throng outside uncovered, and all the brilliant officers in the room saluted stiffly.

"It was Napoleonic!

"Villa hesitated a moment, finally gravitated toward the throne, which he tested by shaking its arms, and then sat down, with the Governor on his right and the Secretary of State on his left.

"Señor Bauche Alcalde stepped forward, raised his right hand to the exact position which Cicero took when denouncing Cataline, and pronounced a short discourse indicting Villa for personal bravery on the field on six counts, which he mentioned in florid detail.

"He was followed by the Chief of Artillery, who said:

"'The army adores you. We will follow you wherever you lead. You can be what you desire in Mexico.'

"So it went on, the recipient of all these honors in the meantime uneasily slouching on the throne, yawning and glancing amusedly round the room like a small boy in church.

"Finally, with an impressive gesture, a colonel stepped forward with a small pasteboard box.

"Villa opened the box eagerly, looked at the medal, scratched his head, and said: 'This is a hell of a little thing to give a man for all that heroism you are talking about.'"


Mutual Film Corporation.

"Villa seems to be afraid of nothing except his friends," writes one commentator. In which the Mexican Robin Hood does not differ from other famous men we have known.


IF you have a habit of pouring water over your hands, like Beethoven, regardless of the fact that it leaks down to the room below on the head of a wrathful landlady, or if you have a mania for touching every pole you come to, like Samuel Johnson, don't think you are losing your mind. You may merely be getting ready to compose a symphony or write a history. For, writes Professor Karl Kelsey in The Physical Basis of Society (D. Appleton & Company), some one has said that when genius comes in at the door, health flies out of the window. He quotes from Lydston the following afflicted geniuses:

"Æsop, Vergil, Demosthenes, Cicero, and Cato were undoubtedly neuropaths. The stammering of Demosthenes is familiar to every school-boy. Socrates had a familiar demon of which he was the victim. Pausanius, the Greek geographer, murdered a slave and was ever after tormented by the spirit of the murdered youth.

"Peter the Great had epilepsy. Raphael was often tempted to suicide. Paschal suffered from nervous troubles all his life. Molière was a sufferer from convulsions. Mozart, who composed at four years of age, was warned of impending death by a vision, and died of brain disease at thirty-six. Cuvier, Chopin, Bruno, Comte, Johnson, Southey, Carlyle, Goldsmith, Keats, Coleridge, De Quincey, George Eliot, George Sand, Alfred de Musset, Newton, Chateaubriand, de Balzac, Chatham, Burns, Dickens—all of these beacon-lights of the history of genius show undoubted evidences of degeneracy.

"Victor Hugo was dominated by the egotistic idea of becoming the greatest man of all time. De Staël was an opium-eater; she feared the sensation of cold after death, and stipulated in her will that she be buried in furs. Swift was of insane stock; he was naturally cruel, and given to violent and aggressive outbursts of temper. He suffered from serious eye and ear trouble and facial paralysis.

"Shelley was called mad, had hallucinations, and was a victim of the opium habit. Southey had a neurotic ancestry, and died an imbecile. Cowper was afflicted by melancholia, and was finally confined for a time. Byron's brain was as clubbed as his foot. Thomas Chatterton was a weakling, called back to the bosom of nature before his time through the agency of self-murder. Poe, the man who stands out in boldest relief in American literature, was a dipsomaniac and not unlikely a lunatic."



(From Salt Water Poems and Ballads, published by the Macmillan Company.)


Painting by Charles Pears.

I MUST down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a gray mist on the sea's face and a gray dawn breaking.
I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.


HAS the boy born in a log cabin or slum a better chance in the world than the child of a rich man? Romance would have it so, but science refuses to be convinced. In The Development of Intelligence in Children, the Vineland Training School at Vineland, N.J., has translated the writings of Dr. Binet, discoverer of the celebrated Binet tests for measuring intelligence. Dr. Binet tells an interesting experience. He had been applying his tests to children in the public schools of Paris for several years, when he received a letter from two Belgian scientists, saying that they had been using his tests on some children in Brussels and complaining that the tests were too easy. The Belgian children, according to the tests, were a year and a half more advanced than the French children.

Dr. Binet set to work to run down the discrepancy, and finally arrived at the answer. The Paris children were mostly poor: the Belgian children were from well-to-do homes. In some of the tests there was little difference in the aptitude of rich and poor children. But in those tests that had to do with verbal superiority—that is, the ability to understand and speak the language easily—the superiority of rich children was especially marked.

In other words, the child who grows up in a home where good language is constantly used by members of the family, has a distinct advantage over the child whose early years are spent among people whose vocabulary is limited and often poorly used. Furthermore, "our personal investigations have demonstrated," says M. Binet, "that children of the poorer class are shorter, weigh less, have smaller heads, and slighter muscular force than a child of the upper class; they less often reach high school; they are more often behind in their studies."

Proper nourishment and a home atmosphere of culture—the child who enjoys these advantages enters life with a tremendous start over the child whose youth is deprived of them.


THE cost of grouches is usually high, but Homes Monthly tells of one man who paid $25,000 for his. Forty years ago Pete Bobidoux was the Marshall Field of Fort Wallace, Kansas, the temporary terminus of the old Kansas Pacific Railroad. As proprietor of a two-story store with a $25,000 stock, Mr. Robinoux, of course, entertained all the railroad officials who came in their private cars to the end of the line.

But finally the officials extended the line to Denver. Fort Wallace became a deserted village. This Bobidoux took as a personal insult from the railroad officials, and he nursed a grouch devotedly till he finally decided that by closing the store he would break the town. This he did. His store still stands, with boarded doors and windows shielding the $25,000 stock, one of the wonders of western Kansas.

"Dust has collected; bars of soap once as large as your hand have dried up until they are now no larger than walnuts. The place has always fascinated thieves; much has been carried off, and what has not been stolen has been badly chewed by the teeth of time. Pete Robinoux still lives in the vicinity, and occasionally takes visitors into the store. Having made a fortune as a ranchman, he is now almost proud of his $25,000 grouch."


"HERE we sit in our well heated rooms, and this very day a man was frozen to death on the highroad," wrote Count Tolstoy.

"We stuff ourselves with cutlets and pastry of every sort," he continued, "while in Samara the people are dying by thousands with stomachs swollen from famine."

It was such thoughts that transformed the aristocrat of noble birth from a mere pleasure-seeker into a rebel, living with the frugality of a peasant, devoting his life to work, prayer, and reform. Count Ilya Tolstoy, son of the great reformer, traces that transformation in his "Reminiscences of Tolstoy" (Century Company).

Manual labor became, in Tolstoy's thought, a matter of religious duty. All day long in summer he would work in the burning sun with the wood-sawyers. In the winter he set himself to learn shoemaking.

"He got a boot-maker from somewhere,—a modest black-bearded man,—bought a set of implements, and set up a bench in his little study. The shoemaker used to come at fixed hours; master and pupil sat side by side on low stools and set to work. My father sat huddled up over his bench, carefully waxing his thread, or splicing his bristle, breaking it, starting afresh, groaning with the effort, and, pupil-like, triumphant at every success.

"During the lessons people often came to see my father.

"I remember how Prince Obolénski, my cousin, came in one day. My father had just learned to drive the pegs in the sole.

"It doesn't seem so very difficult,' said Obolénski, half in joke.

"'Well, you try!'

"'Right you are!'

"Very good; but on one condition: every peg you drive in I'll pay you a rouble, and every peg you break, you pay me ten copecks. Agreed?'

"Obolénski took the boot, awl, and hammer, and broke eight pegs. Then he laughed and paid up eighty copecks, which went to the shoemaker."


SOLITARY confinement is the most ghastly of all tortures, says Thomas Mott Osborne in Society and Prisons (Yale University Press). After seeing the faces of prisoners who endure it, you know that it is more terrible than hard labor and floggings.

Dickens, describing the solitary confinement he saw in American prisons, wrote: "In the haggard face of every man the same expression sat. It had something of that strained attention we see upon the faces of the blind and deaf, mingled with a kind of horror, as though they had all been secretly terrified."

This kind of punishment was first introduced as a great reform. Up to 1794 the problem of what to do with a criminal was solved by a brief prayer and a hanging. But when Pennsylvania began to cut down on capital punishments the whole idea of a prison was altered. It became a place to make bad men good.

The Quakers of Philadelphia were the first to see that the free mingling of hardened criminals with novices in crime was a bad thing; so, with the most sincerely charitable motives, they introduced the punishment that drives men to madness and suicide—solitary confinement.

Mr. Osborne quotes an Englishman who visited the Philadelphia prison in 1827. After looking over the yard, where criminals were lounging about, he remarked that at least it was a satisfaction to see no boys.

"'Oh,' said the keeper, we keep the youngsters


Famous Players.

How do they treat convicts in your town or State? Have you ever looked it up to find out?

where they can come to none of the mischief of evil communication.'

"So he and I walked on until we came to a range of cells, each ten feet by six. These dens were closed by iron doors, with chinks left for air, and in each of them was confined a single boy, who was left there in absolute solitude, without employment of any kind.

"I went close to one cell. Within I could distinguish a fine looking lad about thirteen years of age. I was told he had run away from his master to whom he was apprenticed. Thus he was caged nine weeks.

"'Speak to him, sir,' said the keeper. I did so, and asked him how he liked it.

"'I am very miserable, sir,' he said. 'I am almost dead.'

"'What do you do with yourself?'

"'I just walk up and down here—miserable!'

"'Have you no books?'

"'No, sir.'

"'Did you not tell me a little while ago,' said I, turning to the keeper, 'that in every cell there was a Bible?'

"'Oh, yes, I did; but all those belonging to the boys have been worn out and gone long ago.'"

"And solitary confinement still persists," concludes Mr. Osborne.

"Not long ago I was taken to see a county jail in a big city, and there I found men with sentences as long as five years shut in their solitary cells and showing the same attitude of hopelessness that Dickens saw in 1842."


From Punch.


Having left orders to be called early—






"I was afraid it was time to get up!"

everyweek Page 10Page 10

The Other Brown


Illustration by Lucius W. Hitchcock

THE body of Mr. Welles-Hewitt, who was murdered in the library of his New York house, is discovered by two men who never saw him alive. Scarborough, a member of the Secret Service, while watching the house for a Mexican suspect named Gil, hears a woman's scream, and enters the house to find his distant relative, Dozy Cullop. Dozy, getting ready for a college dinner a little while before, is warned to leave his house by the roof to avoid sophomore conspirators waiting for him. He hastily makes arrangements with a neighbor; but, going down the first open scuttle he sees, gets in the wrong house. On the parlor floor he runs into a young man whom he at first mistakes for an acquaintance of his and Scarborough's named Brown. This man dashes by him and up two flights of stairs. Then Dozy hears the scream that brings Scarborough to the house. The detective suggests examining the street floor at once, and they find Welles-Hewitt's body. While waiting for the police to come, they go through the rest of the house, and discover, lying unconscious in the hall on the third floor, an elderly woman, apparently a servant. The young man has escaped by way of the roof. The woman appears to have been badly frightened, but will make no explanation. To the police she denies all knowledge of the murderer, but tells a straight story. She, Juaña Martinez, has been housekeeper for Welles-Hewitt many years. Called to Mexico suddenly, he has arranged for his daughter and the housekeeper to stay at a convent, and dismissed the servants, with the exception of a maid, who is out walking with his daughter. While awaiting their return, the police, in an effort to trace the murderer, search the next house, a boarding-house, and learn that a recent lodger in the house, who answers Dozy's description of "Brown," has been seen leaving with a suit-case.

"MY name is Rosalba Yznaga.... No, Mr. Welles-Hewitt was only my step-father.... No, no! I have no idea who could have done this terrible thing!"

The girl was seated facing the Inspector. She was richly dark, with clear olive skin. The long, pure oval of her face, shadowed by the frame of dusky hair and by the wide-brimmed girlish hat she wore, was very pale. There was color only in her full lips, from which now and then as she spoke she caught back the breath tremulously. She sat rigidly erect, her slim gloved hands tightly clasped in her lap.

At her side was the old housekeeper, Juaña Martinez. Her fleshy body was sunk low in her chair, her eyes were closed, her lips moved ceaselessly. And ever and again, as if at set intervals in the prayers she was saying, she crossed herself.

And behind these two, at a respectful distance, with face as white and terrified as that of her mistress, stood the young housemaid.

"I have been to church. Mrs. Martinez insisted that I go out; I had—"

"She insisted?" Cooley snapped.

The girl was unaware of having said anything startling.

"She is always careful of my health," she answered. "So, when she said I must go out to get some air, I decided to go to church and offer a prayer for my stepfather's safety. You see, it is very dangerous in Mexico now for foreigners. That is why we could not stay there."

"What are you? Spanish? You don't talk like it," said Cooley suspiciously. And in her speech there was, indeed, no trace of foreign intonation—though to Scarborough's keener ear the voice itself had a warm, full-throated resonance rare in a native speaker of English.

"I was educated in England, and also went to school here for a time. Besides, I have lived all my life with my step-father, who is English," the girl explained.

"I see. Do you know if he's had trouble with anybody lately?" Cooley asked.

"He has had no serious trouble, I am sure. He has worried because our mine could not be worked and we were losing a great deal of money. It was because of that he was going to Mexico."

Her voice half broke on the final word, and at the sound the old woman suddenly roused herself and muttered, "It is the will of God," then subsided.

"Miss Yznaga," said the Inspector abruptly, glaring with irritation at the housekeeper, "do you know a man named Brown?"

That he put the question with the hope of "starting something" Cooley afterward denied. It had not occurred to him, he said, that "Brown" was anything more than a temporary alias, probably confined to Mrs. Malone's boarding-house. But, whether intentional or not, the name had an extraordinary effect on the maid and on Rosalba Yznaga. The former gave a violent start, then stood rigid, her face as white as death, watching her young mistress, whom astonishment had jerked half out of her chair.

"Why do you ask me that?" She stared at Cooley.

"Oh, you do!" said the latter quickly. "Who is he?"

"Who is he?"

"Yes—and what does he look like?"

"Look like?" she echoed again blankly.

"Yes," snapped Cooley. "You seem to know him, all right."

At that she recoiled a little.

"I have met him only—only once in my life," she answered, after a moment's hesitation. "But why do you ask about him? What has he to do with—this?"

"Where is he now?" demanded Cooley, ignoring her question.

"Why do you ask?"

"Come, now, you got to answer questions, not ask 'em," the Inspector admonished gruffly. "Where does this Brown live?"

"I don't know."

"What's his business?"

"I don't know."

"Well—what's his first name?"

"I—don't know."

"Huh! Don't know anything about him, do you?"—with heavy sarcasm.

"I told you that I have met him only

Continued on page 15


"'Miss Yznaga,' said the Inspector abruptly, 'do you know a man named Brown?' 'I have met him only—only once in my life,' she answered."

everyweek Page 11Page 11



© Brown Brothers.

IF all the free advertising that has been enjoyed by the gentlemen on this page were to be paid for at space rates, it would make the European War bill look like a neat package from Mr. Woolworth. Sir Thomas Lipton, when he began business, had a Cheshire cheese made weighing a ton. He buried some gold sovereigns in it, exhibited it in his store window for a month, and then sold portions at fifteen shillings. The whole cheese was sold in a single night. Now, having $12,500,000 or so, he builds yachts to enter the international cup race. And of course the papers somehow find it out, and insist on mentioning it.


Photograph by Paul Thompson

"I'LL fight the saloons in this town until hell freezes over, and then I'll buy a pair of skates and fight on the ice." Kind, gentle, and sweet-spirited words like these, uttered from behind a pulpit, somehow find their way into the daily papers, in spite of all efforts to keep them quiet. Billy Sunday may not leave a town as clean as some household helps, but he is just as widely advertised. Only once is it recorded that he refused to allow his picture to be taken. The photographer came up with beer on his breath, and Billy, having just finished his famous sermon on Booze, lit into him in a way that almost took his breath away.


© Brown Brothers

SO well was P.T. Barnum advertised that a letter from Asia, addressed to "Mr. Barnum, America," reached him without an hour's delay. Around his house in Bridgeport Mr. Barnum placed queerly marked cattle, and he plowed his fields with an elephant where all the passengers on the railroad could see. Failing to capture a sacred white elephant from India, he got one not so sacred by painting him just as white, and made him much more famous. P.T. would have prevented the European War by hiring the Kaiser and the Czar and setting them to riding bareback around the sawdust ring in black silk tights.


Photograph by Paul Thompson.

AT the close of his first day in business John Wanamaker had made $24.67, of which $24 was spent the next day in advertising. The Wanamaker business now allows four per cent. of its earnings for advertising—part of it on those famous free concerts in Egyptian Hall. No kind word dropped inside those doors is forgotten. You whisper to your aunt who is with you: "Ain't it wonderful?" And the next day you read in the store's advertisement: "Gentleman from Hickville said yesterday: 'I have traveled the country over, and I must say this is the greatest business institution I ever saw.'"


Photograph by Paul Thompson.

"HARK, the herald angels sing; Beecham's Pills are just the thing. Peace on earth and mercy mild—Two for man and one for child." Distributing these lines in perfectly respectable-looking hymn-books just before Christmas brought Sir Joseph Beecham the best advertising he ever got. Sir Joseph bought more fence-rail space than any man in the world, advertising on every continent—even in Greenland.


Paul Thompson.

LAST but not least, the Colonel. The newspapers owe him a lot. In the good old days when paper was cheap they could always count on him for a couple of front-page columns at least. Now, when paper is expensive, he kindly subsides and saves the newspapers millions. But he will not subside for long. We can positively promise that the Colonel will come back: we can, in fact, name the day on which he will do it. It will be on a Monday morning, when news is scarcer and the front page more available.

everyweek Page 12Page 12



Photograph by Paul Thompson

THE funny stories must start somewhere. Every time you pass a barber shop with a joke-teller, for instance, he always says: "That reminds me of the barber who—" Who is the barber of whom it reminds him? We present herewith his picture for the first time in any magazine. Look at him closely. He is the gentleman who murmured in his customer's ear: "Beg pardon, sir, I have cut off your ear." To which the customer, not to be outdone in politeness, replied: "Oh, never mind; I have another."


Photograph by Paul Thompson

IF the care-free little pickininny had any idea how many thousand jokes the joke man had pinned on him, he probably would never look at a watermelon again. "Cutest little beggar you ever saw," says the joke man. "'Pop,' he asks his dad. 'what am a millennium?' Sho, doan you know what am a millennium, chile? Its 'bout de same as a centennial, on'y it's got mo' laigs.'" We hereby present the picture of the "cutest little beggar," and defy any one to prove that he is not him.


Photograph from A.E. Churchill.

BILL JOHNSON'S son Ike must be a smart lad. He is forever being quoted in the funny papers. He is the chap who, when the candidate asked him where his father was, answered, "He's down back, feedin' the hawgs. You can tell pop—he's got a hat on." We are glad to present Ike's picture—the man of whom all the Rube stories are told. It was he, you remember, who left home and took a job in a lawyer's office. Three days later he was back on the farm. "How'd you like law, Ike?" they asked him. "No good 'tall," answered Ike; "and I'm derned sorry I ever learned it."


Photograph from A. E. Churchill.

AND the girlie stories—where do they all come from? Who is the girl whom the joker has in mind when he says: "Hear the one about two girls? One sez to the other—" Here are the two girls in question, with a third thrown in for good measure. The one in the middle facing you is the girl who said to her friend: 'Molly told me that you told her that secret I told you not to tell her." To which the one on the left replied, "Why, the mean thing! I told her not to tell." "Well," said the first one, "I told her I wouldn't tell you she told me, so don't tell her I did."


© Paul Thompson.

ALL stories formerly attributed to Abe Lincoln are now the exclusive right of Chauncey M. Depew. All college professor stories were formerly told of President Eliot of Harvard. As his successor, they are now pinned on President Lowell. These include the story of the prof who, when the students shuffled their feet as the bell rang for the end of the class, said quietly: "Just a moment, gentlemen; I have a few more pearls to cast." Also the story of the absent-minded prof who put his umbrella carefully to bed, and stood himself up in the corner all night.


Photograph by Paul Thompson.

AND here is little Sally. You remember Sally, don't you? It was she who burst into tears when her tired and thirsty uncle picked up the glass of water on the dining-room table and drank it at one gulp. "What's the matter, Sally?" asked her mother. "Boohoo!" answered Sally. "Uncle drank my 'quarium." It was Sally too, who ran into the house with her hand all bleeding. "What in the world is the matter?" asked mother again. And again Sally replied through her tears: "I cut myself on that horrid old cat."


Photograph from A.E. Churchill.

AND here is Steve. Good old Steve, hero of all the cowboy stories, chief of the Texas rangers, leading man of the "Curse-you-drop-that-gun" dramas, and inventor of the "I'll sho' pump you-all so full o' lead they'll use y'u for a dish-strainer." It was good old Steve who stepped off the train at Fort Worth, Texas, when there was a riot and the citizens had telegraphed for a company of Texas rangers for assistance. When Steve stepped off, the anxious committee rushed up to him. "Where's the company?" they gasped. "Company—hell," murmured Steve. "They ain't but one riot heah, is they?"


Photograph by Paul Thompson

AND the débutante joke. Whence comes it? Who is the clever debutante who is forever handing the hot one to the presumptuous young man? Might not this be the clever girl? Said the young man to her, you remember, speaking very despondently and looking at his bull pup: "I have only one friend on earth—my dog." To which the quick-witted young lady replied: "Why don't you get another dog?" We never have any luck. The only débutantes we meet have a vocabulary consisting of: "Re—e-ally?" and "Too cute for anything," and "I thought I'd die."


Photograph from A.E. Churchill.

AND Pete, the messenger-boy. Haven't you longed for a look at Pete, hero of all the myriad messenger-boy tales? It was Pete who applied for a job, and was told that they wanted an older boy. Pete was back in a week. "I thought we told you we wanted an older boy," said the boss. "Yep; that's why I came back," answered Pete. 'Twas Pete, also, to whom his pardner said: "Hoid Mame t'rew y'u down last night." "Aw, she needn't brag," quoth Pete; "I been t'rowed down by better goils dan Mame."


Photograph from A.E. Churchill

"WONDER if she has been buying any cigars?" speculates the story-teller as his eye falls on the busy matron saying, "Home, James," on the Avenue. "Easiest thing in the world, you know. Heard of one the other day who stepped into a cigar store. 'Good afternoon,' she says blithely. "Here is a remnant of one of my husband's best cigars. Have you anything to match it?'"

everyweek Page 14Page 14



Photograph by Clinedinst Studio.

FOR most of the things that Uncle Sam claims so much credit, the credit really belongs to Aunt Sam. Quietly, behind the scenes, she does the work. Miss Agnes Quirk, above, is Cook Extraordinary to Microbes. It is her business to get the nicest delicacies in the world and cook them. Then, when she has a nice crop of germs and microbes well fattened up, the Bureau of Plant Pathology comes along and tries to kill them off. Miss Agnes Quirk loves her wirk.


MRS. MICA Z. HEIDEMANN is Uncle Sam's model bug-maker: that is to say, she makes model bugs. Opening her mail, she finds a fine assortment of fleas, mosquitoes, and—well, you know. It's her business to dissect them under a microscope, and then construct copies of the little pests on a very much larger scale. On a lumber boat on Lake Michigan we once had an all-night battle with a flea of which no enlargement could be made. Had he been made any larger he would have sunk the boat.


ALL the flour that is made in the United States has to be tested by Miss Hannah L. Wessling. Miss Wessling discovers how much proteid, gluten, etc., it contains; and then, as a final test, she makes a little loaf of bread and bakes it in her official oven. We should like to ask Miss Wessling a question. What was the flour used in pies about twenty-five years ago? We used to eat some of it after swimming in the old hole behind Norton's Mill, in our boyhood town. That flour is no longer manufactured, we are sure. We have eaten much pie since, but never any that tasted like that.

Photograph from Underwood & Underwood.


IF you are one of the folks who still keep your money in the oven of the kitchen range because you won't trust a bank, and if some autumn you carelessly start the fire, forgetting that the money is there—still there is hope for you. Send the charred remnants to Mrs. Amanda E. Brown, Washington, D. C. It's Mrs. Brown's official job to save the money of folks who deserve to lose it. Try her on your mutilated millions.


Photograph by Clinedinst Studio.

THERE is no one in Washington officially employed to paint the lily, but it is Mrs. Effie Bennett Decker's business to paint the fish. The Department of Fisheries must have specimens of all the little fishes in the sea. Mrs. Decker takes their shriveled hides, stuffs them with cotton, paints them in all the glory of their original colors, and mounts them in alcohol. We might say to her that one of her charges recently escaped. We do not care to give the name of the restaurant; but he escaped all right. We met him.


EVERY day the Post-Office Department receives from its 60,000 post-offices orders for an average of 25,000,000 stamps. One woman, Mrs. Margaret Kerfoot, is responsible for filling these orders. Mrs. Kerfoot has been with the Department thirty-two years—which helps to explain how Postmaster-Generals can be changed so often without affecting the promptness of the mails.

everyweek Page 15Page 15

Continued from page 10

once," the girl replied quietly; but her chin lifted and there was a warning flash in the dark eyes. "And my step-father had never met him at all. I do not understand—"

"You don't have to! What you got to do is answer my questions, and answer 'em straight. See?"

"I shall not answer you at all unless I choose!"

HER face was white now, her eyes blazing; and the Inspector, though he opened his mouth for another flare, closed it again in silence.

"Now, look here, miss, you ain't acting right," he protested presently, in an aggrieved tone. "I'm not asking questions out of curiosity, or for fun. It's no fun, believe me! But it's my duty as an officer of the law to find out who killed your step-father, and it's your duty to help me all you can. You see that, don't you? Now, we know this fellow Brown was in this house to-night when—"

"What!" With a cry Rosalba Yznaga sprang to her feet. "What did you say?"

Her dark eyes were shining, all anger gone from them. And in the olive pallor of her cheeks a wave of young color leaped and spread. From top to toe she seemed a-quiver with excitement.

"What did you say?" she cried again.

"Why—I said he was here to-night and—"

She cut him off.

"Naña!" she called peremptorily, shaking the old woman. "Señor Brown—he was here to-night? Yes? No?"

Then, at the grunt and shrug of denial that came in response, she whirled back upon Cooley.

"Oh, he was here, all right!" he contradicted. "He was seen coming out of that room after your father was dead. And when he was seen he ran away. Get that? He ran away!"

She regarded him a moment with a puzzled frown.

"What do you mean? You don't think that he—he—did that?"

Her words were barely audible, and on the final one she pointed swiftly toward the figure of the dead man.

"No doubt of it," said the Inspector. "He was seen here when—"

"Seen? Who saw him? You? You? Any of you!"

Her challenging eyes sped from the two men near her to the policemen beyond.

"The man that saw him ain't here now. But he saw him, all right," said Cooley. "And it's your duty to help us find him."

"I don't believe you!" She flung the words at him, her head high with defiance. "He has never been in this house—never. He would not come! There is a reason—"

She stopped short, and an odd expression flitted across her face, as if some new thought had startled her. But, with a quick shrug, she seemed at once to banish it.

"It does not matter," she said. "He was not here. I do not believe you."

"What's the reason you think he wouldn't come here? Had some trouble with the old man, eh?" Cooley questioned sharply.

"No. I have told you my step-father did not know him."

"Then why wouldn't he come?"

"I—don't know."

"Did he tell you he had a reason?"

"I will not answer any more questions."

At that Cooley frowned at her in helpless exasperation.

"Oh, all right. I can't make you talk if you won't," he announced finally. "But I got to tell you the way you're acting is likely to get you in bad. You're pretty young, and got nobody here to advise you, and I'm telling you for your own good. If you shield a criminal—"

"He's not a criminal!" she exclaimed.

"If he's innocent what are you afraid of?" he retorted. "And let me tell you this: if he's innocent you're taking a bad way to prove it. Guess you see that, don't you?"

"But I can prove it! I can tell you something that—"

She broke off abruptly, and her face betrayed a conflict of impulses.

"No," she declared suddenly; "I shall tell you nothing."

And, sitting down, she began to pull off her gloves with nervous jerks.

"I think you're quite right not to press her now," Tim hastened to say in an approving undertone. "She'll talk tomorrow when she is calmer. She has had a bad shock and is excited."

"Sure. She's the excitable kind, too. I could see right off she had to be handled with gloves."

Scarborough suppressed his smile.

"Quite right," he applauded. "But aren't you going to question the maid?"


Cooley beckoned to the girl.

"What do you know about this affair?" he asked.

"I, monsieur! Nozzing."

"You Spanish, too?"

"French, monsieur. My name is Amélie Gabet."

She approached hesitantly, a small, rather plump girl of twenty-three or -four. She was dressed in a plain, neatly fitting tailored suit and a small, stiff hat, the severity of which was partly assuaged by the glossy bands of fair hair beneath. Her eyes were soft and appealing.

"How long you been working here?"

"Just a week, monsieur."

"Know anything about this man Brown?"

"No, monsieur."

"Never heard of him?"

"No, monsieur."

Cooley fixed her with his ferret stare.

B.C. Forbes has interviewed more multimillionaires than any man in America. And, confidentially, he finds that most of them soak their toast in their tea when their wives aren't looking, just like the rest


of us. Next week we publish an unusual article by Mr. Forbes on "The Women of Wall Street." There are big chances for young-women in high finance: it is no longer exclusively a man's game.

"Never heard Miss Yznaga speak of him?"

The long lashes of the soft eyes fluttered, then she looked down.

"No, monsieur."

"Huh! Where did you go when you went out this evening?"

"Mademoiselle has told you—to church."

"How long did you stay there?"

Amélie Gabet's lips parted to answer; but she closed them again and glanced at her mistress, who had turned.

"Well?" the Inspector prompted.

"A 'alf hour, perhaps, monsieur. Mademoiselle 'ave geeve to me permission to go for 'alf an hour to a cinema theater, but—but I 'ave remain at ze church."

At this Rosalba Yznaga moved sharply in her seat, and for the briefest moment her eyes met those of the maid; then she looked away.

"I was ver' fatigue, and I 'ave prefaire to sit quietlee while Mademoiselle 'ave go up to ze altar to pray," Amélie Gabet explained; and to Scarborough it was apparent that her words brought relief to her mistress.

"Then you came right back here?"

"Yes, monsieur."

THE Inspector took out a note-book.

"Where do you live?" he asked, his pencil waiting.

"I—I 'ave not yet found a place, monsieur," faltered the girl. "Mademoiselle 'ave geeve ze permission zat I remain 'ere to-night. I 'ave no ozzer place to go."

Rosalba Yznaga interposed:

"You shall come with me, Amélie, wherever I go. When Dr. Tierney comes he will tell me what to do. You don't need to be afraid—I'll take care of you."

The French girl dropped her eyes.

"Mademoiselle is ver' kind."

"You must have some sort of address," Cooley insisted. "Where do you get your mail?"

"At ze 'ouse of a friend in Brooklyn, monsieur. But my friend 'ave move and 'ave yesterday sent me ze new number. It is upstairs in my room. If monsieur will permit I will bring it."

"All right; go ahead. And when you come down bring along whatever you want to take away with you to-night, so you won't have to go up again."

"Bien, monsieur." And the maid left the room.

"There's something between those two," Cooley explained in an undertone to Scarborough. "That French girl's got something on the other. Miss Yznaga was up to something besides praying while she was out, and the maid knows it. And she knows about Brown, too—notice how she jumped when I mentioned his name first? And notice how quick the other was to say she'd look after her? Huh! She'll have to! Believe me, Mr. Scarborough, that was the coolest bit of blackmailing I ever saw put over. And who'd ever think it, with those soulful eyes of hers? Gee, but women are wonders! Hello, who's this?"

Somebody was arriving.

THERE were two newcomers: the coroner's physician and Dr. Tierney, the family practitioner and friend.

At sight of the latter Rosalba Yznaga started forward with a little cry of relief; and, gathering her into his arms, the doctor held her there while with a few rapid questions he put himself in touch with the situation.

Scarborough watched him with considerable interest; for Dr. Percival Tierney was a big man in his profession, and one of the alienists most frequently called upon for expert testimony in insanity cases. He was physically big too, of a robust Irish type, with clear, shrewd blue eyes, a florid complexion, and bushy white hair, once red. He moved and spoke with decision, his voice, expression, and manner all evidencing the man of authority.

"All in good time, Inspector; I'll answer you presently—as soon as we get things straightened out a bit. Not much work for you here, doctor, I see. There's no doubt my poor friend was murdered, and how. Will you just have the goodness to call up your office and get a coroner here, so we can get ahead a bit? And now, Alba, my child, you must be brave."

As he spoke to the girl, affection broadened slightly the brogue in his speech.

"Sit here for a minute, me darlin', and let me take a look at Naña—I'm thinking she needs it. Here, two of you lads there, lend a band. Gently, now. Lay her on the sofa, and let's have some water for her. The dining-room's below, my boy—just hurry a bit, will you? 'Tis only doctor, me dear—lie quiet. Now open your mouth—a swallow of water and there you are! Very good, doctor; I'm obliged to you. We'll not be keeping you, sir; good night.

"And one of you lads call up the Convent of Santa Isabel and tell Sister Mary Bridget that Miss Yznaga and Mrs. Martinez will be there in a winking—that Dr. Tierney is bringing them over in his car. And now, me love, run along upstairs and get whatever it is you'll be taking with you—and the same for Naña. Have you no maid here to help you?"

At the question Inspector Cooley gave a start and looked around. In his absorption in the doctor, Amélie Cabot had been forgotten. Where was she? She must have come downstairs again by this time.

"Amélie is upstairs—she'll help me," Alba replied to the doctor's inquiry. "And she'll have to go with us," she added. "She has nowhere else to go."

"Very well, me darlin'. Run along."

"One minute, miss."

The Inspector brusquely barred the way. His purpose of preventing a private meeting between mistress and maid still held, and he had no idea of allowing the latter to go to the convent.

"Fogarty, go upstairs and tell that girl to hurry up!" he ordered. Then he turned to deal with the officious person to whom he had already yielded the center of the stage too long.

"Well, Inspector, you were wanting to ask questions a while back," said Tierney briskly. "So let's get to it, man! You're wanting to ask, of course, what I know of this deplorable affair. Nothing—nothing at all. 'Tis a shock and grief to me; that I can tell you. But who did it I can't imagine. 'Tis the work of some greaser, no doubt. I know the breed well. I practised in Mexico a number of years. It was there I met my poor friend.

"Had he an enemy? 'Tis possible. Who has not, I'd ask you?" continued the doctor. "What name is that? Brown? I know more than enough of them, but no lad of that description. What's that?"

The physician turned and looked down in surprise at the girl beside him.

"Is it true, my dear? Do you know this young man?"

"Yes, I know him," she answered. "But what he says isn't true! He wasn't here to-night—I'm sure of it!"

"You see!" snapped Cooley. "Now make her tell me what she knows about him."

Tierney looked at the girl's white face, set in defiance. On his arm he could feel her nervous clutch.

"We'll just let her be for to-night, Inspector," he announced decisively. "She's overwrought now, and small wonder. 'Twill be different in the morning. She will tell you then whatever she knows."

"I'll never tell—never; never! He didn't do it! He didn't!"

"There, there, my love! Run along and get your things, and we'll be going—before Naña is asleep entirely," soothed the doctor.

At that moment Policeman Fogarty appeared in the doorway. He was alone.

"The girl's not upstairs, sor," he announced.

"What!" snapped Cooley. "Where is she?"

"I couldn't say, sor," Fogarty replied, with a puzzled frown. "McCoy says she's niver come down—he's been in the hall all the toime—but I couldn't foind her all over, sor. I looked in all the closets, and under the beds, sor—thinkin' she might be afther hidin' hersilf."

AN instant of amazed silence filled the room; then, flashing a meaning glance at Scarborough, Cooley barked out a sharp command:

"Fogarty! Muller! Up to the roof with you—quick! If you find the scuttle unlocked, search the roofs of the whole block. Try all the scuttles. If this scuttle is locked, search the house again. The rest of you stay here. And don't let anybody out!"

And, with that parting order, the Inspector rushed to the street.

"What's up?" queried Dr. Tierney, astonished, looking at Scarborough.

Scarborough explained briefly, watching the effect of his words on the girl. But, shrewd reader of faces that he was, the Secret Service man saw nothing more in this face than bewilderment.

Hearing the Inspector's step returning, Scarborough met him on the stoop.

"Can you beat it?" was the officer's

wrathy greeting. "She got away. Walked straight through the house and by that bunch of simps dancing. They thought she was somebody's laundress come for the clothes. Can you beat it?"

"Well, you know now who was working inside," said Tim. But Cooley snorted at the meager consolation, and, reëntering the house, went directly to Alba Yznaga.

"What do you know about that French girl?" he snapped angrily.

Alba recoiled involuntarily before his violent manner into the protection of the doctor's arms.

"Well?" prompted Cooley sharply.

"Just a minute, Inspector," Tierney interposed in his authoritative way. "She will answer you. Alba, my dear—you must answer," he urged gently. "There's nothing to be afraid of, me darlin'. Tell me what you know about this girl."

"I don't know anything," Alba answered, turning her white face up to him. "She came and asked me for a place the day we moved here," she went on, her breath catching a little between words. "I happened to see her, as Naña was busy, and I liked her looks. She was so anxious for me to take her. She—she begged me so. She said she had had all her references stolen on the steamer coming over, and they were all English ones, and it would take a long time to get others, and no one would engage her without them, and—and she had no money—she said. I thought she was telling the truth, and—I was sorry for her. But Naña was very angry with me for taking her without references. She wanted to send her away; but I wouldn't let her."

She turned now and looked at Cooley.

"What has she done?" she asked. "I don't understand."

"You don't, eh?" "She's a confederate of this fellow Brown that you're shielding from the law, and—"

"That will do, Inspector," Tierney intervened curtly. "As this child's physician I decline to allow her to be examined about this matter any further to-night. She is in a highly nervous state, and the ordeal is likely to endanger her health. Come," he added to the girl. "I'll go up and help you get your things together."

Cooley allowed them to pass without argument. Being something of a bully, he was easily overawed by an opponent of the doctor's caliber. Indeed, when they presently returned, ready for departure, he showed an eagerness to make amends for his gruffness. And Tierney, satisfied with his victory, readily met him half way.

"You know where to find us, Inspector, when you want us," he observed affably, as Cooley walked with him to the door, following the policemen who were helping the old housekeeper.

She had been awakened sufficiently to stand and walk; but the sedative the doctor had given had stupefied her, and only for an instant did she seem to become aware of her surroundings. That was when her glance, vaguely wandering, chanced to fall on Scarborough. Then a gleam lighted the dull eyes, and as she turned away she made the sign of the cross. "It is the will of God," she murmured again, and submissively allowed herself to be led away.

"She knows," thought Tim. "Seeing me reminded her of what happened upstairs. She knows the man she saw there, but not as Brown. The odd thing is that she seems to recognize a divine justice in the murder. I wonder why?"

FROM outside the house came sounds of the departure of the doctor's car. Tim looked at his watch. Almost nine. No use to stay any longer.

Perceiving suddenly that he was for the moment alone, Tim walked back to the library for a final survey of it. Obviously there had been no struggle. The blow, it appeared, might have been dealt just as the victim had turned his back to open the door, probably to allow his murderous visitor to pass out.

And who was that visitor? Brown or Gil?

What evidence was there against the Mexican? Only his call at the house. And fully fifteen minutes must have elapsed between that and the finding of the body. Then, too, his behavior had been in no way suspicious. While, as for Brown, he had not only been seen in the house after the murder, but had fled on discovery. Also he had prepared his get-away, and had an accomplice in the house.

Who was Brown? And why was the old housekeeper shielding him? Why the girl?

Scarborough decided to hunt up Gil's cabman down at the Pennsylvania Station. After all, the Mexican was the only person whose movements concerned him. If innocent, Gil would, of course, himself tell the police of his call on Welles-Hewitt as soon as he heard of the murder. If he did not it would be fairly conclusive evi—

Here Scarborough's speculations ceased as abruptly as if the power to think had suddenly failed him. For at that moment, entering the room behind Cooley, he saw the very man with whom his thoughts were busy—Valentin Gil.

INSTANTLY Scarborough stepped aside, and, to his relief, the newcomer in passing gave him only the briefest glance before fixing his eyes on the body of the murdered man.

"When did it happen?" Gil asked in his strongly foreign pronunciation, turning to the Inspector.

"About eight o'clock."

There was a pause then, during which Gil did not move; but to Tim, watching intently, it seemed that his body had stiffened, grown tense.

"You say you came here to see the old man on business? Known him long?" Cooley inquired.

"Not personally. I have known of him for some years," said Gil.

"Ever hear of a young English fellow calling himself Brown—tall, with light hair?"

"Brown?" There was unmistakable surprise in the Mexican's voice; but he repeated the name again, as if probing his memory before he answered: "Yes, I have met a young man of that description and name; but surely you do not suspect—"

"Oh, we got our proof," Cooley interrupted. "Know where he is?"

Gil shook his head.

"What proof?" he asked.

"He was seen here just before the body was found. What do you know about him?"

"Seen here, you say—at eight o'clock?"

"Well—eight-ten or eight-fifteen, maybe. What do you know about him?"

"Nothing—that is, practically nothing," said Gil. "I do not even know that the man I have in mind is the one you are looking for, the name is so common. I met a young man named Brown in Mexico a short time ago. I was there looking after the interests of some of my clients, and this young man called to make some inquiries about some mining property. But nothing came of his visit. And I

A New Department Edited by James H. Collins


THIS is the announcement of another step forward in our program to make Every Week mean real service to its readers—progress, larger success, more money in the bank.

Business problems—we all have them, every man and woman of us. How to get on with the boss: how to get on with the customer: how to increase sales: how to promote our individual efficiency so that we will be worth more to the house. To be able to take these problems up with a man who for twenty years has made an intimate study of all kinds of business, and has helped thousands of young people to make business progress, is worth a lot.

Such a man is James H. Collins. Probably no other writer on business has so wide an acquaintanceship or so intimate an understanding of the problems of the average young man and young woman.

Beginning in an early number, and every two weeks thereafter, Mr. Collins is to contribute to this magazine a short, pointed article dealing with some business problem and its solution.

We are glad to have Mr. Collins with us: we hope his articles will mean money in the bank to you.

know nothing about him—nothing whatever. But I can not believe that the man I speak of could have been concerned in this crime. I can not think what motive he—"

"We don't have to bother about a man's motive when he's caught in the act."

"In the act?"

"He was in the room with the dead man—was seen coming out. And he ran away. Ain't that enough?"

"Who saw him?" Gil asked.

"The man that— Say, I'm not here to answer questions, you know," Cooley declared irascibly, his eyes narrowing in sudden suspicion. "Just what did you tell me was your business here?" he inquired pointedly.

"I do not think I told you," Gil answered suavely. "It is a matter in no way connected with this affair. I shall have to consult with Miss Yznaga about it. May I ask where she is?"

Grudgingly Cooley supplied the information. "And you say you didn't know these people well?" he questioned.

"No, and that only in a professional way. I am a lawyer." He took out a card-case and handed the Inspector a card from it. "My address. Command me at any time," he said.

At this point Scarborough, who had quietly withdrawn to the hall and was listening from there, left the house. Hurrying to the corner, he had the good luck to pick up a taxi at once. Two minutes later he was once more trailing the Mexican.

And again, just as when he had attempted to follow him an hour ago, Gil's cab turned east, into the Park. But it was not the same cab. Tim noted carefully its license number. Later, by tracing the two cabs, he hoped to discover how the Mexican had spent the time between his two calls at the Welles-Hewitt house.

WHY had Gil concealed the fact of that call? What was his connection with the murder? Was he an accomplice of Brown? Had he met the latter after the murder, learned of the encounter with Dozy, and come back to find out how much the police knew?

Down the oiled parkway, black and lustrous under the lights of the bordering lamp-posts, sped the two cars. Round the lake they swerved, then bent eastward again until, on emerging into Fifth Avenue, they turned north.

"Easy, now! Pass them!" Tim ordered, when the machine ahead suddenly veered toward the curb and slowed down. "Turn the corner! That'll do! Stop!"

In another second he was back on the Avenue. One glimpse he caught of Gil at the door of the house before which his cab halted; then the Mexican disappeared within.

Tim drew back at once into the side street to wait. His head buzzed with new questions. What had brought Gil to that house? It was one Scarborough knew well. Ten years before, when he had come to New York, the home of Lars Johanson, millionaire steel manufacturer, was one of the city's "sights," though since then scores of more costly and less tasteful dwellings had out-rivaled it.

BUT what connection could the rich Swedish-American have with this case? Some link there must be. What else could bring Gil there at such a time, as straight and fast as he could travel? And he was there to see Johansen, and no one else; for the old man lived alone in his big house—alone with the art treasures he spent his leisure and money in collecting.

A startling thought flashed into Scarborough's mind. Quite recently the name of Johansen had been much in the newspapers, owing to his refusal to convert his steel-mills into munitions factories. Simply a matter of conscience—he would not profit by the destruction of human life, was the reason he had given; and, though his stand had met with approval in some quarters, in others his "matter of conscience" had been translated as pro-German feeling—or anti-Russian, which came to the same thing.

But where did Brown come in?

At that moment the memory of the Pullman checks in his pocket returned to Tim. He dug them out and, striking a match, examined them. The first, as he had expected, was for the seat occupied by Brown from Philadelphia to New York. The other read: "Spitzen to Philadelphia."

Spitzen! Tim stared at the name, fascinated, until the burning match reached his fingers and roused him from his preoccupation. He put the checks back in his pocket, then gazed before him, trying to grasp the full significance of what he had just learned.

Spitzen was the Pennsylvania town in which the Johansen steel-mills were located. The mills were Spitzen. Their smoke made the town seem, at a distance, a mere smudge on the sky. No one lived there but the mill people, though once it had been a clean little Swedish settlement, and the first American home of the immigrant Lars Johansen.

Nothing but business could have taken a man like Brown to the place. But what business? Was it true, as the rabid pro-British newspapers alleged, that Germany was backing Mexico? Was the murder of Welles-Hewitt part of a political plot?

From that point of view Brown's guilt took on a new aspect. It became believable. Hitherto, even in face of the overwhelming evidence, Tim had found it impossible to convince himself that the man with whom he had talked that day could be guilty of such a crime. But, granted a patriotic motive, there was no limit to what a man would do—a young man. And was it not to the young and ardent, with their recklessness of death, that the dangerous work in any project always fell?

And who, then, was Hewitt? A secret agent of his government? Had he been murdered to prevent his going to Mexico? Or to secure certain papers in his possession? The latter, undoubtedly. For the plot must have been under way when Brown engaged his room at the boardinghouse, and when his confederate, the maid, entered the Welles-Hewitt home. And at that time the victim had apparently no thought of going away. It was the papers they were after. And what were those papers?

At the question Scarborough suddenly gave himself a jerk. He was getting as bad as Inspector Cooley! Why, he didn't know yet that any papers had been taken!

His wait for Gil was shorter than he had expected. In less than a quarter of an hour the Mexican emerged from the Johansen house and reentered his taxi. It went south now, and kept to Fifth Avenue until, just north of Washington Square, it turned west and stopped before a small dwelling. Here Gil discharged it, then admitted himself to the house with a key.

It was his home, Scarborough knew,

and the prospect was that he would remain there for some time, if not all night. Dismissing his cab, Tim found a telephone booth at the corner drug-store, and summoned in all possible haste the aid he wanted—two men to watch Johansen, two for Gil.

WITHIN fifteen minutes the two detectives summoned by Scarborough to relieve him of the surveillance of Valentin Gil arrived; and, having given them his instructions, Tim hurried off.

At the Pennsylvania Station, whither he went first, he had no difficulty in locating, by means of its license number, the cab in which Gil had made his first call at the Welles-Hewitt house.

"Say! I thought there was something funny about that guy!" declared the chauffeur, as soon as Tim began to question him. "First go off, he give me a number on the East Side and—"

"What number?" Scarborough asked.

"Oh, I don't remember it now—Fifth Avenue, it was—a swell address. So I went on through the Park. But when we was starting up Fifth Avenue he stops me,—changed his mind, he says,—and he gives me a number on the West Side again. And then, the minute I gets turned to go back, he sings out to take him to the nearest Elevated station!"

"Third Avenue El.?" Tim inquired.

"Sure. And he goes up the steps, too—I waited to see. He had me guessing. What's the matter with him?"

"That's what we're trying to find out," Tim replied enigmatically. "Which side of the Elevated did he go up?"


Additional inquiries in an attempt to unearth the two addresses given by the Mexican proving futile, Tim took himself off, much disappointed. He suspected that the Fifth Avenue address was Johansen's, and would have given a good deal to be sure of it.

Scarborough's next destination was the St. Quentin Hotel. He wanted a few words with Dozier Cullop.

TO his relief, Tim had only a few minutes to wait.

The boy came hurrying out to him, plainly agog at the summons.

"What's up? Have they got him?"

"Got whom?"

"Why—the man they were after."


"I don't know if that's his name—"

"Cut it, kid," said Scarborough. "I want the truth. The man you saw in that house to-night was the same man we met on the train, and what you said to him was: 'Hello, Brown'—wasn't it?"

"Yes, I did say that; but he wasn't the same—"

"What did he say?"

"Not a word, Tim. I swear that! Everything else happened just the way I told it. I'd have told that too, only I knew I had made a mistake—"

"Look here, Dozy!" Scarborough laid an arresting hand heavily on the boy's arm. "I know you! I know you'd lie like a gentleman any hour of the day or night. But— Now wait a minute!" he broke off to say, when Dozy tried to protest. "A good deal happened after you left. The daughter came back—or step-daughter, rather. Her name is Yznaga—Spanish. A beautiful girl with wonderful eyes. Did you ever happen to see her on the street?"

"Not that I know of."

"Well, she knows Brown—but wouldn't tell a thing. She defied the Inspector. And she wouldn't hear a word against Brown—acted as if she might be in love with him, I thought. And the housemaid turned out to be Brown's confederate. She got away by the roof, too."

"Good heavens!"

"It's a very strange case," said Tim earnestly. "And it may be far-reaching. That's why you can't indulge yourself in any quixotic notions. I told you to stick to your story because I didn't want to mix either you or myself in the affair."

Pausing, he threw a quick glance about to assure himself there was no danger of being overheard, then continued in a lower tone:

"Remember the man who passed our table in the dining-car this evening—he spoke to Brown?"

Dozy nodded. "And Brown didn't know him."

"He didn't recognize him," Scarborough corrected meaningly. "He knew him, well enough. The Mexican admitted it at the Welles-Hewitt house to-night. And yet, if you remember, after he passed our table Brown asked me who he was."

"But, Tim, he—"

"Listen, now. This Mexican is suspected of—" Tim stopped, arrested by an instinct of caution. "He's under suspicion," he amended briefly. "Word of honor, kid, that the man you saw in the house was not the one we met?"

"Word of honor!" affirmed Dozy. "I thought it was at first, then saw it wasn't. Haven't you ever mistaken one person for another until you—"

"This is different," cut in Scarborough. "There's the name. If these two Browns are not the same, they're brothers."

"Why—I hadn't thought of that!" Dozy exclaimed. "I just thought there was a mistake in the name. But I'll bet that's it! Some brothers do look awfully alike, especially to strangers. But say—" he broke off, his face troubled. "It will be tough on Brown—our Brown—if the other fellow is his brother. He seemed such a decent chap. Didn't you think so?"

Tim assented absently. He was busy thinking.

"I took to him right off," Dozy went on. "I liked the way he looks at you—straight in the eye. And I liked the way he kept hold of himself when you were badgering him about that dual personality ca—"

A startling thought clipped the word.

"Tim!" he said suddenly. "Could it be? Could that dual personality case he was telling about be—himself?"

"What's that?"

Startled in turn, Scarborough stared.

"He said it was in his family!" Dozy insisted. "And he said it was a man! And that people who knew him well didn't recognize him in the other personality! And he said he didn't know in one what he did in the other! Maybe that was why he didn't know me!"

"The idea's absurd," said Scarborough.

"But everything fits, Tim! He said from being quiet and steady normally, the man became reckless and excitable. And he said—Tim, don't you remember?—he said he drank!"

Scarborough did not answer; but the boy knew he was thinking of the whisky flask found in the boarding-house room.

"He said that normally the man didn't drink—hated it," Dozy argued on. "And he refused when I asked him to have something—said he never touched it. Don't you remember? Then what would he be doing with whisky in his—"

"Dozy," Tim interrupted, "just how was the man you saw in the house different from the other? Think, now! How was he dressed?"

"Well—I'm not sure, but I think he had on a dark suit—like our Brown's. But, you see, I was so taken by surprise I didn't notice details. All I can really remember is his hair. It was light and thick like Brown's, but not brushed down smooth like his. That was one thing that made him look so different, maybe. Because he did look different, Tim!" Dozy thought a moment. "Yes, he looked different. I knew, the minute I really got a good look at him, I knew it wasn't Brown—our Brown," he declared. "Anyhow, that whisky bottle proves it was not the same man, doesn't it? Unless it was one man with two personalities. Tim! that would be worse than having it his brother!"

Tim rose impatiently.

"I've got to go," he said. "Sorry I had to take you away from your dinner. But just remember that what I've been telling you is between us."

"Sure," said Dozy. "But, Tim," he added anxiously, as his friend was starting away. "Do you think it could be that—double personality?"

"No, I don't," said Tim. "Forget it."

To be continued next week


How I Raised My Earnings from $30 to $1000 a week

The Story of a Young Man's Remarkable Rise, as Told by Himself

THREE years ago I was earning $30 per week. With a wife and two children to support it was a constant struggle to make both ends meet. We saved very little, and that only by sacrificing things we really needed. Today my earnings average a thousand dollars weekly. I own two automobiles. My children go to private schools. I have just purchased, for cash, a $25,000 home. I go hunting, fishing, motoring, traveling, whenever I care to, and I do less work than ever before.

What I have done, anyone can do—for I am only an average man. I have never gone to college, my education is limited, and I am not "brilliant" by any means. I personally know at least a hundred men who are better business men than I, who are better educated, who are better informed on hundreds of subjects, and who have much better ideas than I ever had. Yet not one of them approaches my earnings. I mention this merely to show that earning capacity is not governed by the extent of a man's education and to convince my readers that there is only one reason for my success—a reason I will give herein.

One day, a few years ago, I began to "take stock" of myself. I found that, like most other men, I had energy, ambition, determination. Yet in spite of these assets, for some reason or other I drifted along without getting anywhere. My lack of education bothered me, and I had thought seriously of making further sacrifices in order to better equip myself to earn more. Then I read somewhere that but few millionaires ever went to college. Edison, Rockefeller, Hill, Schwab, Carnegie—not one of them had any more schooling than I had.

One day something happened that woke me up to what was wrong with me. It was necessary for me to make a decision on a matter which was of no great consequence. I knew in my heart what was the right thing to do, but something held me back. I said one thing, then another; I decided one way, then another. I couldn't for the life of me make the decision I knew was right.

I lay awake most of that night thinking about the matter—not because it was of any great importance in itself, but because I was beginning to discover myself. Along towards dawn I resolved to try an experiment. I decided to cultivate my will power, believing that if I did this I would not hesitate about making decisions—that when I had an idea I would have sufficient confidence in myself to put it "over"—that I would not be "afraid" of myself or of things or of others. I felt that if I could smash my ideas across I would soon make my presence felt. I knew that heretofore I had always begged for success—had always stood, hat in hand, depending on others to "give" me the things I desired. In short, I was controlled by the will of others. Henceforth, I determined to have a strong will of my own—to demand and command what I wanted.

But how shall I begin? What shall I do first? It was easy enough for me to determine to do things—I had "determined" many times before. But this was a question of will power, and I made up my mind that the first step was to muster up enough of my own will power to stick to and carry out my determination.

With this new purpose in mind I applied myself to finding out something more about will power. I was sure that other men must have studied the subject, and the results of their experience would doubtless be of great value to me in understanding the workings of my own will. So, with a directness of purpose that I had scarcely known before, I began my search.

The results at first were discouraging. While a good deal had been written about the memory and other faculties of the brain, I could find nothing that offered any help to me in acquiring the new power that I had hoped might be possible.

But a little later in my investigation I encountered the works of Prof. Frank Channing Haddock. To my amazement and delight I discovered that this eminent scientist, whose name ranks with James, Bergson and Royce, had just completed the most thorough and constructive study of will power ever made. I was astonished to read his statement, "The will is just as susceptible of development as the muscles of the body"! My question was answered! Eagerly I read further—how Dr. Haddock had devoted twenty years to this study—how he had so completely mastered it that he was actually able to set down the very exercises by which anyone could develop the will, making it a bigger, stronger force each day, simply through an easy, progressive course of Training.

It is almost needless to say that I at once began to practice the exercises formulated by Dr. Haddock. And I need not recount the extraordinary results that I obtained almost from the first day. I have already indicated the success that my developed power of will has made for me.

But it may be thought that my case is exceptional. Let me again assure you that I am but an average man, with no super-developed powers, save that of my will. And to further prove my contention let me cite one or two instances I have since come across, which seem to show conclusively that an indomitable will can be developed by anyone.

One case that comes to my mind is that of a young man who worked in a big factory. He was bright and willing, but seemed to get nowhere. Finally he took up the study of will training, at the suggestion of Mr. W. M. Taylor, the famous efficiency expert of the Willys-Overland Company, and in less than a year his salary was increased 800%. Then there is the case of C. D. Van Vechten, General Agent of the Northwestern Life Insurance Company, Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Just a short time after receiving the methods in will development suggested by Prof. Haddock, he felt that they would be worth from $3,000 to $30,000 to him.

Another man, Mr. H. D. Ferguson, residing in Hot Springs, Ark., increased his earnings from $40 a week to $90 a week in a remarkably short space of time after he began the study of will training. These are but a few—there are many other equally amazing examples which I personally know about. And aside from the financial gain, this training has enabled thousands to overcome drink and other vices almost overnight—has helped overcome sickness and nervousness, has transformed unhappy, envious, discontented people into dominating personalities filled with the joy of living.

Prof. Haddock's lessons, rules and exercises in will training have recently been compiled and published in book form by the Pelton Publishing Co., of Meriden, Conn. Mr. Pelton has authorized me to say that any reader who cares to examine the book may do so without sending any money in advance. In other words, if after a week's reading you do not feel that this book is worth $3, the sum asked, return it and you will owe nothing. When you receive your copy for examination I suggest that you first read the articles on: the law of great thinking; how to develop analytical power; how to perfectly concentrate on any subject; how to guard against errors in thought; how to drive from the mind unwelcome thoughts; how to develop fearlessness; how to use the mind in sickness; how to acquire a dominating personality.

Some few doubters will scoff at the idea of will power being the fountainhead of wealth, position and everything we are striving for, and some may say that no mere book can teach the development of the will. But the great mass of intelligent men and women will at least investigate for themselves by sending for the book at the publisher's risk. I am sure that any book that has done for me—and for thousands of others—what "Power of Will" has done—is well worth investigating. It is interesting to note that among the 150,000 owners who have read, used and praised "Power of Will," are such prominent men as Supreme Court Justice Parker; Wu Ting Fang, Ex-U. S. Chinese Ambassador; Lieut-Gov. McKelvie of Nebraska; Assistant Postmaster-General Britt; General Manager Christeson, of Wells-Fargo Express Co.; E. St. Elmo Lewis; Governor Arthur Capper of Kansas, and thousands of others.

As a first step in will training, I would suggest immediate action in this matter before you. It is not even necessary to write a letter. Use the form below, if you prefer, addressing it to the Pelton Publishing Company, 100-B Wilcox Block, Meriden, Conn., and the book will come by return mail. This one act may mean the turning point of your life, as it has meant to me and to so many others.

PELTON PUBLISHING COMPANY, 100-B Wilcox Block, Meriden, Conn.

I will examine a copy of "Power of Will" at your risk. I agree to remit $3 or remail the book in 5 days.

Name.................................. Address...............................

everyweek Page 18Page 18


To Roll This Old World Along




The Bureau of Mines exhibit—to the left can be seen the cage of the canary that is used in testing mine gas.


On, the "safety first special" the public was allowed to fondle machine-guns and a real Whitehead torpedo.

THE United States' government is showing us how to kill flies and keep diphtheria, typhoid, scarlet fever, and other germs out of our systems. It is allowing us to pat a tame Whitehead torpedo on its gleaming flank and to study the ways and means whereby the weather man determines whether or not it will rain on the date set for the next Sunday school picnic.

It is showing us "Goldie," the pet canary that has keeled over and turned up its toes eighteen times while detecting deadly mine gas, and has been revived so often that some one once remarked that "the poor little bird must feel like a singing gas meter."

The United States government has installed ten steel railway coaches with "safety first" exhibits. According to the government's interpretation, "safety first" includes pretty nearly everything, from ordering a wayward iceberg out of the proposed pathway of a ship, to showing mothers and fathers why they should not allow their children to dry their hands and faces on public towels.

One of the coaches has relief maps showing how forests are destroyed through improper and reckless lumbering, as well as how they are conserved for posterity by correct lumbering methods. Another coach shows how railway locomotives are inspected so that boiler explosions will never occur except in short stories. Illuminating displays of technical apparatus reveal to the public the secret of the wireless spark. Part of another coach is taken up with an exhibit of machine-guns and field and ship pieces.

Of particular interest to the young man who has tired of irksome city life is an exhibit for the amateur camper, instructing him how to protect himself against disease, and how to build fires and put them out properly and completely, so that he will not set fire to several neighboring counties of timber.

The "safety first special," as it is called, is being sent from city to city, and no one is allowed to pay a cent for admission. President Wilson gave the museum caravan his approval when it started away from Washington. After being inspected and admired by the citizens of a number of communities, it reached Chicago on the day of Judge Hughes' nomination for the presidency. In spite of the attraction at the Coliseum, crowds filled the traveling museum at the rate of a thousand an hour.



This professor picks up rats by their tails and drops them into a sack.

THE following advertisement caused a great deal of comment when it appeared in Chicago recently:

Hotels and restaurants cleaned of rats and mice. All rats caught alive! No poison! No dead rats! The one and only Professor Richard H. Dorney, the only one in Chicago who catches rats alive.

Professor Dorney goes about his business in a direct and simple way. He works at night. First he scatters the delicacies that rats love over the floor or in the cellar where they are known to scamper. Then the professor seeks out the rats with a dark-lantern. With the aid of a specially built pair of tongs, he picks them up by their tails and whisks them into a sack held by an assistant.

From one large Chicago department store he has already removed ten thousand rats.


THE well intentioned impulse of our fathers to electrify the seats of our trousers, in order that we should not commit the same wrong twice, was entirely different from the inspiration of two German scientists who, according to Tit-Bits; have recently collaborated upon an invention for warming the skin of the German army.

Max Beck, an Innsbruck professor now serving in the trenches, and a Vienna professor of medicine, von Schrotter, have submitted to the war board army trousers into the texture of which are woven fine insulated resistance wires.

These trousers are worn like any others. The electricity is fed to them through hundred-yard cables. The expense of heating the trousers of one soldier is less than one cent an hour.


THE only real goat farm in the United States is found near Manchester, in the New Hampshire hills.

In rural Greece the landscape is dotted at all times with large herds of grazing goats, as the raising of these animals has been, since the days of Pan, a profitable one in the land of King Constantine.

Not only is there, in Greece, a large and constant demand for goat's milk to drink, but also for use in the manufacture of fine cheese. But in this country goat raising on a large scale is a new industry.

Years ago, when he was a boy, N. J.


Photograph from the Gilliams Service

Herding and milking 600 goats daily would cause an American farmer to throw up his hands in horror—Mr. Nassikas expects to increase his herd to 1000.

Nassaikas, the owner of this New England goat farm, was a goatherd on his father's farm in his native land. His family have been goatherds for generations back, and his brother at the present time owns one of the largest flocks of goats in all Greece. So young Nassaikas, when he was settled in the United States, started goat-raising.

His farm comprises eight hundred acres. He has 600 goats, and expects shortly to see his herds increase to 1000. In his daily watch over his animals, besides the crook, he is armed with a rifle as a safeguard against wolves and dogs.


ONE of the favorite debates of children, as you may recall, concerns the actual value of money. Is there five dollars' worth of gold in a five-dollar gold piece? Is there one dollar's worth of silver in a silver dollar? Is there one cent's worth of copper in a copper cent? The dramatic climax to this debate is usually the triumphant shriek of some eight-year-old: "Is there a dollar's worth of paper in a dollar bill?"

In Mexico and China the question has earned commercial recognition. If Mexican paper money does not soon cease to lose value, American paper manufacturers can buy Mexican dollar bills as waste paper and reap a profit.

In China, according to the Scientific American, the Japanese are buying brass coins whose actual metallic value is $15 per picul (133⅟₂ pounds) for $12.50.

The business of buying up these coins and melting them has become so large and profitable that a monopoly was one of the considerations proposed for a recent Chino-Japanese loan.


ONE of our enterprising motorcycle manufacturers has placed upon the market, for the benefit of the nations in Europe, or for any nation that feels in need of such equipment, a two-wheeled gun carriage drawn by a stock type motorcycle.

Such an equipment has many advantages. It can cover the retreat of small bodies of soldiers, or it can be employed in driving away hostile aëroplanes.

Perhaps the most important point in favor of this unique gun mount is the fact that it not only makes possible a horizontal range of action embracing a complete circle, or 360 degrees, but it is so designed that the gun can be elevated through a 45-degree arc for use against aircraft. In other words, its range of action embraces a full hemisphere, and the adjustment is so simple that the gun can be sighted instantly.

Quite in accordance with this versatility afforded by the wide range of action is the fact that the gun mounting is so arranged that it will take any of the various types of automatic machine-guns now on the market; and to change the mounting to accommodate a gun other than the one that comes with the machine takes only a few minutes.

Provision is made for carrying 4000 rounds of ammunition by means of two


A machine-gun has a wide range of action. Besides repelling aircraft, it can be used to cover the retreat of soldiers.

armored boxes, one on each side of the platform. The complete equipment weighs slightly less than 500 pounds, not including the ammunition.


AS a result of investigations made by the specialists in the home economics branch of the United States Department of Agriculture, American housewives are offered an easy and effective method of cleaning tarnished silverware.

It is accomplished by boiling the article to be cleaned in a soda and salt solution, in contact with a clean piece of aluminum or zinc.

A circular sent out by the Department of Agriculture explains that the tarnish which occurs on silver is not caused, as is ordinarily thought, by oxidization, but by the action of sulphur. In most cases this sulphur comes from rubber, wool, foods such as eggs, and the sulphur in the air due to burning illuminating gas and coal.

This tarnish is slightly soluble in the hot solution employed, and is broken down chemically and its silver content redeposited by the presence of both the silver and the aluminum or zinc in the solution.

The solution recommended consists of a teaspoonful of baking or washing soda and an equal amount of table salt to each quart of hot water.

everyweek Page 19Page 19

Magnets for Muscle

NEARLY every child has enjoyed picking up needles and pins with his little horseshoe magnet. But for lifting purposes the magnet has passed the stage of a plaything.

Used in connection with a locomotive crane in a railway storeyard, a lifting magnet will save from fifteen to fifty dollars a day over the old band method. By its use, one railroad has reduced the cost of handling scrap from thirty-five cents a ton to two cents.

The rapidity with which the magnet works is shown by the fact that it takes only thirty-three minutes to load fifty-six tons of old spikes. A twenty-ton crane will carry, by means of a magnet, five car-wheels weighing 3,625 pounds. The magnet picks up its load instantly, carries it where it is needed, and releases it instantly.

Before the lifting magnet was used generally, accidents were frequent, wherever pieces of metal, rails, plates of steel, or scrap were handled. There was always danger of improper adjustment of the hoisting-tackle, hooks, or appliances used in holding the pieces of metal together. The magnet simply picks up its capacity load and puts it down without any outside assistance.

Large locomotive cranes equipped with a magnet are furnished with an engine-generator set so that they generate their own current and are free to travel wherever necessary. If they are to be used where little traveling is necessary, a plug-in connection may be made with a cable laid along the ground.

The Omitted Question

Continued from page 7

—he's so—strange! I—Uncle Eli, Tom isn't right."

"What's that?" says I.

"He—he doesn't act—natural. He acts crazy," says she.

"All young men is," says I.

"He makes me afraid. Oh," she says, "I love him so—and—oh, Uncle Eli," she says, "maybe they'll shut him up."

That sounded pretty serious, and I asked her what made her think his brain was addled.

"Why," she says, "it started with his coming to see me and forgetting I was there. Then it grew worse. One night he took me to the theater, and all at once he got up in the middle of an act and went out—and—didn't come back—at all. When I asked him why, he was so sorry and dear and sort of bewildered, and told me not to worry, but his mind was so full of something it made him forget everything else sometimes, but he wouldn't ever do it again. And that very night I was telling him how we'd furnish the library, and he said 'Yes, yes,' like you'd speak to a baby that was bothering you, and pulled out his cuff and went to making marks on it, and rushed for his hat. He just mumbled good night from the hall and fairly ran away from the house. Next day he called me up to apologize, and talked so wild. All I could make out of it was something about flexibility. As far as I could understand, he ran away the night before because something wasn't flexible. And now—and now he's—disappeared!"

"Disappeared?" says I. "Disappeared how?"

"He's gone. Nobody knows where."

"H'm," says I. "Looks like there's grounds for suspicion—maybe of insanity, maybe of somethin' else. Got any more evidence to bear up your notion of it?"

"The worst of all," she says—and her eyes got big and scared. "The last time he was at the house he—he—rushed out into the kitchen and said to the cook, 'I want a dish shaped like that.' He held his hands to show her. 'Quick,' he said. She handed him an old sugar-bowl, and he grabbed it and poured the sugar right out on the floor. Then he made a little wad of paper and put it inside, and puffed out his cheeks and blew and blew and blew into it. I was so frightened I almost called daddy."

"You hain't told your folks?" says I.

"No," says she; "I—couldn't."

"Good," says I. "Don't. Now, you run along home and cry vig'rous but secret. It'll do you good. I'll look into this here insanity plea."

"You'll find him?" says she.

"I'll do my darndest," says I. "It's funny," I says, "but I can't imagine a Bundy goin' insane. It don't fit 'em," says I, "any more'n a hoop-skirt would fit a hippopotamus."

WELL, I yanked my apron off and hollered to my clerk, who was talking as usual to the girl in the sody fountain next door, and started out. First off I took a car up to the offices of the motor company young Bundy was working for, and went in and asked to see the man at the head of the whole thing.

"What's your name?" says the girl, "and what's your business? And have you an appointment?"

"My name don't signify," says I, "and my business is snoopin' into other folks' affairs, and I hain't got any appointment."

"Then," says she, "you can't see him."

"You tell that man," says I, "that if he don't see me, the next time his wife comes into my store I'll sell her eleven bad eggs to the dozen, and I'll weigh my hand with the sugar. You tell him that."

She done so, and in a minute came back and said I could go in, which I did.

"Well?" says the boss, sharp-like.

"You got a feller by the name of Bundy workin' for you," says I.

"We had," says he.

"Had?" says I.

"He went out a few days ago and hasn't come back," says he.

"Any trouble?"

"Not that I can find. I liked the boy, and I looked the thing up myself


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when it was reported to me. Are you a relative?"

"No," says I; "I'm a grocer."

Then I told him a little about things, and he set right up, because he hadn't heard anything about being insane, and took me out to where Bundy did his work. There was another man there, and the boss called him and says:

"Did Bundy act queer before he disappeared?"

"Now that you ask right out," the man said, "he did."

"How?" says the boss.

"He got the blowin' habit," says the man. "He was always blowin' into things—different things. Then he'd stand and puff and blow all by himself, first out of his nose and then out of his mouth, and then he'd walk up and down mutterin'. Once," says the feller, "I caught him takin' a drink of kerosene."

"Kerosene?" says the boss, looking like he'd bit into something he didn't like.

"Kerosene," says the man. "And that very day he up and went out and never come back."

"No sane man would drink kerosene," says the boss to me; and I'll admit that right then and there I begun to wabble some in my own opinion of the thing. Puffin' and blowin' and sugar-bowls and mutterin' and disappearin' wasn't no fit acts for a sane mind.

"Hadn't we better notify the police?" says the boss.

"Police!" says I, disgusted. "Might as well scoop out butter with a kerosene measure. All you'd git out of it would be a cussin' from somebody."

"What will you do, then?" says he.

"Find him," says I, "and conduct a private autopsy into his sanity."

And with that I went away, not what you could call satisfied in my mind.

I WENT to where he boarded; but he wasn't there, and the landlady let on she hoped he wouldn't come back—what with walking up and down all night with the lights going, and not getting a cent more for them, and his leaving brass filings all over the carpet, and tipping over dishes of kerosene every little while, and acting at the table like he was out of his head.

When I got back to the store, there was Elinor waiting for me.

"I just couldn't stay at home," she says. "I had to be doing something. Did—did you find him, Uncle Eli?"

"No," says I, and then I got an idee.

"Elinor," says I, "was there lily place that Tom hung out reglar? Was you ever with him when he stopped at some kind of a place you couldn't see no reason for his stoppin' at? Or did he ever mention sich a place?"

"No," says she at first—and then begun to think it over to see if she was right about it. Hain't that jest like a girl—speak out first and figger after? "Why," she says, "one night, when we were going to the theater, I drove him down to some little factory or something near the river. He went in, and stayed so long we missed most of the first act."

"H'm," says I. "Factory? What kind of a factory?"

"A little one," says she.

"Very enlightenin'," says I. "But what did they make in it? Sewin'-machine's or wagon wheels or corks for bottles?"

"I don't know. I just saw machines and belts going."

"Could you find it again?" says I.

"Do you think—" says she; but I shut her right up.

"I hain't doin' no thinkin'," says I. "I'm givin' an imitation of a detective. Let's git into that greenhouse-on-wheels of your'n, and find that there factory."

Well, we drove down almost to the river, and then turned off on what Elinor thought was the right street, but it wasn't. She couldn't find no sich place as she was looking for, and she began to cry a little, soft-like.

"It was dark before," says she, "and things all look so different."

"Huh," says I. "We hain't got nothin' to do but drive around in this death dealin' thing, so let's keep at it. If you see another factory that even looks like the right one, you holler right out."

SO we drove up one street and down another slow. In about a half hour—when I was wondering how my clerk was getting along with a grocery and an ice-cream sody girl both on his hands to look after—Elinor stopped and says:

"There's one that looks something like the place, but it isn't the one. It's on the wrong side of the street."

I took a look.

"Factory!" says I, and somehow a notion begun to sprout inside my skull. "That hain't no factory. How comes girls to be so lackin' in eddication when their dads spends all their money sendin' 'em away to colleges and things? Elinor, you don't know scarcely anythin' useful. That there hain't no factory; it's a machine shop."

"Oh," says she; "what's the difference?"

"There is one," says I, looking wise. "You set here, and don't let this thing run away till I come out."

Inside I went, and picked out the cleanest one of them machinists, knowing he was either the boss or lazy—in either of which cases he'd have time to talk.

"D'you know Tom Bundy?" says I.

"No," says he. '"Can't say 's I do. Don't b'long to my local."

"All right," says I. "There's one stain he hain't got on his soul. Any other machine shops around here?"

"About sixteen," says he.

"I'm lookin' for one on the north side of a street," says I.

"What street?" says he.

"I'm lookin' for that, too," says, I.

"Either," says he, "you're doggone smart or doggone nutty."

"I'm a blend," says I, "like Mocha and Java."


"And then they come out, him with his arm right around her waist."

"Well," says he, "Williamses' and Hagadorn's and Jenkses' is on the north side of the streets," and he gives me the names of the streets. "Try them on your piano," says he.

"I'll try 'em on your telephone," says I, "if you got such a nuisance on the premises."

I called each of them places up and says, "Is Mr. Bundy there?" Two places never heard of him. The other place kept quiet a spell before answering, and then says: "Who wants to know?"

"I'm his maiden aunt," says I, "bringin' him a jar of jam."

"Be you a relative?" says the place.

"Sort of," says I. "I'm his grocer-in-law."

"Well," says the place, "we're doggone glad somebody's turned up that b'longs to him. He's got our goats."

"I'll be right over," says I, "and make him give 'em back."

It didn't look what you'd call reassuring, did it? Well, I didn't let on to Elinor, but jest told her where to drive, and off we went. When we come in front of Jenkses', she says, excited-like, that it was the place, which I didn't need to be told.

"I'll go in and ask questions," says I.

"He's there," she says breathless-like. "I know he's there!"

"Look here, now," says I. "No fireworks. Keep your seat, and remain placid."

I hustled in.

"Where is he?" says I.

"Be you the man that telephoned?" says the boss.

"Yes," says I.

"He's upstairs in his room," says he, "and he's been there clost to a week without comin' out. The boy here took his grub up three times a day, but for the last four meals he hain't et. The grub sets outside the door without bein' touched. And," says he, with a sort of a apprehensive look over his shoulder, "we hain't heard a sound to-day. Not a sound."

"Why didn't you bust in?" says I.

"We was thinkin' of sendin' for the police," says he.

Police! Everybody wants to send for them, no matter what happens.

"I'm goin' to do all them police could," says I, "right now. You folks stay here. I'll go alone. Where's his room?"

"Right to the top of the stairs," says the boss; and work suspends immediate while everybody gathers around to find out what's the difficulty.

I WENT up with a sinking feeling in my stummick, for I was some afraid of what I was going to find behind that door. I went up to it and put my ear ag'in' it and listened. First off I didn't hear anything; but then come a sound that sent a wiggle right up my spine to the short hairs at the nape of my neck. It wasn't a groan. It was longer and painfuler.

I knew I had to open up that door; but I put it off like I was a girl going to the dentist's, what with the possibilities in there, and with Elinor setting outside in her show-case. But there wasn't any use backing out then.

Over the door was a closed transom, and I fetched a chair and pried it open. At first I couldn't see awful well; but then I made out a pair of legs with feet at this end of them, and the toes was pointing straight up. I craned my neck and followed up the legs till I could see all of a man, even to his face, and the face belonged to Tom Bundy. I come close to falling off my chair.

And then come that sound again—a long-drawn-out kind of a sound. Before I hadn't recognized it; but now, with


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Mr. Kelland graduated front the Detroit College of Law; but, failing to find any one to practise on, went to work for the Detroit "News," and was later editor of the "American Boy." Now he lives in Wilmington, Vermont, writes novels like "Sudden Jim" and short stories like this one, and enjoys life generally. "My favorite color," he says, "is the shade of yellow used by the government on gold certificates; and anybody can beat me playing checkers."

Bundy's face right before my eyes, I knowed what it was.

Well, sir, I slumped down off of my chair and set on it and laughed. Laughed! It was the relief, I guess. For that heart-chilling noise, that sounded so horrible-like, was nothing in the world but the kind of a snore that a healthy man lets out when he's plumb fagged out and gets to sleep on his back.

And with hearing that snore I got a little sense. I put two and three together all in a second, and made seven out of it, so to speak.

Then I went down to Elinor, past the men that was waiting, and didn't say a word to them.

"He's here, Elinor," says I. "Come along with me."

She came, dreading it every step she took. But she didn't whimper or faint or anything except just grip my arm hard. I was some proud of her.

WE went up the stairs, and when we got in front of the door I up with my heel and give it a kick alongside of the knob.

The door wasn't much account anyhow, and the lock busted right off with considerable of a racket—enough to wake up a man that hadn't been sleeping for a matter of twenty-four hours. It woke up Tom.

He sat up, and blinked and waggled his head and felt of his neck, and then stared at us.

"Elinor!" says he, and there wasn't anything crazy about the way he said it.

"Tom," she says, and went running at him. "Tom, are you better? Oh, Tom!"—and more words to that effect.

"It works," says he—and leaped up to his feet. "It works, honey. Isn't that great? It actually does what I wanted it to do—and more. It's a winner."

"Now, Tom," says she, taking hold of his arm, "be quiet, dear. Uncle Eli and I are here. We'll take care of you now."

You see, she thought from what he said that he was crazy still; but I knew better. I knew.

"What?" says Tom, puzzled, but didn't wait for an answer.

He pranced over to a gas engine that was on a block, and pointed to a thing on the side of it that looked like a brass sugar-bowl.

"There," says he, "there's the little duck," he says. "Watch it, now. I'll start her up and you watch her go."

He grabbed a crank and started the engine. Off it went, with a lot of coughing and spluttering, and Tom all the time eyeing it like it was imported cheese that he wanted to take a bite out of.

"See," says he, "how flexible it is?"

HE slowed it down, and then made it go faster, and fussed around with it, as proud as a new pa with twins.

"Say, Tom," says I, "wake out of it and do a leetle explainin'. What is that there contraption?"

"Why," says he, "that's my kerosene carburetor. And it works. It works! Know what that means for you and me, Elinor? Money. That's what. All we need and more. Whoop!"

She was still looking at him doubtful, not quite comprehending what was going on; and I don't blame her.

"Elinor," says I, "it's my fault. I didn't do my full duty. When he was askin' me to let you marry him, I put some questions to him about his prospects, but I didn't think to ask him was he an inventor. If I had, it would of saved all this trouble. Then I'd have known right off what was ailing him when he blowed in sugar-bowls, and tramped around, and walked off leaving his best girl in the theater, and drunk kerosene and sich. I'd have known he was took hard with an idea. It's the way these here inventors run," says I, "and it's natural for 'em."

"He's—all right?" Elinor says.

"Never was any other way," says I.

"What's all this?" says Tom, looking flabbergasted.

"Your friends, not knowin' the nature of your ailment," says I, "judged you had went insane."

"Heavens!" says Tom, and looked at Elinor with the sorriest, apologizingest kind of a look anybody ever saw. "Didn't you know, dear? I thought I'd told you all about it, and how I'd worked on this timing, and then at last how close I was to getting the secret of the thing. I guess I got sort of absent-minded and funny along toward the last, with thinking and reasoning it out and not sleeping.

"Honest, I don't remember very clearly just what did go on. But this thing kept just a hair's-breadth out of reach. I didn't dare take my mind off it, for fear it would whisk away forever.

"You understand, don't you, dear? It was for you. It was so that I could give you everything in life you could ask. Just for you."

"But," she says, half severe and the other half forgiving, "what made you run off without telling me? You don't know how I've suffered, Tom!"

"You'll never suffer again," says he. "Why, I did tell you," he says. "I wrote you a note that I was coming here to stay by it till I won out. I wrote it," says he.

And then he began to look sort of sheepish, like he was caught in some kid caper.

"But," says he, pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket, "I clean forgot to mail it."

BY this time she was hanging onto him and sobbing; but it was a happy kind of a sob.

"I'll go down," says I, "and wait in the back. But," I says, "before I go I got this advice to offer you, young feller. When a young spriggins comes to ask you if he kin marry your daughter, hang on to him till you've asked all the questions there is. Not that it'll interfere with the marryin'," says I, "but so's to give you a line on why he does crazy things if he does 'em. And," I says, "don't omit to ask him if he's one of these here inventors. Them kind," says I, "hain't normal unless they're nutty. G'-by," says I.

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How I Learned Not to Quarrel with My Wife

I LEARNED not to quarrel with my wife by analyzing the cause carefully and then removing it; but this required a greater risk than many men, perhaps, would care to assume.

First, let me explain, I am of a temperamental disposition, and things sometimes annoy me without my being conscious of just what they are. Thus I discovered, after a year or so of married life, that I often became irritable when in the presence of my wife at home, although this feeling would leave me when I went out.

Later I noticed that when I was at the theater or at any social affair with my wife my of mind was not disturbed. Thus I came to the conclusion that it was something about our home life that jarred on my nerves, making me irritable and ready to start an argument on any pretense.

At last I discovered the cause. It was simply my wife's taste—or lack of it—in her dress when at home.

My business position demanded that I make a good personal appearance, and particular dressing had become a sort of sixth sense with me. Most of the people I met in business were also careful about their appearance.

After associating all day with people who always looked their best and then going home and finding the wife of my bosom dressed in a faded kimono and carpet slippers, reading a book, I would be thrown into a mood fit for murder.

The light broke upon me, in one of our many wrangles, when friend wife accused me of having lost interest in her and of seeming to prefer the company of other women when any happened to be around.

My natural impulse was to deny this and lie out of it like a gentleman; but I knew there was some basis for her feeling, and all at once it came to me.

It took me two hours to prepare my speech, because I realized what it meant to hurt a woman's vanity. When it was ready I felt about as cheerful as if I were flicking ashes from a hot cigar into a barrel of dynamite.

At last, however, I shut my eyes and fired both barrels. I do not know yet just how I began; but after the start I threw away all discretion and told her the whole story.

It probably hurt her more than if I had beaten her, and it was a long time before I knew whether I was to be poisoned, made to pay alimony, or acquitted. After the tears had stopped, I got my wife's side of the argument, and in it she assumed ninety-eight per cent. of the blame and offered just one little excuse.

She admitted having grown careless, and promised to curb her appetite for candy and sodas, and spend the money toward keeping up her personal appearance.

Then we figured up her expenses, and found that she was going along on a very narrow margin; so I increased her allowance; and the grand result is a better mutual understanding, and a wife who has been changed from a mere wife back into the girl I used to know and rave about.

Some men who read this will recognize in it a parallel to their own case, but many of them will lack the moral courage to get away with my program. So I hope the wives who see it will compare the situation with their own experience, and, if it applies, take it as a lesson; and when the old man comes dragging in after a trying day's work, don't meet him with a mouthful of hairpins.

Fix up like you used to when he was courting you and father was paying the gas bill. Show him the girl he used to know.

Who Should Speculate


FOR the last year or two the editor of this magazine and the writer of these articles have been in frequent receipt of inquiries concerning stock speculation. During that period the "stock market" has boomed and stories of big profits made in so-called "war brides" have aroused the interest and active participation of many thousands of persons who never before had paid any attention to this method of making and losing money. Some of the letters received read as follows:

What do they mean by being "long" or "short" of the market?

Kindly inform me where I can find a good text-book treating on how to proceed in buying and selling stocks and bonds of any kind on the New York Stock Exchange, and defining the different terms used in this business, such as "preferred" and "common" stocks and "curb market."

Where can I get information on this subject—speculating or trading in stocks?

I am interested in stocks, but as far as regards their operation I have but a vague knowledge. Are books published in regard to how stocks operate? What constitutes a gain, and how far do stocks fall when one loses all one's money? I take it if I buy stocks at twenty-two cents and the stocks fall to twenty-one cents I lose all my money. Am I right?

There is one conclusive answer to all these questions.

Persons who are so totally ignorant of financial operations should keep out of stock speculation entirely. To speak plainly, they are lambs ready for the slaughter, and in nine cases out of ten will lose their money.

It must be admitted that a great number of persons of limited knowledge, experience, and resources have made money in the stock market in the last year or two. But very many have lost, and still more will lose within the next year or so.

Speculation Is Work

NEARLY all authorities agree that speculation has its usefulness, but is dangerous for all except the professionals.

It is a most difficult business even for these gentlemen, and many of them lose. But the same amount of specialized technical knowledge, training, ability, and capital that enables a man to become a successful railroad president, banker, merchant, or manufacturer, coupled with certain peculiar qualities of mind, will probably make a man a successful speculator.

In other words, it is just as difficult to become a successful speculator as a leader in any other line of business, and probably a little more so, because it requires a cold self-pogsession, a ruthless faith in one's own judgment, and poise, greater even than are essential to the topnotch men in other lines.

No matter how successful a man may be in other lines, he can not step right into


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speculation. One must make speculation a life pursuit, just as other make pig-iron or journalism or art.

It is absurd to suppose that one can succeed in speculation without work, any more than in other industries; and yet, this is exactly the fatal mistake that nearly all persons make who buy stocks on margin.

There are tremendous odds against the ordinary ignorant speculator, or even against the average business man who operates in stocks. There is always the overhead expense of commissions and interest, and sometimes taxes, which eat into profits. Then it is always true that many stocks, even there supposed to have merit, steadily decline in price, although high authorities have predicted the contrary.

Even in these boom times, great numbers of stocks, on both the Stock Exchange and the curb, have steadily fallen, despite the fact that many of them were sponsored by reputable capitalists. Thousands of traders in stocks have lost or even been ruined by this one cause alone. No one can be sure of always picking a winner.

Mob Psychology in Stock Speculation

There are many other handicaps that might be mentioned, such as "unloading" upon the public by "insiders." But this can be overlooked in view of a far more serious and important objection to stock speculation on the part of the ordinary man.

Only one person in thousands has the strength of mind and character not to be swept away by the changing hourly and daily currents of the market. Jones is told that X. Y. Z. Steel is a good stock. Perhaps it is, and if Jones pays for it in full, pulls it away, and forgets it, in the course of a few years it may pay dividends. But Jones buys it on a margin; it goes down a few points; he is discouraged, lets go, and loses.

This is the old, old story. The mob psychology is too much for him. IT is only the rare individual who can breast these currents, which are just as powerful and destructive mentally and physically as they are in a pecuniary sense. Even more fatal are the ten, twenty, and thirty point drops that come with the news of international events, such as peace, etc.

Can You Afford to Lose?

DON'T forget that the success speculator is he who is fully prepared for losses and can afford them. Remember that he poor man loses all if his venture goes wrong, while the capitalist, the banker, the captain of industry lose only part. The ma who buys stock on a margin, when he can not afford to lose, is just a plain food. Even if he can afford to lose and is not an expert at the game, he is foolish enough.

Remember that the stock market is a sort of barometer of the country's industries, and there is no sure way of playing the market, any more than there is of predicting what a barometer will do. Just as a barometer is put up to indicate the weather, so the stock market exists to forecast and indicate investment conditions. You can learn a great deal concerning the merits of stocks and bonds by watching the market, and stocks are put there for the very purpose of trying and testing them out; but to beat the barometer itself is a hard thing.

As for books telling one how to speculate, I doubt if any of them are worth as much as the paper they are written on. There are a score of financial subjects which the writers of the letters quoted in this article should study. There are several financial dictionaries that define the terms used in stock speculation; but they do not tell you now to speculate successfully, any more than an ordinary dictionary trains you to follow the countless pursuits, many of those whose technical terms it defines.

Finally, it can not be repeated too often that the great fortunes in this country are almost without exception founded on thrift, ideas, and hard work. Speculators almost die poor. On the contrary, the man who saves and invests wisely—no matter how limited his income—can hardly fail to come up to old age in comfortable independence.

Free Booklets that You May Have for the Asking

Arrangements have been made by which any reader mentioning this magazine may have any or all of the following booklets on request.

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 38-E, including booklet explaining the Twenty-Payment Plan.

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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 S-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.

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Bankers and business men all over the country read the Bache Review to keep in touch with the financial situation. It contains comprehensible, reliable, and able views of current events as they affect business finance, and investments. It is issued weekly by J. S. Bache & Co., 42 Broadway, New York. Sent on application.

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 E 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 "JN."

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