Chapter IX: A Pleasure Trip (1)

It was fully fifteen minutes after I gained the deck before the slightest attention was paid to my appearance, and this period I made full use of in close scrutiny of my surroundings.

Never, even aboard a man-of-war, have I seen such decks. Holystoned they were, every inch of them, and at that very instant four fellows were scouring away for dear life.

And that immaculateness was everywhere apparent. I could see well enough why it was that I had awakened alone in the forecastle with only old Steve to watch over me.

Brass shone to brisk burnishing; mahogany glowed to the chamois; every man jack of ’em was furbishing, except the helmsman.

And the craft was well worth such grooming. Even in the anxiety that, of necessity, was mine at the moment, I glowed over such fitness; everything O. K. to the dot. Bowsprit to taffrail I scanned her, and didn’t find an “out.” Her forestay she carried pretty well inboard, for the ’sprit was short, according to the modern custom.

The masts, clear Oregon pine, raked a trifle, giving a dash that was a bit reminiscent of the old _America_. It may not make for speed, but I never saw a real sailor that didn’t favor it.

Guessing the direction by the sun, I reckoned our course to be somewhat east of south, and the freshening west wind bellied the creamy canvas into unwrinkled corpulence. Besides her lower standing, she was carrying ballooner and club topsail.

But no foretopsail met my upward search, and it didn’t take long to see why. Between her masts stretched wireless rigging.

Now, all this time of my survey of the schooner, not one of the full score of sailors that were working all about me, as I paced the forward deck, gave me a word. But I judged, from an occasional furtive glance or two I caught, that I was nothing if not interesting.

I suppose, though, as old Steve had intimated, “orders were orders.” But that kind of thing gets on a man’s nerves as only such inactive suspense can, and I was upon the very point of striding aft to stir up something when I spied some gilt emerging from the companionway.

The little captain gave a word to the man at the wheel, then whirled and faced forward.

“Stevens once more!” said I to myself, though I was not oversurprised at the recognition.

His grin when he caught sight of me was all the satisfaction I got before he popped immediately back down the companionway. But I didn’t have long to wait for further developments, for I don’t believe it was a full minute before a little Jap glided up the steps, and came directly toward me.

“You come follow me,” said the flunky abruptly, as he whirled a most ridiculous rightabout. But naturally I was in no mood to read humor in things, so I followed meekly enough.

The Jap led down the steps, and across a saloon; then he tapped almost reverently at a door that gave off from a passageway beyond.

To a sharp summons to enter, he opened the door, and stood aside for me to pass him, which I did. Then the door closed behind me, and I faced the strangest stateroom I ever saw.

But it was not the room itself, remarkable as it was, that focused the entire attention, for a man in a broad-backed chair, busied at something on the table before him, sat facing me.

The whole breadth of the room was between us, but I could feel every nerve of my ill-controlled features pass under the appraising scrutiny of that pair of half-closed gray eyes that drilled at me as he glanced up from what had been engrossing his attention.

It will be remembered that on the two occasions I had seen this man, Carl Stroth, I had not got a fair and square look at him. Back there on the launch at Port Washington he had stood steadily at the wheel, peering ahead, while I, of necessity, was busied with the engine.

And that other time when, as the accommodating “deck hand,” he had made a fool of me, his disguise had been of the cleverest.

But now I had ample opportunity for a searching survey of the man, for he let a minute pass in silence. And I availed myself of this opportunity to the full; though now, as I attempted to word the impression his face made upon me, I am forced lamely to state that its strongest characteristic lay in its very indefinableness; a sort of haunting fitting of something I decidedly didn’t like across features which seemed more naturally to fit themselves into something I instinctively did like.

Even seated as he was, there came to his shoulders suddenly that forward hunch which I had before noted, and which now I could see was accompanied by a forward craning of the neck in riveting his eyes upon me. Vulturelike it was, and more.

And then, as suddenly, the posture shifted to ease as he said quietly:

“None the worse for the episode, Mr. Grey?”

It was not so much surprise at his knowing my name--which I knew his methods well enough by now to see would be easy--as it was the lightness and even friendliness of the tone; a friendliness which consorted ill with the stare he had favored me with the moment before. But I strove to match it as I replied:

“It was more for adventure than money that I entered the detective service, Mr. Stroth.”

I know now that nothing I could have said would have had more effect upon him, or quicker.

“Ah!” he cried delightedly, as he sprang to his feet, shoved back his chair, and strode toward me. “Good! There we have it--adventure--spice--zest! The only thing worth while, isn’t it?”

It certainly was an unexpected way to open conversation, under the circumstances; and, next second, he seemed to realize it, for his tone altered to one of less enthusiasm:

“But first it’s probably best for us to understand each other.”

He nodded for me to be seated, and resumed his own chair.

“Mr. Grey,” said he, “who is, or was, your employer in this case?”

My smile was almost a wince at his shift of tense to the past; then I replied evasively:

“This case?”

“Come, now, man,” he retorted sharply, and I regretted my attempt at fencing; “you look like more sense. And I believe, if you’ll remember our several positions at the present minute, that probably out-and-out frankness will strike you as the best policy. It is natural that I am puzzled about you at some points in reviewing the events of the past two days, and I see no better or quicker method of clearing the air than direct question and answer. So now, what say you? Of course, I can handle my own end in either course you choose to pursue, though personally I prefer candor.”

He was right; the upper hand was his, and it didn’t take me many seconds to reconcile my conscience to my superior’s, by saying:

“Let it be the truth, then, Mr. Stroth. And I certainly hope that something’ll come out that will make things a bit clearer to me. The Lord knows I’m in the dark deep enough myself. I’m ready.”

“First, then,” said he, as he handed me over a humidor of dusky-hued panetelas--though I noticed he didn’t take one himself--“perhaps it would be best for me to state my difficulties, eh?”

“As you will, sir,” I agreed, lighting the welcome cigar, which I really stood in need of.

“Here we have it, then,” he continued. “First I see you on the dock at Port Washington, and it’s the first time I ever saw you in my life, I believe.”

“Exactly,” I broke in, “and I believe I was at that time instrumental--was of some service?”

“Wait! That’s just the point. You were of service, immense service, I admit. I never would have thought that Pawlinson would have the nerve to risk fooling Stevens into hiring him for engineer of my own launch. And it might very well have succeeded but for you, as you say.”

“But then?”

“But next I stumble on you at the Portland wharf. Apparently your rôle had, by that time, decidedly shifted. Stevens, who came from Stamford, where he left the launch, even tells me that both you and Pawlinson traveled in the same sleeping coach with him to Boston.”

“I didn’t know it at the time,” I said, but he paid no attention to the interruption as he concluded:

“And now, last night, came the final mystery, for my searchlight revealed both you and Pawlinson at fisticuff loggerheads in a wabbly punt, with a speed-boat accompaniment. As to your place in this little series of events, I confess myself completely mystified; and so it is that I ask you--who was your employer in this thing, and where do you stand, anyway?”

I saw no way to answer except in the strictest truth, and I couldn’t see, for the life of me, how it could hurt matters at all then, for I certainly was completely in his power any time he should choose to apply the thumbscrews.

“I am one of Chief Garth’s men,” said I. “You know him?”

“Old Garth, of the United?” he chuckled. “I should say I did. Yes?”

“Now, it was mere coincidence that made me figure back there at Port Washington. I didn’t even know Pawlinson then.”

“I have had enough whirls with coincidence to credit improbability on that score. Well?”

He was attention itself, and, had I resolved upon a lie, I might well have feared the brain behind those eyes. But truth is deliciously easy. So I continued quietly:

“So when I returned to Chief Garth’s house that night I found that Pawlinson had asked him for a man upon a difficult case, and that----”

“Yes, yes. I’ve got you. The same case. Coincidence again, and, as I say, I believe you. You left Portland with what plan?”

“Simply to spot you,” I replied. “You see, I read the steamer’s name on the stern out there in the Sound when you boarded her. I knew her port, for I have sailed on her myself.”

There was a short interval of silence, during which he fitted things together. Then he came out with:

“So Pawlinson followed you to Portland, made his authority known to you, and you worked together after your meeting there?”

“Exactly!”

“But come, finish it! What was the meaning of that disagreement between you alongside the hydroplane?”

“You didn’t catch the motive, then?” I queried.

“Not at all. I was called to the deck only in time to see him lift you clear of the punt, and hurl you overboard. And,” he added, with a smile, “old Steve’s boat hook did the rest.”

“So you haven’t yet tumbled to the reason for quitting the speed boat?”

“No; though I did understand that there wasn’t time for you to connect with the police launch.”

“Well,” said I, “granting a fiend’s viewpoint, the plan was not so bad, for it certainly would have stopped you. That craft was built stancher than most hydroplanes, and carried a terrible way on her. She’d have made a nasty-enough hole----”

“What!” He sprang erect in the sudden mount of fury at the full realization. “Do you mean to tell me that the scoundrel actually meditated----”

“Not only meditated,” I interrupted coolly. “He’d already ordered me into the punt, and set the rudder before I myself could----”

His tone lowered as he broke in on my explanation:

“So that was the reason for the fight?”

“Naturally,” I replied. “Much as my ways lie in dark places, I am not taken with such methods; where women are concerned especially.”

“Then you knew that my daughter was aboard with me?”

“I didn’t know till this minute that the young lady was your daughter,” said I. “But the inference that she was on the vessel was natural enough after I had chased you pretty well over Portland.”

Stroth made no direct reply to this. He seemed rather to be settling some course. Then he shot out abruptly:

“What did Pawlinson tell you he was after my scalp for? Did he let you that far into his confidence?”

Now, it’s no easy matter to tell a man of Stroth’s type that he’s a thief, and in spite of me I couldn’t word Pawlinson’s revelations into much softer phrase.

He noted my hesitation, but didn’t spare me a whit.

“Come, Grey, out with it exactly! I want it all--and unvarnished!”

“Well,” said I, bracing my voice with a swallow, “those affairs at certain country places along Long Island Sound have long been puzzling us, and----”

I might have spared myself my hesitation, for he didn’t so much as turn a hair.

“Oh, so that was all, eh? Then he said nothing about----” He checked the sentence to another question: “What do you know about Pawlinson, anyway?”

“Precious little,” I answered him, and I let my manner tell as much as it could of my contempt for the fellow. “In fact, I never heard of him till he came into prominence about three years ago at Washington. And that’s about all any one in the service knows. He’s understood to be something of a mystery.”

Stroth grunted.

“I don’t doubt it--I don’t doubt it,” said he, as to himself.

Then came another slight interval of silence, during which I puffed away contentedly at the panetela, for I felt no presentiment of coming trouble. In fact, I was beginning rather to enjoy the situation.

I knew men well enough to read in Stroth that he had not lost sight of the saving part I had played the night before; though, as I sat there looking at him, I confessed to myself he was a puzzle in some way--distinctly a puzzle.

He came out of his momentary abstraction with a shout of enthusiasm that was positively boyish:

“Then it’s to be a little pleasure trip, after all! Good enough, Grey! And I believe you’ll find that----”

Here I was fool enough to enter a wedge of curiosity.

“Then all that dope about this being the schooner that has been working the Sound is absolute bunkum, Mr. Stroth?”

It was as if I had touched a match to bomb.

His brow darkened, and he bit out:

“I believe I’m doing pretty well by you! But, of course, you have your choice--that is--pleasure trip--or otherwise. Understand me? Otherwise.”

I hastened to shift.

“Nothing I like better than a sailing voyage, Mr. Stroth,” and I let him know by my laugh that I realized he had me.

“I didn’t think you were a fool,” he replied, in lighter vein. “So here we have it, then, and it’s the last word I want spoken on the subject. We’re bound for Savannah, Georgia. Simple enough, eh? Till then you’re my guest, we’ll say. And, after we reach port, I’ll have your word that you let three days go before you get the wires hot to headquarters. Now, take the proposition or leave it!”

“I understand at last, Mr. Stroth,” said I slowly, “and my worst enemy can’t say I’m not a man of my word.”

As suddenly as he had left it he whirled back to boyishness.

“Fine--fine!” And he actually slapped me heartily on the shoulder. “By the way, what time is it?”

As if in answer, seven bells rang out.

“Good enough! There’s plenty of time to show you something before dinner. And if you’re interested in that sort of thing we’ll certainly have an enjoyable trip!”

Well, here, indeed, was a man of moods.

TO BE CONTINUED.

THE MYSTERIOUS RIDER.

By E. K. NOSTWELL.

My shanty was situated in the Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming. With the exception of two companions and some friendly trappers, who lived about five miles distant, I had not seen a white man for nearly a year.

One day I was out hunting with Anderson Picket. We had just sighted an antelope, and were occupied in stalking the animal, when we suddenly heard the neighing of a horse near us. Surprised at such an unusual sound in a neighborhood where very few human beings were to be encountered, we looked up and saw, hardly three hundred paces from us, a rider whose head was uncovered and his long hair floating in the wind that blew across the hills. He was a white-faced, haggard man, mounted on a thin horse.

For a few seconds he remained motionless, and then disappeared as suddenly as he had come.

“A highwayman,” whispered Picket.

“What should a marauder be doing here?” I replied doubtfully, “for a distance of three or four hundred miles no one, with the exception of you, myself, and the trappers upon the creek, can be found. Not a single soul to hold up. Let us see who the fellow is.”

Quickly mounting our horses and dropping our game for the time being, we galloped up the hill, following the stranger, who was slowly riding toward the north.

“That animal hasn’t had much fodder or rest lately,” laughed my companion. “I’ll wager he hasn’t ten pounds of flesh on his bones.”

“I’d like to know who the man is, and what he is doing alone in these solitary hills,” said I inquisitively. “Come, get a gait on the horse; let’s get our game, and follow the fellow.”

After acting upon the suggestion, we returned to our pursuit, and were hardly a hundred paces behind, when I shouted:

“Hello, my man! Where are you bound for?”

The horse turned its head toward us, but the rider did not move, and immediately started off at a breakneck gallop.

Although we were well mounted, and endeavored to follow him, he soon disappeared in a path thickly overgrown with brushwood. We consequently lost scent of the fugitive, and my companion very sensibly observed that we had better not follow him, as he might easily blow out our brains, under shelter of the rocks or hidden behind the brushwood, before we were aware of his presence.

We therefore retraced our steps toward our cabin, which we reached an hour later.

My second companion, who, in consequence of a slight wound, had remained at home, came toward us in great excitement.

“I’m glad you’re back, boys!” he cried.

“Heavens, man! what has happened?” I asked anxiously.

He was as white as a corpse, and sighed as if relieved when we reached him.

“It was awful, I tell you, awful. In all my life I shall never forget what has happened to me.”

“Come along; stop your quaking, and tell us what’s wrong. Seen any suckers or a ghost?” said I smilingly, while Anderson asked impatiently:

“You’ve had a visit, haven’t you? A highwayman on an old gray nag----”

“How do you know that?” stammered Jim, quickly interrupting him. “Some one was here, but it wasn’t a road man, it was a ghost.”

While he said this, he shivered from head to foot, and looked around anxiously on all sides.

“Don’t be a fool,” I laughed. “Tell us a straight story. What has happened to you?”

“Meanwhile we had reached the cabin, and, as I sprang from the saddle, Jim pointed, with trembling hand, to the ground.”

“Here, look at this; you can see the prints of the ghostly horse’s hoofs,” said he, in a voice full of excitement. “I was cleaning up things in the cabin, when I suddenly heard a noise outside. I thought you fellows had returned, and went out-o’-doors to meet you. Horrified, I sprang back; before me, on a horse, nothing but skin and bones, was a man without a hat, with long black hair. He sat bolt upright in the saddle; he had a thick black beard; his face was ashen gray, and two eyes, wide open, stared at me in a ghastly way as only a specter’s can. I wanted to cry out, but my tongue seemed glued to my mouth--I felt my hair standing on end. Then the ghost turned his horse--started off at a gallop--I could plainly hear the rattling of the rider’s and the horse’s bones.”

Jim shuddered again at the remembrance of the horrifying spectacle.

“That was the same fellow that we followed,” cried Anderson; and I could only agree with him.

We then told Jim of our adventure, and quieted him by reasoning that it could not have been a ghost, but simply a human being, possibly some lunatic.

It was my custom before going to bed, to look after the horses. I left the hut that evening as usual, but hardly had I taken a few steps when suddenly I stopped as though my feet were rooted to the ground.

Directly in front of me, in the bright moonlight, stood the same ghastly rider. His long black hair hung loosely round a ghastly face. The eyes were sunk deep in their sockets. The mouth was wide open, and the glimmer of the white teeth could be seen behind the black beard; in his left hand he held the reins, while the right hung limply by his side. He sat in the saddle as though hewn out of stone, without the slightest motion.

I had the same feeling as Jim. I wanted to cry out, but could not; only a hoarse whisper came from my throat, but instinctively my hand sought the revolver at my side. I slowly raised my six-shooter, and covered the frightful apparition. Then I found my voice.

“Who are you? Answer, or I’ll shoot!” I said.

At the sound of my voice, the horse, which consisted of nothing but skin and bones, jumped to one side, and both horse and rider went off at a breakneck gallop, the bullets which I sent after them taking no effect. I distinctly heard the peculiar rattle of which Jim had spoken, and which gradually grew dimmer and dimmer, until nothing could be distinguished but the far-off clatter of horse’s hoofs on the rocky ground.

My heart was beating violently as I reëntered the hut.

Not one of us closed an eye that night. I tossed to and fro, in vain speculating what was to be done if the uncanny thing reappeared. When at last morning dawned, I resolved to ride over to the trappers at the creek and get their advice.

Soon after sunrise I started, and, after two hours’ ride, saw the shanty of my friends some little distance off. They came to meet me with their guns in their hands, ready to shoot.

“Lucky for you that our eyes are accustomed to long range, and that the air is clear to-day, else either you or your horse would have a bullet between his bones now,” said the elder of the two trappers, as I reached them, holding out his hand in friendly greeting.

“That’s so,” acquiesced the other, also shaking hands, but with a very solemn air. “Charlie is right. We were ready to shoot, but luckily saw our mistake in time.”

“Since yesterday we have been on the watch. We’ve been fooled long enough, and mean to make an end to this infernal nonsense,” said the first trapper.

“Has a singular-looking rider also paid you a visit?” I cried eagerly.

The friends looked at each other in astonishment.

“Do you know the beggar?” asked Jack quickly.

“I don’t know him, but it is on his account that I’m here.”

And I related our adventure, to which both listened attentively.

“No doubt it’s the same fellow who got the best of us,” said Charlie; shaking his head. “Day before yesterday we saw him for the first time. He took no notice of us, and seemed to be deaf to our shots. About noon he and his miserable old horse stood there, just opposite our shanty. ‘Hello, what do you want?’ I called out. No answer. A minute afterward he was gone. In the evening he drew rein up there on the hill again. As he wouldn’t answer me, I lost patience, and got out my shooter, but before I could raise it, the fellow again disappeared. But I’m not going to be fooled to-day. I’ll send a bullet through him, or his horse.”

I willingly accepted the trappers’ invitation to stay with them during the day. Our conversation turned almost exclusively on the mysterious stranger. In the afternoon I accompanied them to their traps, and while they were setting them I walked up and down with my gun in my hand. We had resolved as soon as the rider should reappear, to shoot his horse, and in that way get this singular creature into our hands.

The day was drawing to a close, and the peaks of the mountains were dyed in the sunlight.

“The fellow has a notion we’re going for him,” said Jack. “I shouldn’t be sorry if he slipped by us now, for I’m anxious to see what sort of----”

He stopped suddenly, and the words seemed as if frozen to his lips as he stood staring at the rocks opposite the hut. There, on the top of the hills, clearly outlined against the red sky, was the ghostly rider. I also stood staring, spellbound, at the apparition. Then a shot rang out, and the horse fell forward.

“Come on, and don’t let the fellow crawl from under and get out,” cried Charlie, the smoking gun still in his hand, and pulling the revolvers from our belts we all scurried over the frozen creek that ran in front of the shanty, and up the declivity.

Jack was the first to reach the top. With one bound he stood next to the rider, who lay motionless on the quivering horse, of which he was still astride.

“Hold him!” yelled Charlie, with whom I was close on Jack’s heels.

“It’s not necessary,” said Jack, bewildered, “for you’ve shot the beggar dead.”

“Nonsense,” said Charlie angrily. “I know exactly where my bullet hit. I aimed at the horse’s left eye,” he added. “There it is.”

Meanwhile Jack was examining the rider closely.

“What is this?” he cried, astonished. “The fellow is bound fast to the horse--look here--even with a chain.” Horrified, he sprang back. “Look, the man has a mark around his neck. Great Heaven, he’s been hanging--he’s been lashed to the horse, and the poor beast has been carrying around a lifeless burden.”

Filled with astonishment and horror, we saw that Jack’s suspicions admitted of no doubt. The rope had sunk deep into the man’s muscular throat, and the knot was still attached to it.

Charlie then raised the dead man’s head.

“Why, it’s Black Sam!” he exclaimed. “He was a wild fellow, but he got his deserts. His gun was always ready, and he has sent many a good fellow to pass in his checks. Who knows how long it is that he has been astride this horse? Corpses do not decompose up here in the mountains, but dry up; I’ve often noticed that in dead animals.”

Shuddering, he turned away. The dead man, with his withered face and staring eyes, had a truly horrifying appearance.

“What’ll we do with him?” asked Jack, after a short pause.

Charlie considered a moment, then answered, while he unfastened the bands which tied the dead man to the dead horse:

“Lend a hand here, boys! It’s our duty to give him a Christian burial. Let’s push him in the gully.”

In a few moments the dead man was released; Charlie took him by the shoulders, Jack and I by the legs, and so we carried him to the place indicated, and, by our united efforts, soon had a grave dug, in which he was laid. After this had been filled in, we rolled stones and small rocks over it to prevent the wolves from disturbing the dead.

It was night before we had finished our work. A solemn stillness reigned over all; no sound was to be heard, and, with uncovered heads, we uttered a short prayer.

“God be merciful to this poor sinner,” added Charlie.

Then we silently returned to the hut.

We retired that night earlier than usual, and even in my dreams the ghostly rider appeared to me. I awoke several times bathed in perspiration, disturbed by the loud howls piercing the stillness of the night. Wolves were eagerly fighting over the bones of the dead horse.

Next day I returned home, and related to my astonished friends the end of the mysterious rider.

THE NEWS OF ALL NATIONS.

Want Shorter Course.

The Cornell faculty has directed the committee on student affairs to give serious consideration to the plan to cut down the length of the varsity race at the Hudson regatta from four to three miles, and has directed that committee to take the matter up with the stewards of the Intercollegiate Rowing Association.

The question of shortening this course was taken up seriously at a recent meeting of the faculty, and a considerable number of the professors expressed themselves as in favor of shortening the course. An agitation by Cornell to this end may be expected during the winter.

Calf With Eight Good Legs.

Wrily Simpson, of Big Laurel, Va., owns a calf which has eight well-developed legs, the extra limbs being just behind the forelegs and just in front of the hind legs. The animal gets about splendidly on its extra walkers.

Exhibits of Ten Nations Arrive for the Fair.

Large consignments of foreign and domestic exhibits are arriving daily for the Panama Exposition, which will be opened promptly February 20, 1915. The latest consignments are:

Japanese shipment of 1,671 cases; 1,568 crates and cases from Canada; 126,000 pounds of exhibits from the Philippines; 110,000 pounds of materials from the Argentine.

Heavy shipments from England, Germany, Australia, New Zealand, China, and Italy are already on the grounds.

Two Prolific Apple Trees.

Frank Weber and John Trent, of Troy, Kan., picked from two trees twenty-seven barrels of apples. They were of the York Imperial variety. Trent’s orchard is considered one of the most productive in that section.

Wireless Tit-for-tat Shots.

Europe’s two principal wireless stations, the Eiffel Tower, at Paris, and the Nauen Tower, between Berlin and Hamburg, have been exchanging conversations.

The Nauen operator, discovering that the Eiffel was able to pick up his war messages ticked an indictment of Eiffel’s news as flimsy and unreliable, to which the Eiffel rushed a long, rhyming retort, jeering the Germany army for its failure to reach Paris, and concluding:

“Despite your fine telegraphic victories, the Germans are slowly plunging into an abyss.”

Oldfield Wins Desert Race.

Barney Oldfield, “master driver of the world,” is the title the automobile speed king now is wearing.

Greeted by 15,000 cheering people, Oldfield drove in his car, a winner of the 671-mile Los Angeles-Phoenix road race.

Although led into the fair grounds seventeen minutes by Nikrent, Oldfield won first place and a cash prize of $2,750 by thirty-six minutes elapsed time. Oldfield’s elapsed time was 22 hours 59 minutes, and his average was 29.1 miles per hour. Nikrent’s time was 23 hours 35 minutes.

The 134 miles from Prescott, the second-night control, was driven in mud, and the drivers and cars were covered with a coat of clay.

Town Sells Jail at Auction.

Noank, Conn., is getting rid of some of its luxuries. The lockup and contents have been sold at auction and brought $83.12.

The jail building, an unpretentious affair as compared with the Tombs in New York, was knocked down to Squadrito Brothers, of Mystic, for $75, and two other bids took the jail stove and utensils for $6.87. A quilt and mattress fetched $1.25.

Schoolhouse Topples Over.

While the school at Sulphur Point, Fla., was being dismissed for recess, the building, which was built on high blocks, suddenly toppled over and went crashing to the ground, killing a cow that happened to be lying alongside of it. Fortunately none of the inmates were injured. A crowd gathered and succeeded in freeing the carcass of the cow by raising the building back into its place. Studies were resumed after the excitement died down, but some repairs have been made to the schoolhouse.

Old Gravestone is Replaced.

A century-old gravestone, made in 1814 to mark the graves of two victims of an Indian massacre near Alton, Ill., was brought to an Alton stonecutter to be repaired.

The stone, which commemorated the deaths of William and Joel Moore, July 10, 1814, had been split by the weather, and the parts will be cemented together. It was a rough sandstone slab, not smoothed, and the early-day pioneer had carved out an inscription in the sandstone with some crude tool. The letters are still legible.

A granite tablet has been placed on the site where the sandstone slab was found, and the slab has been taken as a relic by Irby Williams.

Prophesied His Long Sleep.

“I feel so tired that I believe I could sleep forever,” remarked C. A. Kinkaid to a hotel clerk at Seattle, Wash., as he obtained his key and repaired to his room.

On the following afternoon Kinkaid was found dead. Death was due to asphyxiation, and evidently was accidental. One of the gas burners was partly open, but the window was up about six inches.

Kinkaid, who was a bridge carpenter, was a well-known member of the Eagles. He is survived by a wife, who left the city a few weeks ago to visit relatives in Lafayette, Ohio.

State Map Made from Seeds.

One of the unique agricultural exhibits that will be displayed at the Pan-American Exposition is a grain map of Kansas, made from twenty-eight varieties of field and garden seeds by J. C. Hastings, of Grantville, Kan. The grains and seeds are glued to a canvas, and the coloring contained in the ordinary map of Kansas is carried out so far as possible with the various grains, so that the reproduction shows a splendid similarity. The size of the map is 48×88, and the grain on it weighs nineteen pounds.

Boy Helps Build Church.

Verne Hall, fifteen-year-old son of Mr. and Mrs. George Hall, of Portland, Ore., is helping to build a church by soliciting bricks and hauling them to the site of the new St. John’s edifice. In answer to his letter to Governor West, he received 500 bricks.

Hole Was Dug by Scientist.

The English newspapers recently made what they declared to be a startling discovery of extensive underground galleries at Totternhoe, in the Chiltern Hills, which the Germans had dug, supposedly for some mysterious military purpose. The residents of the neighborhood even described the Germans and the mysterious way in which their excavations were conducted.

William M. Safford, whom the _Observer_ describes as a distinguished American scholar, now writes to that newspaper declaring that he made the excavations. Mr. Safford says he discovered a cavern, which was nearly closed, and that his excavations in it disclosed carvings on stone dating 1613.

Quits Cattle for Turkeys.

Herding turkeys is a new way of making a living discovered by J. W. Abrams, of Springfield, Colorado. Abrams herds nearly a thousand turkeys through the Colorado alfalfa fields every year, letting the birds feed on grasshoppers. Two especially trained collie dogs assist in the work of herding. The ranchers are glad to have the pests which destroy their crops eaten from the fields, so Abrams and his outfit are welcome wherever they go.

An old cow pony, with a slicker, a shelter tent, and a cooking outfit packed on his back; two beautifully marked collies, and a thousand bronze turkeys, strutting and gobbling, make up the outfit. Abrams always herds within reaching distance of a stream, so his charges can get plenty of water.

When the turkey herder sold his flock last year at Thanksgiving time, the $2,450 he received was almost clear profit. Abrams had 980 birds, averaging ten pounds apiece. He topped the market with his grasshopper-fed turkeys, receiving twenty-five cents a pound on the lot.

The only expense the birds had been to him was for oil to run his incubators, feed during the first six weeks of their lives, when they were too small to herd, rent on the ten-acre place where they were hatched, and the cost of raising a small field of spelt in which they ran to fatten after the fall frosts had killed the grasshoppers. Some turkey hens which he kept through the winter laid the eggs he set in the incubators.

“It isn’t difficult to teach young turkeys to let dogs herd them,” Abrams said. “They are rather timid at first. But Jeff and Mutt, here, have been trained never to frighten the birds. You’ll notice they never bark at them, just growl a little and pretend to snap at their legs when they don’t behave. Turkeys are stupid birds, you know. Every flock has a leader, who walks ahead. The others follow him blindly. I always keep an old gobbler from the year before for a leader. He is used to the dogs, and Jeff and Mutt manage the flock by guiding him.”

The real work of the two dogs begins at dusk, when they herd the turkeys to the nearest shelter and keep them there until they settle for the night. When their master has cooked and eaten his supper and has rolled up in his blankets for his night’s sleep, it is their duty to guard the flock from wandering skunks, stray coyotes, cats, and other animals who are fond of young turkey. By dawn the old gobbler is stirring, eager for a breakfast of bugs and grasshoppers.

Abrams was a cowboy before he started herding turkeys, about five years ago.

“The range was all fenced in Colorado,” he said, “and it was up to me to find some other job besides running cattle.”

“Big May,” Circus Lady, Dead.

Christiana Sinclair, who traveled with circus side shows as “Big May, the tattooed woman,” is dead at her home at Baltimore, Md. She weighed three hundred pounds.

Eyewitnesses Tell How “Audacious” Sank.

According to witnesses of the sinking of the great British dreadnaught _Audacious_, off the coast of Ireland, there was only one fatality. Naval men in New York unite in praise of the work of the crew of the steamship _Olympic_, in effecting the rescue of nearly nine hundred men of the sea fighter’s crew. All those not taken off by the _Olympic_ were rescued by the British cruiser _Liverpool_.

Whether the _Audacious_ is still at the bottom of the sea or is being repaired by the British admiralty and may again see service is now the only mystery connected with reports of the vessel of the first line of England’s naval defense falling victim to a German mine or torpedo. It is the general opinion that the _Audacious_ struck a mine.

Two men who arrived in New York on the steamship _New York_, from Liverpool, confirmed the stories of the loss of the warship that had previously reached here, and added numerous details. One statement they made was that the _Audacious_ was blown up by the cruiser _Liverpool_ at nine p. m. on the day it was disabled. This has not been confirmed.

The men who told the story were James Rupert Beames, leader of the orchestra on the White Star liner _Olympic_, which rescued the crew of the _Audacious_ and made fruitless efforts to tow the battleship to shoal water, and Hugh Griffiths, one of the orchestra musicians.

The story of Beames, who was helped from time to time by Griffiths, substantially was as follows:

“Neither the _Liverpool_ nor the other small warship that had steamed to the work of rescue was capable of saving the superdreadnaught.

“It was decided that the _Liverpool_ could better risk hitting a mine than could the _Olympic_, and for this reason the _Liverpool_ made a serpentine maneuver ahead of the _Olympic_ as a feeler for mines.

“Hardly had the _Liverpool_ cut across our bow when the order was given to man the starboard lifeboats. Before this a call had been issued for volunteers.

“More answered than the boats could accommodate, and when it came time for action the _Olympic’s_ crew actually fought to get into the boats, so eager were they to do something for their country and for the sailors on the doomed _Audacious_. When one of the boats hit the water they found in it a little bell boy, eleven years old, who carried messages to and from the purser’s office.

“Although the starboard lifeboats were manned, Captain Haddock suddenly changed his plan.

“Instead of dropping down on the port side of the pounding warrior, he decided to put about and approach on the starboard side. By so doing he made a lee, which enabled the fourteen lifeboats dropped from the port side to accomplish a task that never could have been done if the original plan had been put into effect.

“The seas were high, and the men in the _Olympic’s_ lifeboats had a hard pull. It took them twenty minutes to get over to the _Audacious_, which lay about five hundred yards away. We could see the crew at quarters. They were the calmest body of men I ever have seen. The discipline was perfect. Through the binoculars the captain of the _Audacious_ was seen walking up and down the deck calmly, with his hands behind his back. The rescue work proceeded rapidly, and there was but one fatality.

“The _Olympic_ dropped anchor off Lough Swilly at eight p. m. An hour later a tremendous flash lighted up the entire ship. We rushed to the deck and could see, for fully twenty seconds afterward, burning fragments shooting upward from the place where the _Audacious_ had been. Then there came a roar. It sounded, they said, as if some mammoth boiler were letting off steam. It stopped as suddenly as it came. That was the end of the _Audacious_.

“As a reason for destroying the _Audacious_ it was said that the battleship was hopelessly damaged, and that if not blown up it would become a menace to navigation.”

Seek Brave Man to Ring Haunted Bell.

At midnight Christmas Eve the ringing tones of “Big Sam,” the haunted bell, as it is called at Richmond, Va., will be heard for the first time from the tower of the new armory. Chief W. H. Thompson, of the fire-and-police-signal system, makes this announcement, but he does so with a hesitancy that frequently brings this question:

“Are you sure?”

“As reasonably sure as any one may be about anything in connection with the haunted bell,” said Chief Thompson, still with an air of mystery and as if evading a direct reply. “That bell has been silent almost from the time it was brought to this city twenty-three years ago, and they say it is haunted.”

“So I’ve heard,” ventured the scribe, “but what about it?”

“It has had a baleful influence upon everything connected with it. All who had a hand in bringing it here are dead.”

“Good gracious! What more?”

“It is the biggest bell in the city. It weighs four thousand pounds. It was presented to the Grace Street Presbyterian Church by David Sinton in 1891. We called it ‘Big Sam,’ and the first time he spoke he shook the tower so hard all feared it would come down. The vibrations were so great that it was decided not to ring it again, and, being useless, an effort was made to sell it. The city bought it for the Blues armory in November, 1909, but the acoustics there made it impossible to operate the striker, and finally it was transferred to the new First Regiment Armory and installed in the tower.”

“Well, how about this midnight business on Christmas Eve? I would like to know,” said the scribe, “because it may be that I won’t be here.”

“I was directed to make the necessary connections so that it will strike the hours, both day and night, and automatically strike all alarms of fire, military, and special calls. It should be ready to strike the midnight hour Christmas Eve.”

“Will you have the honor of starting the apparatus that strikes the first call?” Chief Thompson was asked.

“No,” he replied quietly. “I told you that every one connected with the haunted bell is dead. I shall sublet the contract of making the connections. Now, possibly you, being a newspaper man and one used to dangers, will----”

“No, sir; I positively will not! Good night!”

Serenade for Newlyweds.

William Munn was married at Corry, Pa., on a recent evening, and while the wedding supper was in progress a party of serenaders arrived. To make the affair interesting, Munn’s friends set off several sticks of dynamite. The charge shattered every window in the house, and the bride and groom and several of the guests were hurled from the chairs upon which they were sitting. To avoid arrest, the serenaders paid all of the damages.

Strange Animal in His Trap.

Jerome Redmond, known all over the Northwest for his skill in trapping, recently captured a strange animal in Lake Sixteen, Cheboygan County, Michigan. It resembles an otter, only its body is more like a serpent. It has two front legs, and its tail is shaped like that of a fish. Running the full length of its back is a ridge with teeth like a saw’s. Redmond has been offered one hundred dollars for it by the local taxidermist, but refused the offer. The animal measures eight inches from tip to tip.

Bars Whipping from School.

Corporal punishment has been abolished in the public schools at St. Louis, Mo., except for extraordinary cases, as a result of the petition of George E. Dieckman, chairman of the humane society executive committee, who maintained that St. Louis was the only one of the big, progressive cities in which this “brutal and ineffective punishment” was preserved.

The new regulation adopted by the board of education provides that corporal punishment may be administered only in incorrigible cases, with the consent of the parent, and in the presence of the principal. A thin rattan is to be used. Slapping, shaking, and boxing the child’s ears are all absolutely prohibited.

Daylight Bandits Get $25,000 in “Swag.”

The most daring robbery that has been perpetrated in Chicago in many months, in which a jeweler, his clerk, and two other men were seized in broad daylight, bound hand and foot with rope, held prisoners, and menaced with revolvers, while gunmen robbed the safe of $25,000 in jewelry and money, occurred recently.

The scene of the robbery was the North Avenue loan bank and jewelry store, 517 West North Avenue, founded six years ago by Max Klein and Max Spear. An important part of the business is loaning money on jewelry, and all the valuable pieces were in a safe in the rear of the store, which was looted. The four men who were seized, bound, and held prisoners while the men packed the loot in a suit case and got away were Max Spear, partner and manager; George Kacker, clerk; Charles A. White, customer, who entered while the robbers were at work, and Frank Dallas, a saloon keeper, who came in to get change for a twenty-dollar bill.

All four victims remained bound hand and foot in the little rear office for forty minutes while the money, watches, rings, bracelets, necklaces, and other jewelry were taken from the safe by one of the men, while the other robber kept a gun close to their heads. They saw every detail of the robbery, and finally watched the robbers depart.

Says 150 Hens Equal Six Bales of Cotton.

“One hundred and fifty hens equal six bales of cotton,” is the economical equation demonstrated by George Echols, a farmer, of Brazos County, Texas.

Echols has a flock of 150 hens. He has sold, this year, $200 worth of eggs. Reckoning sales for the next two months, and adding sales of live poultry, making due allowance for eggs and poultry used by his family. Echols figures he will clear $300 on his flock.

Echols has a tenant who pays him $140 for the use of his farm land. The tenant’s crop this season is six bales of cotton, worth but $40 more than his rent. Under normal conditions the cotton would not net more than $360. The cotton required most of the tenant’s time since April and the feed of a team.

Echols says his wife devoted only about one hour a day to the hens. Counting the equipment of team and implements for growing cotton, and contrasting the investment in chickens and poultry houses, Echols declares the gross figures prove 150 hens are equal to six bales of cotton.

Egg-laying Contest Closed.

The third international egg-laying test, held at Storrs, Conn., is concluded, and every poultryman should be interested in the few following facts:

1--Of the five leading pens, three were from New England.

2--The leading pen is owned by Francis F. Lincoln, of Mount Carmel, Conn.

3--The leading pen--White Leghorns--laid 2,088 eggs.

4--Tom Barron’s White Wyandottes finished second, with 2,085 eggs.

5--The average production per hen is 144 eggs.

6--The highest individual record, 265 eggs, was made by a White Wyandotte, owned by Merrythought Farm, Columbia, Conn.

Rabbit-killing Boy Released from Jail.

Oscar Phillipson, of Plainfield, N. J., the nineteen-year-old boy who was recently sentenced to the county jail for 120 days for shooting a rabbit, is at liberty on bail pending an appeal. Former Mayor N. B. Smalley put up the $250 bail.

Ernest Napier, president of the State game commission, and William Hoblitzel, game warden for Union County, conferred with Mr. Angleman, the boy’s lawyer, and an appeal was decided upon. Justice of the Peace Thomas Snape, who sentenced Phillipson, accepted Mr. Smalley’s bond and Mr. Napier paid the $9 costs himself. They then went to Somerville and brought Phillipson home in an automobile.

Young Phillipson has declined a number of offers from men who want to pay his fine. He has declined because he doesn’t want half of the fine to go to the man who informed against him.

Mr. Napier upheld Justice Snape as well as Game Warden Hoblitzel in the action taken over the violation of the game laws. At the same time he said he was willing to do all in his power to relieve the present situation, which has aroused so much public sentiment.

There is a feeling that the case will not be argued on appeal. Governor Fielder himself suggested an appeal as a means of getting the boy out of jail in the event that the court of pardons, consisting of the governor, the chancellor, and six members of the court of errors and appeals, should not look favorably upon a pardon.

The governor has directed his secretary, L. Edward Herrmann, to make an investigation of the whole case in preparation for the meeting of the court of pardons. Governor Fielder said it seemed to him that some plan might be devised whereby the exaction of the maximum penalty might be avoided where the circumstances seemed to warrant.

Newsboy Becomes Dairyman.

With nickels and pennies made after school hours and on Saturday selling newspapers, Noble McKillip, thirteen years old, of Fort Worth, Texas, has been paying for school books for himself and his eleven-year-old sister, Goodie, and also car fare for both, and in addition clothed himself and put so much in the bank each day. He has now set himself up in the dairy business with his newspaper earnings. He drew his savings out of the bank and paid for the cow, a four-gallon Jersey.

Noble is a student in the Vickery school. Selling papers did not interfere with his studies, and he is progressing rapidly in them and expects to go through the higher branches.

De Oro’s Mark to Stand a Long Time.

Alfredo de Oro, the world’s champion at three-cushion billiards, has experienced the thrills of victory in many hard-fought matches, but it is doubtful if any of his performances afford him greater satisfaction than his world’s record run of 13, made in his match with George Moore, for the three-cushion title, at New York, recently.

Previous to this, the best mark of the veteran Cuban in a title match was ten, but now that he hoisted the mark three points, it may stand for a long time. The present season has been productive of some phenomenal performances at the angle game. Early in the season, Pierre Maupome, the Mexican expert, ran eighteen in a practicing game at St. Louis, and a little later August Kieckhefer, champion of the Interstate Three-cushion League, made a run of seventeen points in a game at Milwaukee.

Quite as remarkable as these two big runs was the performance of Harry Wakefield, one of San Francisco’s leading experts, who in a game against a coast amateur scored fifty points in twenty-two innings. Wakefield started With 5, 5, 2, 5, and then electrified the crowd with a run of fifteen on his next trial, giving him thirty-two points in five innings. He made forty-six points in sixteen innings, and in the seventeenth inning scored three, missing his fiftieth point by a whisker. His opponent played five safety shots in succession, so that it took Wakefield five more innings to count his remaining point. Among those who saw the performance were Joe Carney, former three-cushion national champion, and W. H. Sigourney, the well-known balkline amateur.

With the big Interstate Three-cushion League affording the sixteen contestants every incentive to practice, some great performances can be looked for.