Chapter 550: of the Acts of 1907, provides that the (2)

That account of the tragedy is as much as could be
gleaned with any certainty yesterday. It was hard
enough to get aboard the Whitney at all, and no one
there seemed to know much. The coroner’s office
made a brief investigation yesterday afternoon,
and the bodies were removed to an undertaking
establishment in West 24th street. The police found
out little more than the casual spectators who
thronged the pier.

The H. M. Whitney went aground in Hell Gate on
Middle Four Reef just a month ago yesterday, and in
the early morning she was floated after long and
hard efforts. It had been a hard job, and those
who had accomplished it were more than happy. The
ship had been brought down to East 102d street,
and about all the work that was being done was
to keep the pumps working. The lighters with the
huge derricks lay alongside, and when the tragedy
occurred many of the men in charge of the work were
at luncheon.

None of the men who died had orders to go down into
the hold. This was dwelt on with much emphasis by
the officials of the wrecking company. Captain
Kivlin, who was in charge of the work, was arrested
and taken to the Harlem court, where Magistrate
Herrman refused to do more than remand him to the
coroner. Apparently no one in charge of the work
could have foreseen the accident and no one could
be held responsible.

Both Bjorklund and Fabricius lived at Stapleton,
Staten Island, and Menus lived at 1 Atlantic
avenue, Brooklyn. Supt. Kivlin said that Bjorklund
was one of the most experienced divers in the
company’s employ and he couldn’t understand how
the man happened to venture into the gas-ridden
hold without testing it for the poisonous vapors.
“With such a mixed cargo as the Whitney is carrying
submerged for thirty-one days, it was certain to be
almost fatal for any one to go into the hold until
it had been thoroughly ventilated,” he said. “He
should have taken the precaution to drop down a
lantern before he went down himself.”

Capt. Hone of the Henry M. Whitney said yesterday
that the damage to the steamer can be repaired very
quickly when she gets into drydock. As a result of
his steamer’s misfortune the Government has decided
to put a bell buoy on the reef.

The pilots of the Sound steamers breathed easier
yesterday afternoon when they approached Hell Gate
and found the steamer out of the channel. The
larger vessels, especially the Fall River Line
steamers, have had a tight squeeze sometimes, and
in foggy weather it was exceedingly dangerous to
attempt the passage.

(2)

_New York Sun_

Nobody was hurt when the steamboat H. M. Whitney
went on Nigger Point reef, Hell Gate, in a fog
a month ago, but three men were killed on her
yesterday an hour after she had been raised. She
had been pumped out by the Merritt-Chapman Wrecking
Company and floated over to the foot of East 102
street. Three of the wrecking crew went down the
forward hatchway into the hold, were overcome by
carbonic acid fumes and were taken out dead.

One was August Bjorklund, a veteran diver, who had
patched up one of the big holes in the side of
the steamer. He took with him Herman Fabricius, a
blacksmith, and Michael Menus, a laborer. Supt.
Thomas Kivlin, in charge of the wreckers, and Capt.
George Hone of the Henry M. Whitney had warned all
the wreckers and members of the crew that it would
be unsafe to venture into the hold until the air
had been purified.

The Whitney’s cargo consisted mainly of green
hides, miscellaneous freight made up largely of
rubber, resin and molasses, and a quantity of coal.
Some 500 tons had been taken out and yesterday
1,800 tons remained. The divers had patched the
hole in the boat’s bottom, and yesterday morning,
having pumped her out, the wreckers got two immense
chains under the bow and stern of the Whitney, and
she was lifted almost out of the water by four
powerful floating derricks. Shortly before noon the
derricks headed for the Manhattan shore and an hour
later the freighter was lying at the foot of 102d
street.

The derricks had scarcely been tied up there when
Bjorklund and his two assistants went down the
second forward hatchway. No one saw them go, but a
few minutes later one of the wreckers, happening
to pass the hatchway, looked down into the hold
and saw the three men stretched out on the bottom.
Supt. Kivlin was notified, and he called the
members of his force and the crew of the steamer
around him.

“The man who goes down after those men takes his
life in his hand, but there ought to be somebody
here brave enough to do it,” said Kivlin. “If we
can get them out of that rotten gas promptly we may
save them.”

There wasn’t any response for a moment, but
suddenly Diver Jack Hanson worked his way through
the little group around the hatchway with a diver’s
helmet over his head. Hanson didn’t speak until he
had taken half a dozen steps down the ladder, when
he said:

“I guess I’m about the best friend Gus Bjorklund
had, and if the boys will keep me supplied with air
I’ll get those poor fellows out as quickly as any
one could.”

He tied a rope around Bjorklund’s shoulders,
and while Bjorklund was being pulled up on deck
two more ropes were thrown to Hanson. He secured
the ropes around Menus and Fabricius, and in
ten minutes all three men were on deck and were
receiving first aid treatment. Ambulances were sent
for, but it was nearly half an hour before Dr.
Moeckel of the Harlem Hospital arrived. The three
men were dead then. Supt. Kivlin was arrested and
taken before Coroner Acritelli, who released him
to appear at the inquest.

* * * * *

SHIPS COLLIDE IN FOG

_Boston Transcript_

In a fog bank that had closed in only about twenty
minutes before, the four-masted schooner Alma E.
A. Holmes of Philadelphia was rammed and sunk by
the Eastern Steamship Corporation steamer Belfast,
just outside of Graves Light, shortly after six
o’clock this morning. That no lives were lost was
undoubtedly due to the action of Captain Frank
Brown of the Belfast, who held the bow of the
steamer in the hole in the schooner’s side until
Captain Henry A. Smith and the eight members of the
crew had climbed aboard the Belfast. Two minutes
after the Belfast backed away, the Holmes, which
had been struck on the starboard side between
the fore and mainmasts, plunged bow first to the
bottom, her stern lifting so high out of the water
that about twenty feet of the keel was visible to
those on the steamer.

The Belfast, with about 150 passengers, was on the
way here from Bangor and Penobscot River ports. The
weather had been thick all night, and Captain Brown
had been constantly on duty in the pilot house.
Shortly before the collision occurred those on the
Belfast heard the schooner’s fog horn sounding
at intervals. The steamer, too, was sounding her
whistle, when out of the fog and directly ahead
appeared the Holmes. At the first glimpse Captain
Brown ordered the engines reversed. The distance
between the vessels, however, was too short, and
a moment later the sharp stem of the Belfast cut
through the schooner’s side.

Frightened passengers hurried out on deck as they
felt the shock of the collision, but within a few
minutes they were assured by members of the crew
that they were in no danger. Many, nevertheless,
feared that the Belfast was going to sink.
Meantime, Captain Brown held the steamer’s bow
where it was, as he realized that the damage was
serious and that the schooner, laden deep as she
was with coal, would go down quickly if the sea was
permitted to rush in.

Meanwhile, the skipper and crew of the schooner had
got on deck, two or three of the sailors in scanty
attire, as they did not have time to dress after
being roused from their bunks. Captain Smith was
on deck when the accident happened, and perceived
when the steamer was sighted that the collision was
bound to occur. He shouted for all of the crew to
come on deck, and nearly all responded before the
crash.

While passengers crowded forward on the decks of
the Belfast, a ladder was let down to the deck of
the schooner, and one after the other the crew of
the Holmes climbed to safety. Captain Smith had
some difficulty in impressing some of the crew
with the necessity of quick action, one man being
particularly stubborn. The rescue was accomplished
in about ten minutes, according to Captain Brown
of the Belfast, and then the steamer backed away.
As she withdrew from the hole in the schooner’s
side, it was seen that the Belfast’s stem had been
twisted over to port. Otherwise she was apparently
undamaged, and was not leaking, according to
Captain Brown, after she docked at India Wharf.

The sight of the schooner going to the bottom was
one that the passengers will remember. In Captain
Brown’s opinion it was spectacular, in view of
the manner in which the craft seemed to stand on
her head, with the stern rearing almost straight
out of the water, until she disappeared beneath
the surface. Every one of the passengers praised
Captain Brown highly for the manner in which he
handled the situation and rescued the shipwrecked
men. According to Captain Brown of the Belfast,
the collision took place about four and one-half
miles northeast of the dumping ground buoy outside
of Graves Light, and the schooner sank in about
twenty fathoms of water. Neither he nor Captain
Smith cared to make any statement regarding
responsibility for the accident. An investigation
to determine this will be made by the United States
Steamboat Inspectors.

The Alma E. A. Holmes was bound from Norfolk to
Salem with 1819 tons of coal. She sailed from
Norfolk a week ago Wednesday. She was a craft of
1208 tons gross register, 1069 net, 202 feet long,
41 feet beam and 18 feet deep, and was built at
Camden, Me., in 1896. Joseph Holmes, Sr., of Toms
River, N. J., was the owner.

* * * * *

BOAT BATTERED IN GALE

_Philadelphia Ledger_

ATLANTIC CITY, Nov. 20.--As gallant a fight as
South Coast mariners have put up in many a day,
with life as the stake, was made by the skipper
and crew of the Drake, one of the fastest and
smartest of the Inlet fishing fleet. Coast guards
hardly knew her when she staggered into port this
afternoon, battered and torn, a leaking scarecrow
of her former trim self.

On board Mark Broome, master, Tomkins, the mate,
and the nine members of the crew were in much the
same state as their vessel. All hands were half
dead from loss of sleep and completely worn out
after a 36-hour battle with the gale that swept the
Atlantic yesterday.

The Drake was making a full speed ahead plunge for
Absecon late Thursday night, when the gale, ripping
up the coast, struck her. There was nothing to do
but turn and fly before the tempest, with everybody
aboard hoping they might escape the treacherous
shoals running miles seaward of Brigantine.

Then, to make matters worse, the Drake’s engine
jammed and went out of commission and Tomkins, the
mate, almost was swept overboard by a boom, while
he clung to the bowsprit trying to pour oil on the
waves. Broome, the skipper, saw his mate’s peril,
and his presence of mind saved Tomkins from going
into the sea.

It looked for a time last night, when the Drake
sprung a leak, as if the staunch craft never would
see harbor again. Everybody took turns at the
pumps, except Broome, who stood over his flagging
men, keeping them awake when exhaustion gripped
them. The Drake was minus half her cargo of fish
when she finally came in over the bar today.

* * * * *

FATAL SHIPWRECK

_New York Times_

ASTORIA, Ore., Sept. 19.--Between seventy and
eighty men, women, and children, coastwise
passengers and crew, were drowned late yesterday
when the three-masted schooner Francis H. Leggett
was pounded to pieces in a gale sixty miles from
the mouth of the Columbia River.

Two men were rescued by passing steamers and
carried to Astoria and Portland. They told how
the sea tore the vessel to pieces, and how the
passengers were drowned, a boat load at a time, as
the lifeboats capsized, or met their fate a little
later when the vessel turned over.

Alexander Farrell, a survivor, said that, at
the height of the storm, Capt. J. Jensen of San
Francisco, a passenger, who had lost his own ship
six months ago and had been marooned for four
months on an uninhabited island, went to the aid
of Capt. Moro of the Leggett, took command of the
passengers, and controlled them until he sank with
the schooner.

The schooner’s wireless, on a route alive with
ships, raised only the Japanese cruiser Idzumo, and
sank hours before any craft reached her position.
The steamer Beaver, which caught the Idzumo’s
report of the Leggett’s distress, said that the
Idzumo gave no position for the distressed vessel.
She asked for more details, but got no response
from the warship.

Plunging on her course for the Columbia River, the
Beaver ran upon the oil tanker Buck, standing by a
swirl of wreckage and timber which indicated where
the Leggett had sunk. The Buck transferred Farrell
to the Beaver for treatment. She remained for some
time searching for bodies afloat, or for some other
men, who, like Farrell, might have been fortunate
enough to seize a bit of lumber and strong enough
to cling to it for many hours in the icy water.

The other rescued passenger, George H. Pullman
of Winnipeg, Canada, is on board the Buck, which
now is lying off the Columbia bar awaiting calmer
weather before crossing in.

It is believed that Capt. Moro of the Leggett was
washed overboard shortly before the ship sank,
for it was Capt. Jensen, Farrell said, who was in
charge of a futile attempt to launch two lifeboats,
which foundered as soon as they struck the water.

Farrell, who had recovered considerably tonight
from his exhaustion, said that the Leggett carried
a full list of passengers, between forty and fifty,
while the crew numbered about twenty-five. Among
the passengers were six women, a girl and a boy,
including the Captain’s wife, the mate’s wife, and
the wife of Capt. Anderson of the schooner Carrie
Dove.

“We left Grey’s Harbor Wednesday morning,” said
Farrell. “Later the sea became rough. The Leggett
began to pound heavily and the Captain gave orders
to jettison the deck load. Then the seas swept off
the hatches, and the hold began to fill. Capt.
Jensen ordered the passengers into their cabins,
and many were still there when the boat went down.

“When it was seen that there was no hope for
the vessel, Capt. Jensen ordered the lifeboats
launched. In the first boat there were thirty
persons, two of whom were women. There were only
six women on board, and the other four were not at
that end of the ship when the boat was launched.

“As soon as the boat struck the water it capsized,
and all the occupants were thrown into the sea and
drowned.

“A few minutes later an attempt was made to launch
the second lifeboat. It contained four women and
their husbands. The boat met the same fate as the
other boat.

“I was standing on the bridge when the ship went
down. The boat capsized as she sank. I don’t know
how long I was under water, but when I came to
the top I grabbed a railroad tie and hung on. The
wireless operator was also hanging to the tie. I
saw men sinking all around me, but could not hear
their cries owing to the screeching gale.

“It soon became dark, but it was 1 o’clock in the
morning when the Beaver picked me up. The wireless
operator clung to the tie with me for several
hours, and then, benumbed by cold, he dropped off.
No one was to blame for the wreck. The boat was
unable to stand the storm.”

* * *

The Leggett was a three-masted schooner of 1,606
tons gross registry and a capacity of 1,500,000
feet of lumber. She was operated by the Charles R.
McCormick Company of San Francisco.

* * * * *

NOTE--_The following two stories illustrate different
arrangements of the same material and were probably
telegraphed by different news associations._

EXPLOSION IN MINE

(1)

_San Francisco Examiner_

MARIANNA (Pa.), November 28.--Within three
minutes after a State mine inspector and the mine
superintendent had returned from an inspection
of the district, the model Marianna mine of the
Pittsburg-Buffalo Coal Company was blown up by an
explosion to-day.

At midnight the rescuers, penetrating through a
portion of the shaft, came upon the bodies of 142
men, most of whom had been killed instantaneously
by the debris flung upon them by the explosion.
Many of the remains were badly mangled. Eighteen
bodies were immediately carried to the top of the
shaft, where they were encoffined. Six others,
killed at the top of the shaft, had been previously
recovered. Whether any more remain in the wrecked
mine will not be known until morning.

When she learned that her husband was among the
dead, Mrs. Joseph Jones broke through the guard
of fifty State constabulary and attempted to dash
herself to the bottom of the mine. She was caught
and restrained just as she was about to make the
fatal jump. Mrs. George Acker became violently
insane when she heard that her husband was in the
mine, and was arrested and placed under restraint.

At 1 o’clock Peter Arnold, an American, was brought
out of the Rachel shaft alive. Joseph Kearney, one
of the rescuers, reported that others were living.

The Marianna mine, which had been in operation less
than three months, was considered the model mine of
the world. Every device known to modern invention
had been installed to prevent just such a tragedy
as occurred to-day. But, wrecked by a mysterious
explosion, the very machinery which was to have
made accident impossible hampered the rescuers at
their work. They did not understand the wonderful
mechanism which bolstered the great mine with such
a network of contrivances, and they were delayed in
the attempt to bore through to the bodies of the
men lying dead in the bottom of the shaft.

The explosion came just before the noon hour in the
Rachel shaft. It was so terrific that the blast,
blowing up the whole length of the deep shaft, tore
loose the giant elevator cage at the surface of the
mine and hurled it 300 feet away.

Two men were in the cage at the time. Both were
instantly killed, the head of one of them being
literally blown off.

Immediately following the explosion, rescuers began
frantically to burrow at the mouth of the mine in
a futile effort to dig down through the tremendous
masses of coal that blocked the upper reaches
of the shaft, while other rescuers, headed by
President John K. Jones, of the Pittsburg-Buffalo
Coal Company, rushed to the scene in special trains
from Pittsburg and Monongahela with the latest
appliances, which were erected at the head of the
shaft to bore to the entombed men.

Five thousand women and children and miners
thronged the mouth of the mine, the former weeping
piteously and pleading for the rescue of their
fathers or brothers.

The officials of the mine are in a pitiful
condition. They have spent hundreds of thousands of
dollars to make the Marianna fireproof, and experts
have assured them that such a disaster as occurred
to-day was impossible. In the excitement and panic
it is impossible thus far to learn the names of the
victims. But the books of the company indicate that
the majority of the 275 buried in the Rachel are
Americans and that most of the others are English
miners imported by the company two months ago to
work the richest shafts.

(2)

_Chicago Record-Herald_

PITTSBURG, Nov. 28.--Two hundred and seventy-five
men, a majority of them Americans, are believed
all to have perished in an explosion which wrecked
the mine of the Pittsburg-Buffalo Coal Company at
Marianna, Washington County, shortly before noon
to-day. Marianna is considered the model mining
town of the world, and the mine itself was claimed
to be as nearly perfect in equipment as modern
science could devise.

Since the blast entombed all the men in the mine,
smoke has been issuing from the shaft, showing that
the workings are afire, and rescuers who entered
were compelled, after progressing only a short
distance, to retreat on account of the intense heat.

The explosion happened at 11:30 o’clock this
morning, when the full force was at work. The
explosion was terrific, and if all in the mine
were not mangled by its force, it seems certain
that they perished in the subsequent fire or were
suffocated by the deadly fumes.

The force of the explosion can be imagined when it
is known that the heavy iron cage which carried the
men from the surface to the workings was blown 300
feet away from the mouth of the shaft. Two men who
were in the cage at the time were killed, the head
of one of them being blown off.

Three foreigners who were at the mouth of the mine
when the explosion occurred are in the hospital in
a critical condition from injuries received when
the mine cage was blown out of the shaft. They also
inhaled the poisonous fumes.

The fanhouse was partly demolished and the fans
stopped for over an hour.

The explosion was in shaft No. 2. The only way to
reach the workings is through that shaft, as shaft
No. 1 is not completed. Some of the officials of
the coal company believe it will be necessary to
dig through 800 feet of solid coal before they can
reach the workings.

State Mine Inspector Louttit and Mine Foreman
Kennedy had just completed a two days’ examination
of the mine, and had come from the mine only three
minutes before the explosion occurred.

When the town was shaken by the blast, all the
people rushed from their houses. Learning of the
extent of the disaster, the members of the families
of the doomed men rushed to the mouth of the mine,
and a pathetic scene followed. Wives, mothers and
relatives of the men are gathered about, and their
cries are pitiful.

It is said there is a large gas well in the
vicinity of the mine. Whether the gas from this
well was communicated to the mine and became
ignited, or whether powder and dynamite used
for blasting purposes exploded, cannot now be
ascertained.

Rushing as fast as steam could carry them, special
trains from this city and Monongahela went to the
scene of the disaster. On them were officials of
the coal company and many prominent miners who
are considered experts in the work of rescue.
The latest appliances from the new United States
laboratory in this city, which were recently tested
before foreign and American experts, for the saving
of life in mine explosions, were hurried to the
mine.

John H. Jones, president of the Pittsburg-Buffalo
Coal Company, was almost a physical wreck when he
learned of the accident. He trembled in every limb
and could scarcely speak. Accompanied by other
officials of the company, and by J. W. Paul of the
United States mine testing station located here,
President Jones went at once to the scene in a
special train.

Two assistants accompanied Mr. Paul, carrying
patented helmets that make work possible in the
most dangerous mine. With these men Mr. Paul
expected to be able to save many lives.

Early reports as to the number of victims of the
disaster varied greatly. The mine officials first
claimed that not more than 100 men could have been
caught, but it now is certain that 275 were at work
at the time and that none in the shaft escaped.

State Mine Inspector Louttit and Mine Foreman
Kennedy, who had just completed a two days’
examination of the mine, declared that they had
found it in perfect condition. At the present
time, they say, it is impossible to state whether
the explosion was caused by gas or by a powder
explosion. Mr. Jones, president of the company,
stated that almost the entire force of men were in
the mine at the time of the explosion, but he did
not know the full extent of the casualties.

Marianna was built recently by the
Pittsburg-Buffalo Coal Company. It necessitated a
great outlay of money, as it was the intention to
make the mine up to date and the living conditions
of the miners the same as could be secured in a
large city. The houses were of brick construction,
and each contained a bathroom. When completed
the town was said by foreign and American mine
officials to be the most perfect mining town in the
world.

* * * * *

ENTOMBED MINERS

_Kansas City Times_

JOPLIN, MO., June 18.--The occasional
“rap-rap-rap” which has encouraged the men who
are battling with the tons of rock and earth
imprisoning two men in the Longacre-Chapman mine
ceased yesterday afternoon. Daniel Hardendorf and
Reed Taylor, the men who are buried, have now been
in the mine since 6 o’clock last Friday night.
There is hope yet for their rescue, but that hope
grows weaker as the night wears on.

The best shovelers in the Joplin district, 150 of
them, are working quietly, feverishly, knowing that
every minute lost means that much less chance of
rescuing the men. They work with strained nerves,
in squads of eight which enter the shaft, then come
up at the end of two hours completely exhausted.

A crowd of about five hundred persons, miners,
friends and relatives, are at the mouth of the
shaft. It’s a strange, pathetic crowd, alternately
weeping and praying.

Through this crowd tonight four big, pale men
elbowed their way. They were William Lester, Roy
Woodmansee, Edward Spencer and A. H. Harwood,
miners who were taken from the shaft Tuesday night
after having been entombed themselves four days
in another part of the mine. They pleaded to be
allowed to help in the rescue work.

“Let us save them. It’s hell down there, poor
fellows,” one said grimly.

A tragic figure in the crowd is Mrs. Hardendorf,
wife of one of the entombed men. As the shifts of
men go down she stands by and pleads with them to
exert every effort. When the men, exhausted by
their efforts, come up to be relieved, she works
with the other women, passing around coffee and
food.

Thirty-five feet of rock and earth separate the
entombed miners from liberty. The two men have been
without food, water or air more than eight days
now. When the tapping ceased yesterday afternoon
many shook their heads.

“They are dead,” they say sadly.

But the crowd about the shaft never diminishes and
the shovelers never quit.

“Maybe they have gone farther into the drift to get
better air,” some say hopefully.

About $1,500 has been raised by popular subscriptions
to pay the men who are helping in the rescue work.
The amount soon will be increased.

Experienced miners say it will be late Saturday
night or early Sunday morning before the tons of
rocks and earth can be shoveled away. If the
buried miners have fainted from lack of air, there
is little hope of reaching them alive. But if they
have gone back farther in the drift they can be
saved.

* * * * *

FALL FROM SCAFFOLD

_New York Times_

Because he had refused to take a seriously injured
man in his automobile to St. Luke’s Hospital
yesterday afternoon, the chauffeur of a machine
standing outside of South Field, opposite Columbia
University Library, was set upon by a crowd of Yale
and Columbia University students and threatened
with bodily injury unless he did so. Thoroughly
frightened, the chauffeur consented to take the
injured man to the hospital, where his condition is
said to be serious.

The injured man was Peter Bunn, a bricklayer, of
No. 231 East 80th street, who was working on Kent
Hall, a new Columbia University building, at 116th
street and Amsterdam avenue. Bunn and his brother
John were on a scaffolding on the third floor of
the building, overlooking South Field, the athletic
field of the university, where Yale and Columbia
were playing a game of baseball.

As the crowds began to leave the field, the two
men shouted from their high perch and imitated the
cheers of the students. While they were jumping
about on the platform of the scaffold, it swung far
out from the wall, and Peter fell to the ground.

* * * * *

TWO BOYS DROWN

_Chicago Tribune_

Joseph Tordio, 19 years old, of 920 Townsend
street, tried to save Albert Arrigo, 8 years old,
of 457 West Superior street, from drowning in the
north branch of the river at Superior street last
night. Both drowned.

Arrigo, a mere stripling, was fishing. He lost his
balance and toppled from the pier. Screams of his
brother, Charles, 12 years old, attracted Tordio.
He threw off his shoes, coat, and hat and jumped
in. For fifteen minutes the battle with death ran
on.

Tordio did not know the science of rescuing a
drowning person. He might have stunned the boy
and got back to the pier. But he merely used his
muscle. Then the little boy, in a death grapple,
tightened his arms around Tordio like two small
bands of steel.

The larger boy tired. The murky water ran over his
face. For an instant he thought he might lose. That
was his undoing. Fear unnerved him. He fought in a
frenzy. They went down together, the younger boy
strangling but still clasping his two small bands
of steel around the rescuer’s body.

They came up, or Tordio’s face did. With the terror
of death on him, Tordio made a last desperate
effort. It failed. He opened his mouth to call for
help, but the voice was drowned with the gurgling
water. He quit. His hands went up in a last act of
despair. Then they went down. In a moment there was
nothing on the water at that point save a few tiny
waves and a few bubbles.

The police came with grappling hooks. The body of
little Arrigo was recovered. The doctors worked for
an hour to drive air back into the water bloated
lungs. It was futile.

Tordio’s body is still on the floor of the river
somewhere. He did not know the boy he tried to save.

* * * * *

INVESTIGATION OF CAUSE OF DROWNING

_Boston Herald_

The city authorities, the police and the district
attorney have been asked to investigate conditions
at the deserted wharf on Albany street at the foot
of Union Park where one boy was drowned on Tuesday
afternoon and another narrowly escaped drowning
on the morning of the same day. Residents of the
neighborhood say that in the last decade the place
has claimed no less than seven victims and has been
the scene of a score of accidents more or less
serious.

So far no one directly responsible for the
recurring fatalities has been found. The premises
are private property, the boys who frequent the
place are trespassers under the law, the city
believes that it has no right to interfere and the
police of the district say that the only way they
could deal with the situation would be to have an
officer stationed on the ground day and night.

With a frontage of some 200 feet on Albany street
the lot extends back over a grass-grown area about
50 feet to the South bay. At the edge of the water
are the ruins of an old pier, a stretch of broken
boards and a group of broken piles.

The whole place is absolutely open to the street
and is unguarded by fence or barrier of any kind.
It has all the attractions of a playground and
swimming hole and is doubly alluring to the lads of
the neighborhood owing to the fact that they have
been warned off from time to time by the police.

All during the summer scores of boys of all ages,
but chiefly between 5 and 14 years, haunt the old
wharf, jumping from pile to pile or taking an
occasional dip when the officer on the beat is not
looking. From the shore the channel shelves down
sharply to a depth of about 30 feet.

The nature of the danger was shown Tuesday
afternoon. Alexander Penney, the 7-year-old son
of Alexander Penney of 114 Maiden street, while
playing fireman with several companions among the
piles, slipped and fell into the water. His body
disappeared and was not found until it was picked
up yesterday morning near the Dover street bridge
by the crew of the policeboat Watchman.

In the morning of the same day Arthur York, 5 years
old, of Albany street, stumbled overboard and
was rescued with considerable difficulty by John
Melanphy, who was forced to dive before he could
bring the boy to the surface.

Similar accidents have happened in the past
with such frequency that the citizens of the
neighborhood are demanding that some action be
taken to close the wharf and keep the children away
from it. Joseph E. Ferreira of 1 Pelham street,
a business man, well known politically in the
section, circulated a petition asking the city
to take action. There were over 250 signers, but
when the petition was presented to the mayor it
was found that the city had no legal right to act.
Mr. Ferreira has since appealed to the district
attorney and to the police in an attempt to have
the wharf fenced in.

Mayor Fitzgerald paid a personal visit to the scene
of Tuesday’s accidents yesterday morning. He looked
over the ground carefully and interviewed numerous
small boys who had been attracted to the spot.
Several of them were playing about the wharf end,
apparently unmindful of the danger.

“The situation here is a deplorable one,” said
Mayor Fitzgerald, “but up to the present I have
been unable to discover any way in which the city
can act. The premises are privately owned, and the
city, so far as I am informed, has no right to
fence the place in or otherwise block it from the
street.

“Something should be done, however, to prevent the
recurrence of drowning accidents. It would seem
that much of the trouble would be obviated if the
owners would consent to erect a high board fence.
I believe also that the police might be a bit more
vigilant, although I realize that the only sure way
to keep boys off a lot like this would be to have
an officer stationed here all the time.

“The place as it stands is a temptation to every
child who loves the water. In the hot weather it
is bound to lure about every healthy boy in the
vicinity. If funds were available, I should suggest
that the happiest solution of the difficulty would
be for the city to take the land over and transform
it into a bathing park. The neighborhood is crowded
and the nearest public bathing place is at Dover
street.

“The accident calls attention to the relatively
small number of our boys that can swim. I have
always advocated swimming instruction for our
children, and the fatality of Tuesday only
emphasizes the need of it.”

Mayor Fitzgerald allowed himself to be photographed
at the spot where the accident occurred, and as he
did so seven urchins grouped themselves about him.
Six of them were under 10 years and the other 13
years old.

“How many of you boys can swim?” asked the mayor.

The six younger boys shook their heads and the
oldest admitted that he could “a little.”

“That is a fair example of conditions,” said Mayor
Fitzgerald, “and a good argument against allowing a
place like this to exist.”

The property has been idle for a number of years
and is said to have been the subject of litigation.
The assessors’ books give the owners of the
property as Grant and Alice Nilson, neither of whom
is a resident of Boston.

If the owners do not take measures to shut the old
wharf from the street, Mr. Ferreira and a number of
other South End residents say they will appeal to
the courts in an effort to secure a remedy.

* * * * *

BOY SAVES DROWNING MAN

_New York World_

Johnny Donivan, fifteen years old, No. 2005 Second
avenue, went down to the Battery yesterday to look
for a job, and the only job he found was to save
a man from drowning. Johnny had no objection to
saving a drowning man, but was much disappointed at
not finding work, for his father has been out of a
job since last Christmas, and there are eight in
the family.

Daniel Wilson, who has been a deep-sea fireman,
went to sleep on a pier and rolled off into the
bay, striking his head on a rock. Then he floated
seaward.

Johnny Donivan jumped in after Wilson. With both
hands the fireman grabbed the boy so tightly around
the throat that he almost squeezed the breath out
of him.

Johnny seized the man around the waist, was pulled
under water twice, but swam with Wilson to the
pier, where the Liberty Island steamer makes fast.
Policeman Joseph Murry hauled them out.

John Brown, watchman in the Barge Office, lent
Johnny Donivan his old shirt and trousers while the
boy’s raiment was drying in the sunshine. Johnny
said he had a place in a picture frame store in
Beaver street until eight weeks ago when he was
let out. The only one in the family working is one
of Johnny’s sisters, and she earns $3 a week as a
dressmaker’s apprentice. A year ago he dived into
the East River at One Hundred and Second street and
saved a ten-year-old boy from drowning. On that
occasion a policeman gave him five cents so he
wouldn’t have to walk home.

* * * * *

BABY DROWNS

_Brooklyn Eagle_

Mrs. Rose Stock left her rooms, on the second floor
of 550 South avenue, at 10 o’clock this morning to
step across the street to make some purchases at a
grocery store. As she closed the door, the baby,
Harriet, 3 months old, was sleeping quietly in its
crib, and Louis, 5 years old, with Dorothy, 3 years
old, her other children, were playing.

Scarcely had the mother gone when an idea seized
one of the two. It was probably Louis, although
he credited Dorothy with it when asked about it.
Why not take the baby out of its crib and give it
a bath in the tub, as they had seen mother do so
often? It was a brilliant thought. So Louis went
and fetched the baby and took it to the bathroom.

The tub was full of water and clothes, for Mrs.
Stock had been washing there the night before, and
had not finished soaking the clothes. They set the
baby in the water, which was about a foot deep.
The baby gasped, gurgled and was still. It did not
appear to enter into the spirit of the game at all.

Louis had never seen the baby so quiet before when
its mother bathed it. He could not quite make out
just what was wrong, but a vague foreboding that
he had done something he ought not to came over
him. He ran out into the hall and met his mother
returning with her arms laden with groceries for
the dinner hour.

“Oh, mama!” he cried, “the baby is in the water.”

Mrs. Stock ran up the stairs, but before she got
there Mrs. Rose Leiser, a next-door neighbor, had
lifted little Harriet out of the tub and laid her
on the bed.

Dr. Joseph Strong of 566 Waite avenue was called
in and tried artificial respiration. Every time he
moved the little arms a jet of water gushed from
the baby’s mouth. His efforts were in vain.

When a reporter called at the little home some time
later, Mrs. Stock was seated in one room surrounded
by a semicircle of sympathizing neighbors, and in
the next room Louis, who has sunny Lord Fauntleroy
curls and a dimpled face, was down on his knees
looking through a photograph album. He looked up at
the visitor with steady blue eyes and a smile when
he was asked who put the baby in the water.

“Dorey did,” he replied.

“Where is the baby now?”

“I know,” he said. “It’s on the bed. It’s sleeping.”

Then he turned to his photograph album, but when a
search was made for little Dorothy, he led the way
up the stairs and showed the visitor how to open
the door.

Brown-haired Dorothy, with ear-rings in her ears,
hid her face behind the skirts of a neighbor. She
thought the man who came was going to take her away
somewhere, and she hung her head.

“Louis put the baby in the water,” she said. That
was all she seemed to know about it. Louis laughed
and went back to his album. He could not understand
why his mother was crying so in the next room.
Wasn’t the baby on the bed just as she had left it?

* * * * *

SHOOTING ACCIDENT

_Chicago Tribune_

Elgin, Ill., Oct. 28--[Special.]--Walter Black, 17
year old son of August Black of 416 Carroll street,
came home from a hunting trip at 7 o’clock tonight
and stood his single barrel shotgun up in a corner
of the kitchen.

“Big bruvver’s a sojer,” lisped Harold Black, 5
years old.

“Naw, there ain’t any war in Elgin,” replied
August, aged 11.

Walter went upstairs to change his clothing. Harold
went to the corner and attempted to drag the heavy
gun along.

“Le’s play sojers,” he said.

“You ain’t big enough to carry the gun,” retorted
August. “Let me take it.”

August took the gun, swung it across his shoulder,
and marched around the kitchen shouting “Hep! Hep!”
with Harold composing the rear guard of the army.

“Now we’re at the war,” sang out August. He turned
suddenly and pointed the weapon at Harold, his
finger on the trigger. There was a roar and a spit
of flame. The muzzle was only a few inches from
the head of the younger boy. He fell dead with the
whole charge in his head.

Mrs. Black ran to the kitchen and fainted when she
saw what had happened. An inquest will be held
tomorrow morning at 9 o’clock.

* * * * *

NOTE--_The following three stories
published in Milwaukee evening papers should be
compared as different versions of the same incident
in a suburb._

SEARCH FOR LOST CHILD

(1)

_Milwaukee Evening Wisconsin_

WEST ALLIS, Oct. 21.--After 2000 residents of West
Allis had spent an entire night searching for
Walter, the 18-months’-old son of Mr. and Mrs.
Ernest Strong, 5402 Fargo avenue, the little fellow
was found sleeping in a coal bin in the basement of
the home of Mrs. Johanna Bitter, Fifty-fourth and
Fargo avenues.

The little lad had wandered away from his father’s
yard on Friday afternoon and reached the yard of
Mrs. Bitter. While at play near a basement window
he probably tumbled through to the coal below.

There he slept soundly until early this morning,
when he was found by Mrs. Bitter when she went to
the basement to clean out the bin. She picked the
child up and carried him in her arms to the home
of the distracted mother, who had been waiting and
watching all through the night for the return of
her baby.

With a cry of joy she seized him and clasped him to
her breast and imprinted kiss after kiss upon his
face. The father, who, with a party of neighbors,
had been searching every corner of the village, was
notified and hurried to his home to see his boy.

Walter was playing on Friday afternoon with his
brother Willie in the back yard of the home.
About 3 o’clock Willie went into the house, and
his mother asked where Walter was. The brother
told her that he was playing in the yard. She was
entertaining visitors and forgot about the lad
until after 4 o’clock.

When she went into the yard, the boy was not there.
She searched through the neighborhood for a time
and then notified her husband, who works at the
Allis-Chalmers plant. He organized a searching
party and spent the entire night with almost 2000
others in trying to locate the baby.

At first it was feared that the child had been
kidnaped, as a man with a young child was seen
driving down Fargo avenue shortly after the Strong
child was missed by the mother.

(2)

_Milwaukee News_

He was such a little chap--only 18 months
old--and when he started out yesterday to take
his pedestrian exercises, in which he had not
progressed very far, he met with a mishap in
tumbling through the basement window of a
neighbor’s house into the coal bin.

His parents, Mr. and Mrs. Ernest Strong,
Fiftyfourth and Fargo avenues, called him Bootsie.
When Bootsie found himself in a pile of coal, it
tickled his childish fancy to learn what beautiful
black marks the coal made on his hands.

He tired of playing with the coal, rolled over
and went sound asleep. Then the trouble started.
An older brother who had been left in the yard to
watch the baby, came into the house alone.

“Where’s Bootsie?” the mother asked.

The little fellow shook his head and said he didn’t
know. The mother ran to the yard. No Bootsie was
in sight. Inquiries were made among the neighbors.
Then the news of the mysterious disappearance of
Bootsie traveled from mouth to mouth until West
Allis became aroused.

Deputy sheriffs got busy; the West Allis police
force was brought out; neighbors, relatives and
friends to the number of almost 1,000 gathered near
the home.

The father came home to supper, learned of his
son’s disappearance and was puzzled. Mrs. Strong
wept and at times was on the verge of hysteria.
Women called and tried to comfort her.

Then a searching party of many hundred started over
the territory, “with a fine tooth comb,” the police
said, to look for Bootsie.

Ponds in the neighborhood were dragged, and until
far into the night, lanterns could be seen bobbing
over the fields, going here, there, everywhere,
searching for Bootsie Walter Strong, youngest son
of Mr. and Mrs. Ernest Strong.

Then someone brought in a clew. An evil-looking man
with a black mustache and smoking a cigarette was
seen driving through West Allis about 6 o’clock in
the evening. He had a child on his knees.

The child answered the description of Bootsie. He
was crying and struggling to get away. The black
mustached man leered at people in driving by and
disappeared.

The child had been kidnaped! There was no
use denying it. Had not the clew been almost
conclusive? By midnight the search for Bootsie
had been abandoned. Searchers returned home
disheartened.

About 5 o’clock this morning Mrs. Johanna Bitter,
who lives at 5418 Fargo avenue on property
adjoining the Strong home, went to the basement to
get some potatoes.

There on top of the coal pile was Bootsie--he of
the mysterious disappearance--sound asleep, with
his mouth open. The child was carried home by
Mrs. Bitter, and when the crowd of last night’s
searchers called at the Strong home again this
morning, it was met by the wide-eyed Bootsie,
munching on a cookie, with evidence of coal dust
still lingering in his golden hair.

(3)

_Milwaukee Journal_

If Walter Strong, 18 months, 5402 Fargo-av, West
Allis, were to try and make up during the next
four years the sleep that he caused to be lost
Friday night, he would fail. It would be impossible
because 2,000 nights o’ sleep went a-glimmering in
the twelve hours of darkness.

But that doesn’t worry Walter Strong, 18 months.
Not at all. That sleep didn’t belong to him, but
was the property of 2,000 neighbors.

Friday afternoon, when the baby’s father, Ernest
Strong, was at work in the Allis-Chalmers plant and
his mother, Mrs. Anna Strong, was busy with her
household duties, young Walter toddled out into the
yard in front of his home. That yard, the street
beyond and the highways and byways that Walter
could indistinctly see stretching out before him,
were to him as were the unexplored new worlds to
Columbus.

It was 3 p. m. when Walter began his journey. At 6
p. m. he had not returned. Strong had come home;
the mother had noticed that her baby was missing,
and a search was begun. At 9 p. m. Walter was still
missing. An alarm was spread in the neighborhood.

Then the search began. The good neighbors of West
Allis scurried to and fro, listening to stories
of kidnaping, following various clews, telling
of strange men seen in the neighborhood and,
altogether, creating intense excitement. This
lasted until 6 a. m. Saturday.

What Baby Walter thought as he toddled out of his
yard cannot be told, for Walter is unable to
say. He walked up Fargo-av until he observed a
peculiar--to him--scene. To most of us it would
have been an ordinary cottage at 5418 Fargo-av, the
home of Mrs. Johanna Bitter, but to Walter there
was a great cavern underneath a pile of wood. This
cavern had a screen across the mouth, and, peering
through, Walter could see a pile of dark stuff. To
others that would have been a cellar filled with
coal.

Walter was highly interested in his discovery and
began to pry at the screen. Ah! the screen moved!
It opened! Walter pushed his head inside and gazed
about. Then he tumbled in.

Perhaps he cried a little when he fell, but if he
did no one heard him. He soon reconciled himself to
his imprisonment and began playing with objects
at hand. Soon, however, he became sleepy and what
makes a better bed than a large pile of potato
sacks?

So while his frantic parents and the neighbors were
searching for him, Baby Walter slept peacefully
within a few hundred feet of home and mother.

Early Saturday Mrs. Bitter, who lives alone,
entered her cellar to get some potatoes for
breakfast. She carried no light, and when she
neared the bin, stumbled over the sacks. The baby
cried out. That ended his trip.

When Baby Walter sat on his father’s knee Saturday
morning calmly munching a biscuit, he blinked and
smiled. The father and mother were busy thanking
the neighbors for their interest and assistance.