CHAPTER XXIV.

MR. AMOS JARGE.

Two days previous to the mysterious robbery at the Lydecker home a slim, black-eyed stranger, alighting from the local train at Hudson, inquired of the cabman who drove him up to the business section the location of a certain real-estate firm.

As the result of his visit there the stranger engaged an office in the most prominent business building in the town, and upon the glass door, so that all who passed might read, was lettered:

Amos Jarge. Private Detective Agency.

On the Monday following the robbery the portly form of Mr. Lydecker might have been seen entering the elevator of the same building. And directly behind him, also entering the elevator, came hurrying another man. Apparently preoccupied, this latter stepped upon Mr. Lydecker’s heels. Instantly he drew back with profuse apologies.

“A thousand pardons, sir! I—I——” He broke off abruptly and held out his hand. “Why, Mr. Lydecker! This is, indeed, a surprise.”

Mr. Lydecker’s brow cleared and he accepted the hand.

“Bless my soul! What are you doing in Hudson, Mr. Jarge?”

Jarge laughed. “I had quite forgotten that you lived in this city,” he declared. “Let me see, the last time we met was——”

“On the Fall River boat,” interrupted Mr. Lydecker. “I can never forget that incident! You returned my daughter’s jewels to me; don’t you remember?”

“Quite so.” Jarge nodded slowly. “Of course, of course! That was during the time of my employment with the Fall River Company. Since you have recalled it, I remember the incident perfectly.”

They had stepped out of the elevator now and were standing in the hall.

“Then you are no longer in the services of the——” Mr. Lydecker began.

“I resigned a month ago,” Jarge interrupted. “I have since started in business for myself. I have opened a chain of offices between Boston and New York.”

“Is that so?” exclaimed Mr. Lydecker. “And where——”

“Straight ahead of you, sir.” Jarge waved indifferently toward a door at the end of the hall. “That is my headquarters for Hudson and the surrounding district.”

Mr. Lydecker followed the hand, and read the black letters on the glass door of the office.

“Well, well,” he remarked, “this is pleasing news. I sincerely trust you will find success in your new venture, Mr. Jarge.”

“Thank you. I believe I have made a good beginning.” He paused reflectively, as if his thoughts were a thousand miles away. “And now, if you will pardon me, Mr. Lydecker,” he announced, “I will be hurrying back to my desk. There are so many details to arrange and so much——”

“Certainly, certainly,” broke in the other. “I understand, of course. And—and possibly, later on, I might have a little work for you myself, Mr. Jarge.”

The detective nodded in a disinterested manner. “I shall be pleased to handle it. Good day, sir.”

Jarge swung briskly away, and Mr. Lydecker watched as the door closed behind him. Then he walked down the hall.

“A very smart and intelligent man, this Jarge,” he told himself. “I think I will make no mistake in hiring him.”

The next day Mr. Lydecker called at Jarge’s office, only to be met by a curt and busy stenographer with the announcement that the detective was out on an important case, and would not return before the next day.

On the following afternoon Mr. Lydecker was again unfortunate, and learned from the same busy and curt stenographer that Mr. Jarge was still engaged and was not expected in the office until Friday at the very earliest.

So, on Friday, Mr. Lydecker called up Jarge on the telephone and asked for an appointment.

The detective happened to be in his office at the time.

“I’m afraid I will have to disappoint you, Mr. Lydecker,” he said. “I’m pressed with other business. Wouldn’t some day next week answer just as well?”

“I must see you to-day,” insisted the other. “It is a very important matter.”

“Perhaps one of my assistants can be of service to you,” Jarge went on to say. “I can arrange to have——”

Mr. Lydecker demurred at once. “I must take this up with you personally, Mr. Jarge. I am willing to pay extra for the favor. But it must be arranged before to-morrow.”

“I don’t see just how——” Jarge began, only to be interrupted by:

“Let me see you for five minutes. I can explain my case and you can judge for yourself. You can surely grant me that much time, Mr. Jarge.”

The detective hesitated, then cleared his throat. “Very well, Mr. Lydecker,” he answered reluctantly. “I can allow you five minutes. I will be in the office at eleven o’clock sharp.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Jarge. I shall be there on the hour. If you only knew how——”

But the detective had already hung up his receiver. So the perturbed Mr. Lydecker was forced to do the same.

Promptly at eleven o’clock Mr. Lydecker stepped nervously out of the elevator on the sixth floor of the business block, and, walking to the far end of the hall, entered the office of Mr. Amos Jarge, private detective.

TO BE CONTINUED.

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.

The jury had retired for consultation prior to bringing in a verdict of “Guilty,” which was expected of them. Retiring at all seemed little more than a farce, for from the beginning to the end of the case the evidence had gone so steadily against the defendant that by the time the last witness had been called there was no manner of doubt in the public mind that Robert Sullivan had deliberately and in cold blood murdered Jack Wilder, and it needed not the vigorous speech of the prosecuting attorney to convince any one to that effect.

The evidence, being briefly summed up, ran as follows: Robert, or, as he was more familiarly called, Bob Sullivan, while in a state of intoxication, quarreled with and lost his last cent to Jack Wilder, a professional sharper. Awaking the morning after his debauch, to find himself beggared, he had sworn, in the presence of several witnesses, to get his money back or kill the man who had outwitted him. Accordingly, he had set out to meet Wilder on his return from a neighboring town, and next day the body of the latter was found in a lonely stretch of the road, with a knife sticking in his heart.

Sullivan had been obliged to admit that he had met his enemy near this spot, and that they had a stormy interview, but maintained that they parted without blows, as Wilder promised him to restore his money. There was no tittle of circumstantial evidence wanting to confirm the appearance of Sullivan’s guilt, and even the attorney for the defense was privately convinced of the falsity and absurdity of his client’s plea of “Not guilty.”

The judge, a large, pompous man, having instructed the jury in his most severe and autocratic manner, busied himself with some papers, and did not deign a glance to the assemblage below. It was, as could readily be observed, a gathering of small tradespeople and farmers. Here and there the keen face of a lawyer or that of a stranger from the neighboring city stood out boldly from the sea of honest vacuity which surrounded it.

The prisoner sat with his face buried in his hands, which had lost their former tan, and were pale and trembling. Near him was his wife, hugging a sickly babe to her breast, and showing in her wild eyes, twitching mouth, and every line of her meager, stooping figure, the terror which held her in its grasp. A breathless silence was upon that audience in the shabby courtroom; even the baby had ceased its fretful wailing, and the buzz of a bluebottle fly entangled in a spider’s web in the window was the only sound that broke the stillness.

Five minutes passed, ten, twenty, and still the jury had not come. A murmur of impatience began to be heard, and presently the judge beckoned the sheriff to him, whispered a few words in his ear, and saw him depart through the same door which apparently swallowed up the jurors. The sheriff made his way through several gloomy passages into a large, light room, where he inquired of the foreman if they were not yet agreed.

“No, we ain’t!” gruffly responded that functionary. “There’s eleven of us for hangin’, but Conway, there, won’t hear to it. He wants to clear the feller out an’ out, an’ says he’ll stay with us till kingdom come before he’ll budge an inch.”

Giles Conway, the man whose obstinacy was causing such unnecessary delay, was seated rather apart from the rest, and wore the brown jeans and soft hat which marked him a farmer. Even had not the absence of any attempt at foppishness proclaimed his caste, there was something about him which insensibly connected itself in the observer’s mind with the free winds and untrammeled sunshine of the country. He was much the same color from his head to his feet, for eyes, skin, hair, and beard were alike brown, and only the deep lines on his firm, squarely cut face showed that he was no longer young. Just at present he seemed in no wise disconcerted by the wrathful impatience of his associates, but pushing his felt hat farther back on his head, and settling himself more comfortably in his wooden chair, said slowly:

“No, friends, you won’t ever get me to hand over a man to the gallows on such evidence as that, an’ there ain’t no special use of cussin’ about it, for it won’t do a bit of good.”

“Oh, but that is such foolishness!” broke in one of the group. “Here’s all this evidence, that no man in his senses could doubt, a-goin’ to prove that Bob Sullivan killed Jack Wilder, and here you sit like a bump on a log, and won’t listen to none of it.”

“That’s just it,” replied Conway. “You all think that evidence like that orter hang a man, but if you’d seen as much of that sort of thing as I have, you’d think different. I ain’t much of a talker, but maybe you wouldn’t mind listenin’ to a case of this kind I happen to know about, an’ maybe the time I’m done—an’ it won’t take me long to tell it—you’ll see why I don’t want to hang a young fellow I’ve known nearly all my life for somethin’ that very likely he didn’t do.

“You all know how when I wasn’t much over twenty I went West an’ put all the money I could rake an’ scrape into a ranch an’ cattle. Well, the place next to mine was owned by a young fellow—we’ll call him Jim Saunders, although that isn’t his name—who’d come out, like me, to make his fortune. We took to each other from the first, an’ pretty soon we were more like brothers than a good many of the real article I’ve seen since. After a while Jim told me he was goin’ to get married, an’ a few weeks later he brought home the prettiest little thing you’d see in a day’s ride. She had lots of yellow hair that was always tumblin’ down over her shoulders, an’ big blue eyes, an’ a voice like a wild bird, an’ Jim—well, he thought there wasn’t nobody like Milly in all the country.

“She seemed fond of him, too, at first, but it wasn’t long before I could see that it was a clear case of misfit all round. There was lots of excuse for her, for of course it was a hard life, an’ she loved finery an’ pretty things, an’ Jim didn’t have the money to give ’em to her, though he worked early an’ late, an’ did his level best to make somethin’ more than a livin’.

“Maybe it would have turned out all right in time if it hadn’t been that one day Jim went to the nearest town to buy some farmin’ implements, an’ fell in there with a fellow he used to know back East, and nothin’ would do him but he must go home with Jim to see how he was fixed. Well, he come, an’ it was a black day for Jim when he set foot on his threshold, for from the minute he saw Milly he hadn’t eyes for nothin’ else, and she bein’ a woman, was mightily set up to think a city man would set such store by her.

“He made himself so pleasant an’ so much at home that they begged him to stay all night, an’ long about twelve o’clock he was, or pretended to be, took awful sick. They worked with him till he got better, and wouldn’t hear of his tryin’ to go away next mornin’; so he stayed on, setting on the big rockin’-chair with a pillow behind him an’ talkin’ to Milly while Jim was off at work. He didn’t seem in no particular hurry about goin’, but Jim never ’spicioned for a minute that anything was wrong, for he liked the fellow first-rate, an’ would no more have thought of doubtin’ Milly than he would the Lord that made him.

“One evenin’ he came in late, tired an’ hungry, an’ foun’ that his wife—his wife that he loved—had left him and gone away with that devil that he thought was his friend! He went wild for a while. It seemed to him like everything was black around him, an’ there was great splotches of blood before his eyes, an’ he could hear voices that kept a-laughin’ at him an’ callin’ him a fool, an’ the only thing he held fast to was that he must follow ’em to the world’s end and kill the man that had took away all he had. So he tracked ’em, now here, now there, but always they doubled on him, till at las’, when his money was gone, he lost ’em altogether.

“Then he came to himself a little, an’ sold his ranch an’ went back to his old home to wait—for he knowed somehow that one day, sooner or later, the Lord would give him his revenge. He worked while he waited, an’ made money an’ got well off, an’ nobody knew nothin’ ’bout his ever bein’ married, so he had somethin’ like peace. But he never forgot, an’, after a while, it seemed like he didn’t feel so hard toward Milly, for he remembered how young she was, an’ how foolish, an’ what a devil she had to deal with; an’ sometimes he could see her with the pretty color all gone from her cheeks, an’ the laugh from her voice, heartbroken an’ deserted.

“At last, twenty years afterward, when he was gettin’ on in life, his time came. He was ridin’ along, not thinkin’ about anything in particular, when he happened to look up, an’ there, comin’ toward him roun’ a bend in the road, an’ ridin’ on a big black horse, was the man he’d waited for all these years. They knowed each other the minute their eyes met, an’ the fellow got white as chalk an’ pulled his horse clean back on his haunches, tryin’ to turn roun’ an’ make a run for it, but it wasn’t no good, for Jim was off his horse in a minute an’ had him by the throat, an’ in less time than it takes to tell it, he had pulled him down, cursin’ an’ cuttin’ at him, to the ground. Then, holdin’ him there, with his knee on his breast an’ his knife at his throat, he says:

“‘Where’s Milly? Tell me, or I’ll cut your devilish heart out!’

“The fellow glared back at him like a rat in a trap, an’ seein’ death in his eyes, an’ knowing ’twas no use to lie, says:

“‘She’s dead; she got sick when we got to New York, an’ I left her, an’ she died in a week.’

“‘I’d orter kill you like a snake, but I’ve always lived square, an’ the Lord helpin’ me, I’ll die that way, so I’ll give you an even chance. Get out your knife an’ fight, an’ remember that one of us has got to die right here.’

“Then he let him up, and they went at it. They was pretty evenly matched to look at ’em, but Jim thought of Milly dyin’ all alone, an’ fought like a tiger, an’ pretty soon he left the man that had come between ’em stiff an’ stark with a knife in his heart, an’ his white face a-glarin’ up at the sky.

“Then comes in the part of the story that I want you all to take for a warnin’, before you’ll be so quick to find any man guilty on nothin’ but circumstantial evidence. When the body was found, nobody ever thought of ’spicionin’ Jim, but everything pointed to another man as the one who had done the killin’. He’d sworn to kill the dead man; he was on the hunt for him when last seen, an’ he couldn’t prove no alibi. So they arrested him, and the first Jim heard of it he was summonsed on the jury that was to try him. Jim hadn’t never thought of giving himself up for a murder, for he knowed he’d fought and killed his enemy fair an’ square, an’ he was glad he done it. He didn’t see that it was any business of the law’s to interfere between ’em, and he didn’t like to drag in Milly’s name before the judge an’ jury an’ all the people who wouldn’t remember, like he did, when he was young an’ innocent. Even when he was summonsed, he didn’t have any notion but he would be cleared when they’d look into things some, an’ he made up his mind not to say nothin’ if he could help it.

“But when he got there, everything went so dead against the prisoner that if he hadn’t knowed he’d done the killin’ himself, he’d ’a’ thought sure he was guilty. He got kind of dazed at last, and didn’t seem to know nothin’ till he found himself in a room with the rest of the jury, an’ all eleven of ’em wanting to hang the man that he knowed was innocent. Then he came to his senses and voted against ’em, an’ when they asked him for his reasons, he told ’em the story I’ve been tellin’ you.”

Giles Conway stopped and gazed stolidly into the eyes of his audience, who had gathered around him till they hemmed him in on every side.

“An’ what did they do with him?” asked the foreman at last.

“I don’t know,” he answered slowly. “It ain’t decided yet, for Jack Wilder was the man that run off with Milly, an’ it was me that killed him.”

NOT TO BE OUTDONE IN POLITENESS.

A rich old man lying on his deathbed had assembled his three nephews to acquaint them with the manner in which he intended to dispose of his property.

“To you, my dear John, as you have always been a steady and dutiful nephew, I have left the sum of twenty thousand dollars.”

“Thank you, my dear uncle,” said John, burying his face in his pocket handkerchief to conceal his emotion. “I only hope you may live to enjoy it yourself.”

“You, also, Thomas, have been a good lad. I have, therefore, left you the sum of fifteen thousand dollars.”

“Thank you, my dear uncle. I only hope you may live to enjoy it yourself.”

“As for you, Frank, you have been a sad dog; to you, therefore, I have left the sum of twenty-five cents to buy a rope to hang yourself with.”

“Thank you, my dear uncle,” said the dutiful nephew. “I only hope you may live to enjoy it yourself!”

THE NEW WEATHER SYSTEM.

By MAX ADELER.

Cooley is the inventor of an improved system of foretelling the weather. He has a lot of barometers, hygrometers, and such things, in his house, and he claims that by reading these intelligently, and watching the clouds in accordance with his theory, a man can prophesy what kind of weather there will be three days ahead. They were getting up a Sunday-school picnic in town in May, and as Cooley ascertained that there would be no rain on a certain Thursday, they selected that day for the purpose. The sky looked gloomy when they started, but as Cooley declared that it absolutely couldn’t rain on Thursday, everybody felt that it was safe to go. About two hours after the party reached the grounds, however, a shower came up, and it rained so hard that it ruined all the provisions, wet everybody to the skin, and washed all the cake to dough. Besides, Peter Marks was struck by lightning. On the following Monday the agricultural exhibition was to be held, but as Mr. Cooley foresaw that there would be a terrible northeast storm on that day, he suggested to the president of the society that it had better be postponed. So they put it off, and that was the only clear Monday we had during May. About the first of June, Mr. Cooley announced that there would not be any rain until the fifteenth, and consequently we had showers every day, right straight along up to that time, with the exception of the tenth day, when there was a slight spit of snow. So on the fifteenth, Cooley foresaw that the rest of the month would be wet, and by an odd coincidence, a drought set in, and it only rained once during the two weeks, and that was on the day which Cooley informed the baseball club that it could play a match, because it would be clear.

On toward the first of July, he began to have some doubts if his improved weather system were correct; he was convinced that it must work by contraries; so when Professor Jones asked him if it would be safe to attempt to have a display of fireworks on the night of the fifth, Cooley brought the improved system into play, and discovered that it promised rainy weather on that night. So then he was certain it would be clear, and he told Professor Jones to go ahead.

On the night of the fifth, just as the professor got his Catherine wheels and skyrockets all in position, it began to rain, and that was the most awful storm we have had this year. It raised the river nearly three feet. As soon as it began, Cooley got the ax, and went upstairs and smashed his hydrometers, hygrometers, barometers, and thermometers. Then he cut down the pole that upheld the weathercock, and burned the manuscript of the book which he was writing in explanation of his system. He leans on “Old Probs” now when he wants to ascertain the probable state of the weather.

THE NEWS OF ALL NATIONS.

Scale Ounce Over Forty Years.

Sealer of Weights and Measures Robert J. Hongen, of Weissport, Pa., in testing a scale used by one of the leading merchants for the past forty years, found that it allowed seventeen instead of sixteen ounces to the pound.

The merchant says he must have lost considerably through this scale, but is glad that it operated in favor of his customers.

Family of Twenty Children.

Mr. and Mrs. Jacob Anstine, natives of the Pigeon Mountains, near Spring Grove, Pa., are the parents of twenty children—eight boys and twelve girls. There are no twins or triplets among them.

Mr. Anstine is fifty years old and his wife is forty-five. They live in the remotest part of the Pigeon Mountains, in a small hut having but four rooms. The oldest child is twenty-four years old. The whole family is hale and hearty despite the limited accommodations of their little house. They live mostly by money earned from wood-cutting in the forests.

Famous “Houn’ Dawg” in Bad.

The “houn’ dawg” is doomed. The hills that now resound with his throaty bellow are to be dotted with sheep and subside in silence, believes Doctor A. J. Hill, who has assisted in preparing a legislative “tin can” to tie to the sagging tail of the kicked-around hound. The dogs are blamed for the high price of mutton and the low price of sheep in the State of Missouri.

Doctor Hill and other interested landowners have drafted a law which provides that all dogs in the State shall be taxed, and that the tax money shall constitute an insurance fund to reimburse sheep owners for their losses by dogs.

Wisdom Teeth; Why so Called.

The so-called wisdom teeth are the last two molars to grow, and they have no real connection with the possession of wisdom. They take their name from the time of their arrival, from twenty to twenty-five years, at which age the average person is supposed to have reached years of discretion.

Cutting one’s wisdom teeth means simply arriving at the point of completeness in physical equipment, and has no direct relation to mental equipment. The possession of these teeth is no guarantee of wisdom. They grow at about the same age in people whether they are wise or not.

Walnut Tree Forty-six Years Old.

Colusa, Cal., is laying claim to having the largest California black walnut in the world, but the dimensions of the Colusa tree do not come up to those of a tree that is growing on F. W. Schutz’s farm on Sycamore Slough, six miles northeast of Arbuckle, also in Colusa County.

Some time ago an account in newspapers first brought this monster tree before the reading public, and it received much attention throughout the State. The agricultural department of the State University wrote Schutz about it, stating that information sent by him would be used in a book that the department is compiling.

In answer to the request of the university authorities Mr. Schutz has taken accurate measurements of the tree, which are as follows: Circumference one foot from the ground, twenty-two feet, eight inches—below this the roots appear above the surface of the ground, making the tree about twenty-six feet; circumference nine feet from the ground, nineteen feet nine inches; height, 102 feet; width of shadow at noon, 120 feet.

The big tree is forty-six years old, having been planted in 1868 by D. Arnold, a Colusa County pioneer.

Virginia’s Oldest Cow Dies.

“Old Nancy,” said to be the oldest cow in Virginia, is dead. This cow was fifty-two years old when she expired with the old year, thus turning the recent holiday into a day of gloom for her owner and others. When young, the cow’s color had been a blood-red, but for more than twenty years her hair had been turning white, until at the time of her death her hair was as white as the snow that covered the ground.

Her owner, John Adkins, of Big Laurel, Va., was only one day older than Nancy, and at his marriage the cow—then being over twenty—was a wedding gift from his father, who said: “Keep Nancy until she dies, John, for she’s a good old cow.”

In recent years her owner has been offered good round sums for the aged animal, but he invariably refused, with the remark: “No, no; I’d just as soon think of parting with Martha—his wife—as to allow old Nancy to be toted around the country with a show.”

Emigrant from Erin Dies a Millionaire.

The story of the hunt for gold is ever a story of toil and privation, often a tragedy. For the one who strikes it rich, thousands are lost in the oblivion of poverty and ill fate.

Colonel Thomas Cruse, who died at the age of seventy-nine, in Helena, Mont., recently, was one of the lucky few who leaped from poverty to affluence thirty years ago. He discovered the Drum Lummon Gold Mine, north of Helena, sold it to an English syndicate for $1,500,000, retaining one-sixth interest, and shared in the profits of $30,000,000 which the mine has produced.

Mr. Cruse was twenty years old when he left County Cavan, Ireland, to seek his fortune in the mining camps of the West. He roamed around various diggings in California, Nevada, and Idaho, blew into Virginia City, Mont., in 1865, when Alder Gulch was at the height of its glory, and later struck the placers around Helena, where fortune smiled upon him.

Drum Lummon drew its name from the locality in Ireland where Cruse was born. Before it had a name it had a romance redolent with the ill luck of the original finder. He was a little, wiry Frenchman named L. F. Hilderbrand, who drove an express wagon to Deadwood long after Tommy Cruse put Drum Lummon on the mining map. In the very early days Hilderbrand prospected in Montana. A stumble on the mountain side caused him to chip off a piece of a bowlder which was so rich in gold quartz that his eyes popped in the excitement of riches in sight. He and his partner began to look for the lead from which the bowlder sloughed off.

Unfortunately, Hilderbrand and his partner undertook to roll out of the way the great bowlder which gave them a clew to wealth. By one of those queer capers of blasted luck which prospectors fear, the bowlder moved too quickly and rolled over and crushed the arm of Hilderbrand’s partner. Being without money and needing medical attention, they left the place, trudged to Helena, where the partner was under the care of a doctor, and Hilderbrand went to work in near-by places to earn money to pay the bill.

Some ten years later, Hilderbrand, still at outs with his luck, and weary of roaming, reached the spot where the bowlder sent his hopes skyward. The bowlder had the appearance of an old acquaintance, but the surroundings were changed to a bewildering extent. Before his eyes was a monster hoisting plant raising rich ore from a shaft hundreds of feet in depth, while in the gulch a huge stamp mill was at work. The bowlder occupied a place of honor in front of a building. Hilderbrand touched it, patted it affectionately, and tears filled his eyes. Presently through the mist of his tears he read the sign: “Drum Lummon Mine, discovered by Thomas Cruse.”

During the period of development, when hard luck pressed Cruse to the verge of abandonment, some one advised him to strike Sam Ashby for a couple of hundred. Ashby was a money lender in Helena who knew how to sweat the coin when put at work on good security. Cruse put the matter of a loan up to Ashby. All he got, however, was a fine line of free advice, coupled with the money lender’s assurance that he would rather throw paper money into the furnaces of his satanic majesty than loan it to such a “shiftless fellow.”

Years after, when Cruse’s day of prosperity came, one of the early visitors to the “Thomas Cruse Savings Bank,” just started in Helena, was Sam Ashby. The fortunes of Cruse and Ashby had been reversed. Cruse was flush, Ashby empty of pocket. Cruse led his would-be customer to the door, and, in the underscored language of the West, assured the customer that he would rather throw his money into the furnaces of his satanic majesty than to loan it to such “a shiftless fellow” as Sam Ashby.

Soon after his bank was started, at the age of fifty, Cruse decided that he had enough capital to support a wife. Miss Margaret Carter, sister of the later United States Senator Carter, became Mrs. Cruse. The wedding, in 1886, was the greatest social event in the history of Montana’s capital. It was a celebration for all the population.

Cruse arranged for an open house and free drinks with every saloon in Helena. Tradition has it that the whole male population of the town got drunk at the bridegroom’s expense, and it took a week to sober the people into a working condition. The jamboree was the greatest ever pulled off in the treasure State; no one attempted to rival the score.

The joys of wedded life were of short duration, however. Mrs. Cruse died within a year, leaving a baby daughter, on which the father lavished his affections and means.

What Count John A. Creighton was to Omaha, Thomas Cruse was to Helena. Every public enterprise, every promising industry, drew his support; benevolent and charitable movements commanded assistance from his purse. He was the chief contributor to the building of the Catholic Cathedral of Helena, which was dedicated on Christmas Day, the Methodist Hospital, the Young Men’s Christian Association, and the Young Women’s Christian Association shared in his bounty, and his liberality in supporting the local club kept Helena on the baseball map.

The career of Mr. Cruse was linked in many ways with the active lives of several former Omaha residents. A year or two before Cruse struck Alder Gulch, Patrick Gurnett, Mrs. Gurnett, and three young children started from Omaha with a bull team in a caravan which occupied six months in covering the distance to Virginia City, Mont. Cruse and the Gurnetts probably became acquainted there.

In subsequent years, when the Gurnetts became ranchers in the Missoula valley, south of Helena, Cruse’s poverty as a prospector was frequently relieved by the food reserves of the Gurnett homestead.

Frank J. Lange, son of an Omaha family of pioneer grocers, is the active manager of Cruse’s Savings Bank, and has been confidential associate and adviser of the millionaire for years past.

Another man, Harry Cotter, married Cruse’s daughter, Mary, who died a year ago last November. Cruse and Cotter did not pull together, and the death of the daughter widened the breach, which continued to the gold miner’s end.

Put Nickle in Slot, Get Paper Raincoat.

Have you ever arrived in your old home town in a pelting rainstorm, all dolled up in your Sunday best, and been compelled to pass up a quarter to the local bus man or linger around the depot until some good Samaritan with an umbrella is kind enough to escort you to the abode of your family or friends?

Have you ever noticed a flock of pretty but scolding maidens in a downtown doorway or the post-office entrance, or the vestibule of a movie-picture place wildly calling for umbrellas, raincoats, newspapers, brother’s, or best beau’s silk handkerchief, or anything to prevent that lovely seven or ten-dollar hat from being ruined by the sudden shower?

If you are a masculine reader, have you ever been compelled to “cough up” from three to six dollars in order to get your fair Dulcinea home from play or dance when it is raining pitchforks and black cats and the rubber-coated man on the box has suddenly become so stiff and lofty—in his price, at least—that occasionally one doubts if he can be touched even with a ten-spot bill or a ten-foot pole?

If you have ever passed through any of the above-enumerated experiences—and what man or woman has not—forget it; deliverance is at hand. The hour of the hastily impressed newspaper, the borrowed umbrella, or the painfully extracted cash loan from the hotel clerk or elevator boy is to bob up unserenely no more, for the paper raincoat has taken its place alongside the egg sandwich, chewing gum, and insurance policies placed before the public in vending machines.

The man or woman who drops a nickel for a package of gum to aid in the digestion of his nickel-in-the-slot meal, and then pays a quarter to another machine for a policy insuring him or her against the consequences, may soon get a raincoat from an adjacent machine as a result of the ingenuity of a woman, who has obtained a patent on a paper raincoat, said to be waterproof. She plans to manufacture the coats in large quantities and distribute them in specially devised vending devices.

It is to be presumed that the feminine raincoat will be provided with a cute little hood, or capote, as they say in French, and possibly the masculine garment will have some attachment that will be quite eskimo and save the wearer’s two-dollar derby from gaining an inch or two in circumference. All hail, hoch, also hear-hear to the paper raincoat! Bah to the never-present, disappearing, eye-destroying, pestiferous umbrella.

“Corpse” Smokes in Hearse.

Panic was caused along the road between Jefferson and Chapel, Ohio, by the spectacle of what apparently was a corpse sitting upright in the middle of a hearse and serenely puffing a cigar.

The “remains” which had indulged in this unseemly performance were Will Hodge, of Jefferson. Hodge had attended the funeral of an aunt at Chapel. On the long trip home after the interment, Hodge started riding beside the driver of the hearse.

The intense cold soon chilled him to the bone, and he obtained permission from the driver to get inside the glass case. Here he soon got warm, and, to add to the comfort of his journey, he lighted a cigar. Rural folks along the way were terrified.

Toss on Raft Four Days at Sea.

Twelve of them, ten men and two women, were out there on the Atlantic for four days, tossing on a sea-made raft, and no one in New York knew of it until Charles Olsen, the mate, a six-foot, fair-haired Swede, came in on the ward liner _Monterey_ and told the story.

It was some story, too, this simple chronological narrative of the breaking up of the American barkentine _Ethel V. Boynton_ some sixty miles east of Wilmington, N. C. Olsen said it was God alone who saved him and his mates. None of them ever expected to see land again.

“I won’t tell all we went through,” he said, half smiling, “because, in the first place, it would take too long, and then, when I get through, you’d think I was thinking things, especially when I told you how the sharks swam round waiting for us and we beat them off, hitting them on their heads with our paddles.

“Maybe I’d better begin at the beginning like I was reading from the log. So I don’t forget it, take it down right here now that the twelve of us lived for six days on a two-pound can of tripe and three cans of blueberries.”

The barkentine left Mobile December 26th, with lumber for Genoa, Italy, in command of Captain G. W. Waldemar and a crew of nine men. On board was Mrs. Waldemar and her young niece, Miss Gladys Larrock.

“Just at sunrise,” said Olsen, “we ran into a hurricane that came up from the south. It got so bad that we hove to at eight a. m. until midnight. It eased up a little, but came up again strong by seven o’clock next morning. We fired the deck load overboard—had to do it, and do it quick; she was leaking pretty badly.

“About ten-fifteen a. m. up came one of those racers—you know what I mean, three waves chasing one right behind another. It came full at us and swept clean over. It seemed to curl up about forty feet above the deck.

“That wave tore out about thirty feet of our quarterdeck and carried it over. At midnight we were completely water-logged. Next morning, at two-thirty, we shipped another of those racers, and it carried off the forrid house and the fo’c’s’le deck.

“We got kind of uneasy about the two women. They never said a word. If they were scared, they didn’t let anybody know it, and we didn’t let them know we were worried about ’em. At six a. m. we cut away the main and mizzen sticks, and thought for a while we were going to stay above water, but at nine a. m. we knew it was all off.

“About nine-fifteen a. m. we launched the yawl. But what was the use? We just did it on a chance, anyway. That yawl had hardly hit the water when she was smashed to pieces against the side.

“Big sticks of lumber from our jettisoned cargo now slammed the barkentine hard. At ten a. m. the starboard side opened up. That was some day. At eight-thirty p. m. the foremast jammed itself through the bottom; a big part of the foredeck drifted away with it. We were just simply going to pieces. We didn’t know where to lash the women, because we couldn’t say what part would go away next.

“The lumber in the hold was just raising hell. The morning of the next day, at three-thirty o’clock, the stern broke off entirely. At five-thirty a. m. the main deck splintered and so did the after house. A half hour later we made a raft out of the roof of it. We all got onto it, lashing the women. They lay flat and had a hard job to keep from choking, because the waves were hitting us hard.

“At seven-thirty a. m. we sighted the main deck, and started out for it. It took us two hours to paddle. We used pieces of the lumber that drifted to us. When we all climbed on board, we made fast the raft to it. That was the last thing we did, because at eleven p. m., after three days and nights on the drifting main deck, the thing bu’sted to pieces.

“That was the only time the women showed excitement. They didn’t want to get back on that raft. The little gal, Miss Larrock, she lives in Boston, like I do. She said to me: ‘Mate, we will never see Boston again.’ I said: ‘Oh, yes. Don’t you give up, little gal, not much.’ She laughed—it sounded like she was laughing—and she said something she read some time out of a book. ‘Well, mate, we will die with good and true hearts.’

“Well, we didn’t die. The Ward steamer _Manzanillo_ came along at ten-thirty o’clock the morning after the main deck bu’sted to pieces, and we can thank Warner, the cook, that she saw us. He grabbed the code flag R when we left the vessel, and we stuck it up on a piece of lumber on the raft. It is a red flag, with a yellow cross, and they could see it better than most any flag.”

Olsen turned to the cook and slapped him hard between the shoulders. “Freddy, old boy, we never missed a meal, did we?”

Warner winced and acquiesced.

“Yes, sir,” continued the mate, “the twelve of us lived for six days on that measly two-pound can of tripe and three tins of blueberries. Freddie, here, opened the can of tripe with his teeth and an old fork. Then he speared a piece at a time on a wire and handed it around three times a day.

“And, by gosh, the skipper looked at every piece that was swallowed. He said: ‘I caution you fellas to go light on that tripe, because we might be a long time here. One of the three cans of berries was given to four of us. We had a three-gallon keg of dirty fresh water with us on the raft, and it tasted fine.”

The _Manzanillo_ landed the Boynton’s crew at Santiago, Cuba, where they were cared for in a hospital. The skipper and his wife and niece later went by steamer to Mobile.

How “Long” is a Kiss? “Long” Meant, Not “Why.”

How long is a kiss? No, not “why?”—nobody so foolish as to ask that—but “how long?”

“As long as you can hold your breath,” somebody has said, but the question which moving-picture censors and actors and actresses are debating now is, how much film a kiss may, with propriety, fill.

“Three feet is the limit,” said a recent ruling of the Chicago board of censors.

“That’s too much,” said Miss Ruth Stonehouse, one of the favorites of the “movie fans.” “No kiss has a right to more than one foot of film.

“You see, when an actress is kissed on the stage, it isn’t because she wants to be kissed, but because the artistry of the play demands it, to indicate emotion on the part of the stage characters. It is utterly impersonal, you know.”

“It is?” ventured the interviewer.

“Why, of course. It isn’t really the actress who is being kissed, but the character she represents. Sometimes an unskilled actress uses the prolonged kiss to convey her idea of a love scene, but if she understands the art of expression, it is unnecessary.”

“But would you limit the real, honest-to-goodness love kiss to one foot?” asked the “cub” reporter anxiously.

“We were talking of the stage,” she replied gracefully. “The kind you mean, my dear boy, are a quite different affair.”

Oklahomans Plan Second Wolf Drive.

A wolf drive on a large scale occurred in the hills west of Greenfield, Okla., a few weeks ago. The ground covered was about twenty-five square miles. The lines were formed at ten a. m. and at the signal shot thousands of hunters began to move in toward the center.

When within a mile of the center, all lines were halted and orders were given by the captains to cease firing until the encircling line could be formed solid, but before this could be accomplished, many wolves escaped. When the hunters closed in, eight wolves were discovered, but five of the eight managed to get away. Many rabbits were killed, however.

There will be another hunt over the same ground and considerable added territory. The circular sent out to all residents of the vicinity says the recent drive was not satisfactory, as several wolves were allowed to make their escape. It is now proposed to have a big wolf drive and barbecue dinner after the round-up to all that go into the lines and help make the drive a success. It has been decided that the captains issue tickets to all men in their respective lines, all able-bodied to take part in some line. The committee asks the hearty coöperation of every man within the adjoining territory to make this drive a success, as it is not a matter of sport only, but an effort to rid the country of wolves.

The drive will cover forty-nine square miles, making each line seven miles in length. “We want to make this drive the most successful of any held in Oklahoma, and ask that you leave all booze at home to prevent accidents.

“All firearms are barred except shotguns, and no shot to be used larger than No. 4.”

The circular further says:

“Each captain will be entitled to four sergeants to help him with his mile. There will be no shot fired from nine a. m. to ten a. m., the time of starting. The signal to start will be given at the southeast corner promptly at ten a. m., each captain to fire his gun, and the sergeants to fire their guns in turn until the signal is carried entirely around the lines.

“All wolves are to be sold at auction, and the proceeds to go to pay for coffee and bread. The meat is to be donated and barbecued on the ground for all who hold tickets. So be sure that you are in one of the lines in order to get a ticket. Ladies are invited to the round-up ground and will get their dinner free.

“No quail to be shot, and all rabbits to be saved and sent to Oklahoma City, to be distributed among the poor.

“Also please remember, no shooting in the center at round-up ground. The drive will be held immediately west of Greenfield.”

Is Champion Hose Knitter.

Without doubt “Aunt Sallie” Hardly, of Big Laurel, Va., is the champion hose knitter in the world. She has just celebrated her eighty-fifth birthday by knitting a pair of men’s hose. Her hobby has always been knitting. She could knit a pair of men’s hose in two days when she was nine years old. Aunt Sallie thirty years ago began keeping a record of hose knit, and since that time has completed 10,005 pairs, she says. “I believe that in all I have knitted over fifteen thousand pairs, and have hopes of making it twenty thousand before I reach one hundred, which age I believe I will live to see,” she said.

Girl Rifle Team Gets “Defi.”

The girl’s rifle team of the Iowa City High School, Iowa City, Ia., has been challenged by a girls’ rifle team of Washington, D. C., and probably will accept the “defi.” The coach is Professor C. E. Williams, a member of the Iowa university national championship team of other days, and now coach of the national high-school champion five of Iowa City.

Small Pitching Staff Best, Says Old-timer.

Jimmy Ryan, veteran player and one of the best of the famous Chicago Colts, believes baseball is going back to the old days, when five pitchers were all the biggest club would carry.

“At present,” he says, “we find big-league clubs with ten or more pitchers on the pay roll, when three or four are actually doing the work. What is the result? Why, these regulars are liable to be fretty because they have to perform the heavy tasks and at the same time see six or seven men sitting on the bench drawing pay and performing no actual labor in championship games.

“‘Why do I have to do so much and wear myself out, when those guys are having it so soft?’ they frequently say to themselves. And you can’t blame them.

“Instead of a dozen high-priced men stepping on each others’ toes, I believe that the day is coming when six will be the limit any club carries. Manager Stallings, of the Boston Braves, has shown to the present generation that it can be done.

“Back in the eighties, when I was pitching, John Clarkson, another fellow, and myself would do the bulk of the work. And it didn’t hurt us any, either. We were in shape, and had to keep so.

“It was seldom one heard a pitcher say he was feeling bad then, or had a kink in the arm. He had to get out and work or lose his job.

“They can talk all they want to about baseball’s improving. But I fail to see it that way. We could teach the present-day players a lot about the game, and I’m not the only one who thinks so.

“Hard work never hurt any ball player. You see what it did for the Boston Braves! It won them a world’s championship.”

Catches Coyotes in an Original Manner.

A coyote likes to have a newspaper clipping to read before it puts its foot in a trap. This is according to the philosophy of John Harvey, of Riverside County, California, who has about two hundred animals to his credit—by traps, shotgun, and poison.

Harvey’s favorite trap is one of the familiar steel-jawed type with a strong spring at each end. He sets it with his knees, by bringing almost his whole weight on the springs. The spot chosen is usually on plowed or cultivated ground. The flat pan, or trigger, of the trap is covered skillfully with a piece of newspaper about four inches square, and all is carefully covered with earth. Even the six-foot chain and drag are concealed. Then over the place spread a lot of chicken or bird feathers, and any other available animal or fowl trash, such as entrails and pieces of pelt. This proves the undoing of Mr. Coyote when he comes prowling about in the night.

The trapping is generally done in the fall or winter, after the buzzards have migrated, as the bait is also tempting to that kind of “health” birds.

Bars Men Who Drink Liquor.

The Milton Manufacturing Company, an ironworking concern which has the largest plant in Milton, Pa., with hundreds of employees, has posted notices in the plant, barring all men who use intoxicating drinks. Employees who have signed saloon applications for the establishing of saloons, now before the Northumberland County court, must have their names withdrawn from the applications if they desire to continue in the company’s service.

Lost Diamond Mine Discoverer is Found.

The lost locator of Kimberley lost diamond mines has been found. Joseph H. Meyers, for whom a world-wide search was started three months ago by men whom he had interested in a South African diamond-mining proposition, has written to the stockholders of his company explaining his long silence and giving a report on the prospects of the undertaking.

Meyers had been missing since July 5, 1910, and Doctor Fred C. Wheat, of Minneapolis, Minn., last November asked members of the Iowa Alumni Association to “comb all the quarters of the earth” in an effort to find him. Meyers was a graduate at the class of 1888, University of Iowa.

Meyers is a mining engineer, and his wife is said to be an expert in minerals. In 1904 he was in charge of a large mine at San José, Cal., where he befriended an old Scotchman named Sandy McDonald. When the old man died, he showed Meyers a map giving the location of a valuable diamond mine near Kimberley. This map, he said, he had secured from another Scotchman.

Meyers, at first skeptical, finally went to Kimberley, found the mine, and returned with the report that in a few days he had dug out five hundred carat weight of gems. He interested his friends in the United States and secured $25,000 to buy the land. If he had taken it as a diamond claim, he would have had to split the diamonds with the government.

Returning to South Africa, he found that the price of the land had gone up as a result of the discovery of other mines near, and he was forced to return to this country and raise $10,000 more. He was last seen in San Francisco.

In a letter to J. L. McLaury, of Glenwood, Minn., Meyers, writing from Fresno, says he is still blocked in his effort to secure title to the diamond property, but that the obstacle may be removed any day.

Doctor Wheat refuses to discuss the details of the venture, although he said that he was satisfied that Meyers was absolutely honest, and that eventually the proposition would be a success.

King of the Rabbit Hunters.

Stephen Osborn, seventy-eight years old, who lives five miles southwest of Gentry, Mo., claims the distinction of being the champion rabbit hunter—for his age, at least—of northwestern Missouri. He has killed 500 rabbits so far this winter, and is not through yet.

Osborn, who is an expert shot, does his hunting in a buggy which is drawn by a twenty-one-year-old horse. He is accompanied by two dogs. The dogs scare the rabbits from their hiding places; then, after the fatal shot is fired, they bring the dead animals to the hunter, who is not compelled to leave his buggy. Osborn says his best day’s work was forty-nine rabbits out of fifty shots.

Modern Lumberjack a Real Aristocrat.

Should an old-time lumberjack wander back into the neighborhood of Mellen, Wis., searching for old, familiar scenes, and with the possible desire to once again, for a brief time, enter into the old calling for pastime or physical improvement, he would be apt to make a hasty survey of present conditions, and, with a voice softened by disappointment, declare: “No, this is not the same—not at all the same. This may be all right for a minister’s son, but not for me—not for me. Too much like Chicago.”

Last week residents of Mellen had an opportunity to watch a train of new boarding cars switched out into the woods over the logging railroad of the Foster-Latimer Lumber Company. The cars were built in the local car shops of that concern and are the last word in quarters for woodsmen.

The outfit comprises a “kitchen car,” equipped with the most modern kitchen appliances, such as can only be found in the culinary departments in hotels of large cities; two “sleepers,” equipped with steel double-deck beds, springs, and mattresses, there being no bunks, but regular upper and lower berths, each for two persons and provided with individual ventilating windows; in the roof are also eight patent ventilator stacks. The two diners are provided with individual tables for setting four persons each.

The entire train is comfortably heated by steam heat. The cars are provided with hard-wood floors, neatly painted inside and out, well lighted, and also provided with the latest model gasoline-lighting system.

Set New Roller-skate Mark.

Frank Bryant, of Duluth, and Raymond Kelly, of St. Paul, lowered the world’s record for relay roller skating when they finished their twenty-four-hour grind in Duluth, Minn. The team skated 348 miles and eight laps.

Fred Martin, of Milwaukee, and Frank Bacon, of Detroit, made the former record two weeks ago at the Madison Square Garden, when they rolled off 293 miles.

Bryant and Kelly showed wonderful endurance, by sprinting the last two hours. They are professionals, Bryant being Northwestern champion on the wheels.

Two Days Under Felled Tree.

A Mexican living three miles southwest of Binger, Okla., was chopping wood, when a tree fell on him and held him fast from Friday until Sunday morning. An Indian chief, “Big Snow,” discovered the Mexican’s plight and succeeded in releasing him. There were no bones broken, but the Mexican was badly bruised and suffered much from his long exposure to the cold.

Hero Gives His Life to Save Little Child.

This is a story of a brave and heroic youth who sacrificed his own life that a little child might live. The tragedy marked the close of a merry coasting party, and the death toll might have been greater but for the unfortunate hero, Edward Schumacher, aged seventeen years.

Near Dundee, Ill., a fine hill stretches, invitingly long and white in the winter days and nights. For long it has been a favorite spot for coasters, and it was not unusual that the fatal evening found a gay party spinning down the shimmering course. Schumacher sat at the steering lever of the big coasting “bob,” with a small child in his lap. Behind were three other boys and four girls.

“Don’t be afraid, little fellow,” he said to the timid child. “I’ll take good care of you, all right.”

The sled shot down the incline at a furious speed. Half-way to the bottom it encountered a sharp grade and became unmanageable. The steersman lost control for a moment, and the “bob” darted to the side just as a post loomed up a few paces ahead. Collision was inevitable.

Schumacher’s mind worked quickly, and then, without a thought of consequences to himself, he flung the child from him into a deep snowbank. The next instant the sled hurled itself upon the post, with the steersman still at his place.

The child was picked up, unhurt, and of the seven young persons who sat behind, none were injured beyond a severe shaking up, but the boy in whose hands, for a moment, were the lives of all in the sled lived only a few minutes after the crash. But he had kept his promise to the child, even at the cost of his own life.

Is Seventy-five and “Spry as a Cricket.”

There is an old lady living in Harrogate, Tenn., Taylor by name, who, at the age of seventy-five years, is the mother of fifteen children, 108 grandchildren, ninety-six great-grandchildren, and 25 great-great-grandchildren, and she is still as spry as a cricket.

New Line Over Continent.

Work on the latest American transcontinental railroad is nearing completion. “Only a few miles remain to link the Canadian Northern railroad from ocean to ocean,” said R. Creelman, general passenger agent of the Canadian Northern, when on a visit in Chicago the other day. “The last gap, north of Kamloops, in British Columbia, is being closed at the rate of nearly three miles a day, and the final linking of the unbroken line of steel from the Atlantic to the Pacific should take place before the end of this month. It still lacks more than four years of a half century since the Union Pacific and the Central Pacific linked the two oceans, forming the first continuous all-rail route across the continent. In 1885 the Canadian Pacific was completed. The Canadian Northern is the latest of the transcontinentals. The line extends from Quebec through Montreal, Ottawa, Toronto, Port Arthur, Winnipeg, Regina, Edmonton, Calgary, to Vancouver. While the main line is approximately 3,100 miles long, from Quebec to Vancouver, feeders increase the mileage of the system to slightly over 9,000, nearly two-thirds of which has been in operation for a number of years.

“The completed road will be a monument to the enterprise of two famous railroad builders—Sir William Mackenzie and Sir Donald Mann. Their first experience in railroad building came with the construction of the Canadian Pacific thirty years ago. Since 1896 they have been engaged on the Canadian Northern system.”

GREENBACKS!

Pack of $1,000 Stage Bills, 10c; 3 packs 25c. Send for a pack and show the boys what a WAD you carry. C. A. NICHOLS, Jr., BOX 59, CHILI, N. Y.

CACHOO!

Make the whole family and all your friends “just sneeze their heads off” without knowing why, with CACHOO, the new long distance harmless snuff. Sent anywhere for 10c. 3 for 25c. C. A. NICHOLS, Jr., Box 59, CHILI, N. Y.

Tobacco Habit Easily Conquered

A New Yorker of wide experience, has written a book telling how the tobacco or snuff habit may be easily and completely banished in three days with delightful benefit. The author, Edward J. Woods, 230 G, Station E, New York City, will mail his book free on request.

The health improves wonderfully after the nicotine poison is out of the system. Calmness, tranquil sleep, clear eyes, normal appetite, good digestion, manly vigor, strong memory and a general gain in efficiency are among the many benefits reported. Get rid of that nervous feeling; no more need of pipe, cigar, cigarette, snuff or chewing tobacco to pacify morbid desire.

The Nick Carter Stories

ISSUED EVERY SATURDAY BEAUTIFUL COLORED COVERS

When it comes to detective stories worth while, the Nick Carter Stories contain the only ones that should be considered. They are not overdrawn tales of bloodshed. They rather show the working of one of the finest minds ever conceived by a writer. The name of Nick Carter is familiar all over the world, for the stories of his adventures may be read in twenty languages. No other stories have withstood the severe test of time so well as those contained in the Nick Carter Stories. It proves conclusively that they are the best. We give herewith a list of some of the back numbers in print. You can have your news dealer order them, or they will be sent direct by the publishers to any address upon receipt of the price in money or postage stamps.

700—The Garnet Gauntlet. 701—The Silver Hair Mystery. 702—The Cloak of Guilt. 703—A Battle for a Million. 704—Written in Red. 707—Rogues of the Air. 709—The Bolt from the Blue. 710—The Stockbridge Affair. 711—A Secret from the Past. 712—Playing the Last Hand. 713—A Slick Article. 714—The Taxicab Riddle. 715—The Knife Thrower. 717—The Master Rogue’s Alibi. 719—The Dead Letter. 720—The Allerton Millions. 728—The Mummy’s Head. 729—The Statue Clue. 730—The Torn Card. 731—Under Desperation’s Spur. 732—The Connecting Link. 733—The Abduction Syndicate. 736—The Toils of a Siren. 737—The Mark of a Circle. 738—A Plot Within a Plot. 739—The Dead Accomplice. 741—The Green Scarab. 743—A Shot in the Dark. 746—The Secret Entrance. 747—The Cavern Mystery. 748—The Disappearing Fortune. 749—A Voice from the Past. 752—The Spider’s Web. 753—The Man With a Crutch. 754—The Rajah’s Regalia. 755—Saved from Death. 756—The Man Inside. 757—Out for Vengeance. 758—The Poisons of Exili. 759—The Antique Vial. 760—The House of Slumber. 761—A Double Identity. 762—“The Mocker’s” Stratagem. 763—The Man that Came Back. 764—The Tracks in the Snow. 765—The Babbington Case. 766—The Masters of Millions. 767—The Blue Stain. 768—The Lost Clew. 770—The Turn of a Card. 771—A Message in the Dust. 772—A Royal Flush. 774—The Great Buddha Beryl. 775—The Vanishing Heiress. 776—The Unfinished Letter. 777—A Difficult Trail. 778—A Six-word Puzzle. 782—A Woman’s Stratagem. 783—The Cliff Castle Affair. 784—A Prisoner of the Tomb. 785—A Resourceful Foe. 786—The Heir of Dr. Quartz. 787—Dr. Quartz, the Second. 789—The Great Hotel Tragedies. 790—Zanoni, the Witch. 791—A Vengeful Sorceress. 794—Doctor Quartz’s Last Play. 795—Zanoni, the Transfigured. 796—The Lure of Gold. 797—The Man With a Chest. 798—A Shadowed Life. 799—The Secret Agent. 800—A Plot for a Crown. 801—The Red Button. 802—Up Against It. 803—The Gold Certificate. 804—Jack Wise’s Hurry Call. 805—Nick Carter’s Ocean Chase. 806—Nick Carter and the Broken Dagger. 807—Nick Carter’s Advertisement. 808—The Kregoff Necklace. 809—The Footprints on the Rug. 810—The Copper Cylinder. 811—Nick Carter and the Nihilists. 812—Nick Carter and the Convict Gang. 813—Nick Carter and the Guilty Governor. 814—The Triangled Coin. 815—Ninety-nine—and One. 816—Coin Number 77. 817—In the Canadian Wilds. 818—The Niagara Smugglers. 819—The Man Hunt.

NEW SERIES NICK CARTER STORIES

1—The Man from Nowhere. 2—The Face at the Window. 3—A Fight for a Million. 4—Nick Carter’s Land Office. 5—Nick Carter and the Professor. 6—Nick Carter as a Mill Hand. 7—A Single Clew. 8—The Emerald Snake. 9—The Currie Outfit. 10—Nick Carter and the Kidnaped Heiress. 11—Nick Carter Strikes Oil. 12—Nick Carter’s Hunt for a Treasure. 13—A Mystery of the Highway. 14—The Silent Passenger. 15—Jack Dreen’s Secret. 16—Nick Carter’s Pipe Line Case. 17—Nick Carter and the Gold Thieves. 18—Nick Carter’s Auto Chase. 19—The Corrigan Inheritance. 20—The Keen Eye of Denton. 21—The Spider’s Parlor. 22—Nick Carter’s Quick Guess. 23—Nick Carter and the Murderess. 24—Nick Carter and the Pay Car. 25—The Stolen Antique. 26—The Crook League. 27—An English Cracksman. 28—Nick Carter’s Still Hunt. 29—Nick Carter’s Electric Shock. 30—Nick Carter and the Stolen Duchess. 31—The Purple Spot. 32—The Stolen Groom. 33—The Inverted Cross. 34—Nick Carter and Keno McCall. 35—Nick Carter’s Death Trap. 36—Nick Carter’s Siamese Puzzle. 37—The Man Outside. 38—The Death Chamber. 39—The Wind and the Wire. 40—Nick Carter’s Three Cornered Chase. 41—Dazaar, the Arch-Fiend. 42—The Queen of the Seven. 43—Crossed Wires. 44—A Crimson Clew. 45—The Third Man. 46—The Sign of the Dagger. 47—The Devil Worshipers. 48—The Cross of Daggers. 49—At Risk of Life. 50—The Deeper Game. 51—The Code Message. 52—The Last of the Seven. 53—Ten-Ichi, the Wonderful. 54—The Secret Order of Associated Crooks. 55—The Golden Hair Clew. 56—Back From the Dead. 57—Through Dark Ways. 58—When Aces Were Trumps. 59—The Gambler’s Last Hand. 60—The Murder at Linden Fells. 61—A Game for Millions. 62—Under Cover. 63—The Last Call. 64—Mercedes Danton’s Double. 65—The Millionaire’s Nemesis. 66—A Princess of the Underworld. 67—The Crook’s Blind. 68—The Fatal Hour. 69—Blood Money. 70—A Queen of Her Kind. 71—Isabel Benton’s Trump Card. 72—A Princess of Hades. 73—A Prince of Plotters. 74—The Crook’s Double. 75—For Life and Honor. 76—A Compact With Dazaar. 77—In the Shadow of Dazaar. 78—The Crime of a Money King. 79—Birds of Prey. 80—The Unknown Dead. 81—The Severed Hand. 82—The Terrible Game of Millions. 83—A Dead Man’s Power. 84—The Secrets of an Old House. 85—The Wolf Within. 86—The Yellow Coupon. 87—In the Toils. 88—The Stolen Radium. 89—A Crime in Paradise. 90—Behind Prison Bars. 91—The Blind Man’s Daughter. 92—On the Brink of Ruin. 93—Letter of Fire. 94—The $100,000 Kiss. 95—Outlaws of the Militia. 96—The Opium-Runners. 97—In Record Time. 98—The Wag-Nuk Clew. 99—The Middle Link. 100—The Crystal Maze. 101—A New Serpent in Eden. 102—The Auburn Sensation. 103—A Dying Chance. 104—The Gargoni Girdle. 105—Twice in Jeopardy. 106—The Ghost Launch. 107—Up in the Air. 108—The Girl Prisoner. 109—The Red Plague. 110—The Arson Trust. 111—The King of the Firebugs. 112—“Lifter’s” of the Lofts. 113—French Jimmie and His Forty Thieves. 114—The Death Plot. 115—The Evil Formula. 116—The Blue Button. 117—The Deadly Parallel. 118—The Vivisectionists. 119—The Stolen Brain. 120—An Uncanny Revenge. 121—The Call of Death. 122—The Suicide. 123—Half a Million Ransom. 124—The Girl Kidnaper. Dated January 30, 1915. 125—The Pirate Yacht. Dated February 6, 1915. 126—The Crime of the White Hand. Dated February 13, 1915. 127—Found in the Jungle. Dated February 20, 1915. 128—Six Men in a Loop.

PRICE, FIVE CENTS PER COPY. If you want any back numbers of our weeklies and cannot procure them from your news dealer, they can be obtained direct from this office. Postage stamps taken the same as money.

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 79-89 Seventh Ave., NEW YORK CITY

Transcriber’s Notes

—Silently corrected a few typos.

—Retained publication information from the printed edition: this eBook is public-domain in the country of publication.

—In the text versions only, text in italics is delimited by _underscores_.

—Created a Table of Contents based on the chapter headings.

—Note that this was published as a periodical and contains incomplete or continued stories.