CHAPTER V.

THE DAY’S WORK.

The next few days, for Nash, were filled with excitement—the grasping of the thousand and one details, the understanding of the remarkable system that prevailed under Hooker’s direction, and the method in which the work was carried forward. Every minute of the eight hours counted; in the tunnel work, three shifts kept the bore progressing at the rate of twelve feet a day, which, as Nash soon learned, was a world’s record for hard rock.

Hooker put Nash on the easiest part of the construction work, namely, the conduit building, possibly because it required less technical knowledge and was the cleanest. Nash would have preferred a more responsible place, but as it was to serve merely as an opening wedge—to show the foreman he was capable of better things—he did not demur.

“I’ll put you under Macmillan,” Hooker said, “He’s my first assistant on the conduit work. You’ll take his orders. Know anything about cement?”

Nash smiled. “A little,” he admitted.

“Well, you’ll learn. Find out all you can. Macmillan will probably put you at checking up the cubic feet laid; meanwhile you can watch the work and get the hang of things. I’m off for San Fernando.”

Previous to this, Nash had met Macmillan—most of the subforemen ate at the same general table—and when he presented himself with the information that Hooker had ordered him on this part of the job, Macmillan accepted it as final.

“What can you do?” he growled, apparently not pleased over breaking in a new hand.

“Give me a chance at anything,” Nash answered.

“Good at figures?”

“Yes.”

Macmillan grunted. “Get that steel tape and measure up the concrete laid last week. It’s a quarter of a mile behind us. The carpenters are taking off the forms. I’ve had it checked once, but a double count won’t do any harm—and we’ll see how much you know.”

He whirled abruptly on his heel and yelled something up to the engineer of the big electric shovel. Nash did not wait for further orders, but found the tape and tramped off down the gully in the direction indicated by the subforeman.

For several miles here the course of the future aqueduct lay along the side of the mountain, flanked deep with soil. This made the excavation work easy. Huge steam and electric shovels, working with the method and precision of a human hand, could dig a trench as swiftly as the carpenters could follow with their falsework.

The plastic mass of sand, gravel, and cement was poured into these wooden forms and allowed to harden for a week, after which time all the molds were stripped away. Then measurements were taken of the completed work, checked back through the different books, and finally O.K.’d by the foreman of the camp.

Nash found his task quite easy, and followed right at the heels of the carpenters as they stripped off the wooden molds, entering the cubic yards in his notebook. At four o’clock he had finished, and promptly returned to Macmillan.

“What you doing back here at this hour?” snapped the subforeman. “Get tired?”

“I’ve finished,” Nash replied.

“Finished? You mean you’ve checked up all that concrete?”

“Here’s the book. Look for yourself.”

Macmillan took the book, rapidly thumbed the pages, and then swore softly. “I didn’t think it was in you, young man,” he declared. “Why, the regular fellow often takes two days on the same job.”

“It’s really a simple matter, once you get the hang of it,” Nash said modestly. “Anything else you want me to do?”

Macmillan reflected a moment, his cold eyes traveling from Nash’s muddy boots to the slouch hat that covered his brown hair. It was a critical, impersonal glance that one might bestow upon a piece of interesting and complicated machinery. Nash realized he was being weighed in the balance. The subforeman was surprised, but did not want to betray his feelings; finally he said, in a matter-of-fact tone:

“Hooker left orders that we were to test a length of the finished conduit to-day. Suppose you could attend to it?”

“Certainly,” Nash replied, without hesitation.

“Very well, then. You’ll find a gang of wops a quarter of a mile down the line, awaiting orders. You hurry down and start things. I’ll happen along presently—soon as I get this confounded shovel to working right, and help you out.”

Satisfied that Macmillan’s opinion of him was an agreeable one, Nash hurried away, and soon reached the finished stretch of glistening concrete. Here a group of laborers were resting. Nash gave out his orders, and instantly the men were running this way and that, preparing for the test.

Hundreds of sandbags had been conveniently placed, and these were dumped into the conduit, damming it for a length of several hundred feet. Into this improvised basin a stream of water was turned. On all concrete work a certain amount of seepage and percolation is naturally expected, and it is to determine the exact amount that these tests are made.

Superintending the placing of the sandbags at each end of the finished section of the conduit, Nash did not examine closely the walls until the first water began to pour from the huge nozzle. Standing on the cement floor, protected by a slicker and hip boots, which he had borrowed from one of the men, he unintentionally struck the steel-nosed pole he carried against the white wall.

Instantly recognizing the new sound—one that should not have been given—he broke into a shout:

“Stop that water! Stop it!”

The man guiding the nozzle waved a hand to some one stationed back on the hill, and the stream was shut off.

“Get the hose out of the way, boys,” he said sharply. “We won’t need it this afternoon.”

The men frowned, but offered no objection. They reluctantly recoiled the hose, and began shifting the sandbags. While this was in progress, Macmillan strode up. By this time, Nash had finished with his observations in the conduit and had climbed to the rim, where he was removing his boots.

“What’s this?” asked Macmillan, aware that something out of the ordinary was going on. “What are they coiling up that hose for?”

“I ordered them to do so,” calmly replied Nash.

“You did? Well, I like your nerve! What in Sam Hill have you got to say about testing this conduit? I asked you to come here and start operations. Now you do the very opposite thing.”

“I wouldn’t have ordered the men to stop if I didn’t think it necessary, Mr. Macmillan.”

“Is that so?” the other sneered, hands to his hips. The laborers had gathered around and seemed to be enjoying the argument.

“I got the bags in, and started the water, when I found the concrete wasn’t in proper condition. I couldn’t do other than stop the test.”

“What’s the matter with that concrete?” roared Macmillan. “I put it in myself two weeks ago. I want you to understand, young fellow, that I’ve been laying concrete for ten years, and I ought to know what I’m talking about.”

“Very well,” responded Nash. “There isn’t any argument. The concrete is too soft as it stands to-day. If the water was turned into the conduit now, the whole length of it would crumble like sugar.”

The subforeman’s face was a study; the tan and the dirt prevented it from changing color, but in spite of this Nash was aware that Macmillan’s temper was at blood heat.

“You lily-fingered shrimp, you!” he bellowed. “What do you mean by coming around and running my affairs? Just because I gave you a little authority, you think you can dictate to me, eh? Hey, you lazy sons of guns,” he called, addressing the laborers standing about, grinning, “pick up that hose and turn her into the conduit—and be quick about it!”

Nash flushed. “I don’t like to argue, Macmillan, but remember that I have warned you.”

“Remember bosh!” exclaimed the other savagely.

In another five minutes the sandbags were once more in place, and the water was roaring into the dammed basin. Nash watched the operation without further words. When the water began to flow over the edges of the conduit, and it was ordered shut off, Macmillan turned to him with a leer.

“Well, what’s the matter with that cement, eh? Wouldn’t hold, you said! Bah! Look at it! Solid as a piece of granite. Next time you get any advice just keep it to yourself.”

A newcomer pushed his way through the group gathered about the two men. Both of the latter turned at once. It was Hooker, the foreman of the camp.

“Hello!” he said. “What’s the row?”

Macmillan waved a hand toward Nash. “This fellow you sent over to me this morning has been trying to hand out advice.”

“How’s that?”

“I sent him here to test this conduit, as you’d ordered, and he refused to do it.”

Hooker frowned. “Is that right, Nash?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why did you refuse?” the foreman demanded.

“Because that length of concrete is in no condition for a test, Mr. Hooker. It’s soft. I told Macmillan about it, but he only laughed.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed the subforeman, pointing to the subject of the dispute. “There it is! What’s the matter with it? The water’s holding. This man is trying to show off; that’s all.”

Hooker stepped nearer, and knelt beside the cement rim. As he bent his head, some one behind him yelled. The next instant, with a roar, the whole side of the conduit crumbled away. Hooker caught himself just in time. The excited laborers were shouting like mad.

Nash was the least surprised of the crowd. He had read the signs in the peculiar ring of the concrete. He knew it was too soft to stand the tons of water; he had been helpless before the subforeman’s authority. Now, smiling a little at the scared face of Macmillan, he stood vindicated.

After the excitement had died away, Hooker looked at Nash.

“I guess you were right, after all,” he said quietly.

Macmillan recovered sufficiently to defend himself. “This isn’t the first conduit that’s bursted,” he cried. “Accidents will happen. I tell you, that cement was sound as a dollar.”

Hooker turned to face him. “I suppose, after Nash warned you, you examined the length of conduit very carefully?”

Macmillan flushed and stammered. “Well, not exactly,” he said, conscious of his predicament. “But I—knew—knew there——”

“You mean, you thought you knew—isn’t that it?” Hooker interrupted sternly. “You hated to admit your ignorance. To tell the truth, Mac, there’s been altogether too many of these tests turning failures—too much time and money wasted. The engineer in chief is complaining. I can’t be everywhere, so I trusted you. You’ve fallen down. I’m sorry, Mac, but you’d better drop over to the shack in the morning and get your money.”

The subforeman tossed his head indifferently. “Fired, eh? Well, maybe it’s for the best. When it comes to taking a white-fingered kid’s advice and ignoring mine, I give up.”

He turned on his heel and strode away.

Five minutes later Hooker and Nash were walking slowly back toward camp and headquarters. Neither had spoken for the interval. Finally Hooker said bluntly:

“Nash, you know a lot more about this business than you’re telling. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes, sir. I’m a graduate engineer—four years at college and three years of practical experience.” Nash confessed openly and frankly, now that his position was established. He had proved his worth and had reason to be proud of it. “I’ve been working in the East all the time. I was on the New York aqueduct until last September.”

“What made you leave?” the foreman asked.

Only for an instant did he hesitate. “Because I—hurt a man,” Nash said, taken somewhat aback by the unexpected question.

Hooker looked swiftly into the speaker’s eyes, and smiled—a peculiar, leering, knowing smile that brought the color to Nash’s cheeks.

“Is that so? Well, you couldn’t have picked out a better place than this. No questions asked, and none expected. Do you know, Nash, I’m liking you better and better every day. You’ll come up to expectations, all right. By the way,” he said later, “to-morrow you are to take the position of conduit foreman—Macmillan’s old job.”

TO BE CONTINUED.

USES FOR SUMMER SCHOOLS.

Little Brother—“What are these summer schools that folks talk about?”

Little Sister—“Oh, they are places where school-teachers go every vacation to study up so we won’t get ahead of zem.”

THE NEWS OF ALL NATIONS.

Future Ministers Learn How to Box.

Classes in boxing and wrestling have been introduced at Willamette University as regular required athletic sports. Willamette is a Methodist institution, in Salem, Ore., which educates young men for the ministry as one of the branches of its work. The boxing classes are conducted on the tournament plan, in order that every man may engage in at least two fistic contests.

Carrier Pigeon as a Mascot.

Dining car No. 211, attached to the Great Northern trains running between Seattle, Portland, and Spokane, has acquired a mascot in the shape of a carrier pigeon that apparently prefers the hazardous existence of a railroader to wild, free life on the wing. The pigeon was found lying half frozen near the depot, and one of the porters took the pigeon into the kitchen and fed and warmed it back to life, and the grateful bird responded to the kind treatment by refusing to leave when it had completely recovered.

For Accurate Cutting.

It is difficult to do all kinds of accurate cutting with ordinary shears. Considering the length of time shears have been in use, it seems strange that there have not been more departures from the old type. An inventor has come forward with an improvement for the cutting of patterns and similar work. These shears have a side extension, and it is claimed that they make accurate work much easier, as with them the operator is enabled to follow the markings, for the reason that he can see all around the cutting blades as they pass through the material.

Farmer Kills the Wild Boar.

The much-discussed wild boar which for a month has excited the inhabitants of the farming districts north of West Brookfield Center, Mass., is dead. Henry Bishop killed it.

Bishop was attracted by the disturbed action of his dog, and taking his gun, started for the piggery near the brook, in the rear of his farm. He suddenly saw the animal coming toward him through the swamp, and fired, the shot piercing the boar in the back, breaking his spine.

Mr. Bishop loaded his captive on a sled and brought it to the barn, where it was found to weigh only 125 pounds. The severe weather to which the animal was exposed, and the lack of food, tended to reduce its weight.

Mink Farm Latest in Fur-producing Line.

F.C. Tibbetts, of Portland, Me., proposes to breed mink for the pelt. He has studied the mink for years, has corresponded with producers of mink and purchasers of mink hides. He finds that mink fur is a very desirable sort of fur. Not only is it warm, but it is smooth and of fine texture and has remarkable heat-producing qualities.

It has also been demonstrated to him that the mink will thrive in Maine, or, at least, it should thrive there. The climate and soil conditions, he says, are just right for the mink, and the best spot in Maine is down on Deer Island, Casco Bay. It is there he proposes to establish his mink farm.

It may surprise folks to know that the mink is a highly civilized animal. In many respects he bears a marked resemblance to the human family.

Most people have a notion that the mink prefers a hole in the ground as a place of abode to anything else in the world. Perish the thought! Tibbetts says it is not so. His say-so is backed up by his investigations and years of study of the mink family.

He says that given his choice between a hole in the ground and a box filled with clean straw, the rent being the same, Mr. and Mrs. Mink will decide in favor of the box. Likewise, once having set up housekeeping in the box, the mink family will never make the error of crawling into any other box. They know their own box from the box of any other mink family. This is something worth knowing about mink.

Tibbetts has found that ranch-bred mink are the best with which to start a mink farm. He says they are hardy and reproduce rapidly. He feels that the venture will prove a success. A good mink pelt is worth from nine to thirteen dollars.

Man Selects Coffin for Himself and Wife.

“I have practically lived it through,” said former Mayor William L. Rice, of Bristol, Va., when this week he entered an undertaking establishment in Bristol and purchased two low-priced coffins—one for himself and one for his wife.

Mrs. Rice was at first opposed to the idea of having the coffins placed in the home where the aged couple reside alone, but after hearing the reasons advanced by her husband, she made no further objection, and is reconciled.

Foreman of Jeff Davis Jury.

Josiah Millard, eighty-nine years old, of Baltimore, Md., a friend of President Lincoln and foreman of the jury that convicted Jefferson Davis of treason, recently married Miss Martha E. Streeks, twenty-six years his junior. The wedding was in accordance with the deathbed wish of Millard’s first wife, who died five years ago, and who had been nursed by Miss Streeks.

Millard is a native of Massachusetts, but lived in Virginia at the outbreak of the war. His Union sympathies got him into trouble, and he was the first Union man arrested during the war.

Appointed internal-revenue assessor by Lincoln, he was removed by Johnson, but reappointed by Grant, and held office until it was abolished. He has since held Federal appointments.

Record of One Bird’s Meal.

A student at the University of Wisconsin, who is making experiments in the food consumption of birds, has under observation a little bird, known as the Virginia rail, which in the course of two days eats more than its own weight in food. Although the bird weighs only a half pound, its menu of one day recently consisted of one caterpillar, fifteen flies, one stickleback fish, 2½ inches long; two small sunfish, 1½ inches long; one water scorpion, three inches long; three water bugs, twelve meal worms, twelve grasshoppers, and fourteen amphipoda. Live hornets do not cause any irritation. It ate five of them on this same day. To the above add one crawfish, two inches long; one snake, eight inches long; and one frog, 1½ inches long.

Eugenics Law Slams Cupid.

The State board of health, of Wisconsin, in its annual report shows that since the eugenics law went into effect January 1, 1914, the number of marriages in Wisconsin dropped 3,800. In 1913 there were 21,052 marriages and in 1914 only 17,252.

There were in 1914, however, eighty-seven recorded common-law marriages, just as valid in law as the ceremony kind, but not under eugenic requirements. The State board says many persons went into some other State to be married rather than submit to the medical examination.

Electric Trap Kills Rats.

Employees of a livery barn at Greencastle, Ind., have found a new way of killing rats caught around the barn. They have arranged a trap so that it can be attached to an electrically charged wire. When the current is turned on, the rats in the trap are shocked so severely that they live only a few minutes.

Dying, He Saves Train from Wreck.

Mortally wounded by a pistol shot, Kihara, Japanese section foreman, used the last of his strength to set a torpedo on the tracks of the Salt Lake route near Milford, Utah, to save the east-bound Pacific Limited train from possible wreck.

Kihara was shot by Mexicans who composed his force. They fled, leaving the hand car on the rails. The wounded man tried in vain to remove the car alone, and then dragged himself down the track with a torpedo, which he placed to check the train. The train stopped in response to the signal and brought Kihara to Milford, where he died.

Spoils Tooth on Raw Oyster.

F.J. Ham, of New York, broke a gold tooth crown on a pearl in a raw oyster at the Royal James Inn, at South Norwalk, Conn. Mr. Ham was indignant until a jeweler told him the pearl was worth fifty dollars. He says he is willing to break some more ten-dollar gold crowns on fifty-dollar pearls.

When Noise Breaks a Window.

Noise is an irregular wave in the air—which is a real thing, and has weight and power, remember. A wave of air may break a window exactly as the wave in the sea will break a breakwater, though, as the name tells us, the breakwater will break the wave, as long as that wave is not too strong.

If you will think a minute you will see that every time a noise gets through a shut window it shakes the window. If the noise is coming in from the street, the air outside is thrown into waves which pass through it until they strike the window, and shake it; then the window shakes the air inside the room in exactly the same way as the air outside shook it, only perhaps not quite so strongly. And so the noise reaches you, just as if you had heard it outside, only not quite so loud. Well, plainly, the noise has only to be loud enough—that is to say, the waves in the air have only to be big enough—to shake the window more than it can stand, and then it breaks.

Odd Real-estate Discovery.

For over thirty years four well-known families of Appleton, Wis., have been living in homes they supposed they owned, but did not. They bought on pocket-map description instead of official map. John Freude owns the home of William Moyle, across the street from him, and Moyle owns Freude’s supposed home. The same situation is found in the cases of Peter Zonne and Edward Jennerjahn.

How Much Does Snow Weigh?

Handbooks of useful information, as they are called, do not give the weight of a cubic foot of snow, so Charles S. Evans and Leonard S. Jones, lawyers, of Edenburg, Pa., carefully measured a cubic foot of the wet snow which fell on Tuesday and found it weighed 14.58 pounds.

Wednesday and Thursday were very cold, and much of the dampness in the snow evaporated. Evans and Jones overlooked this fact when they wagered Elmer Davis and Edward O. Jones that snow weighs 14.58 pounds to the cubic foot.

When the quartet weighed a second foot of snow it was found to weigh 11.97 pounds. Then Evans and Jones entertained at dinner.

Belled Buzzard in Georgia.

That mysterious creature, “the belled buzzard,” has made its appearance in Banks County, Ga., for the first time in fifty years. Just after the war closed, a buzzard was captured near the Line Church by Reuben Jordan, and a small bell fastened around its neck. It flew straight into the air and turned southward swiftly.

A few days ago Connie N. Watts was going along the road near Hallingsworth and heard a bell tinkling in the air. He looked up and there was a buzzard right over his head. Connie believes, as do many of the older folks of the neighborhood, that it was the same belled buzzard turned loose fifty years ago.

Schoolboy Blinded by Ink.

Sitting at his desk in the Hershey, Pa., High School, Raymond Shrismer, a member of the senior class, accidentally upset his ink bottle. Some of the fluid splashed into his open eyes and he startled the school by screaming: “I am blind.”

He was rushed to a specialist, but it is feared he will never recover his eyesight. It is believed that the ink contained some powerful chemical that resulted in paralysis of the optic nerve. Teachers say that Raymond is one of the best pupils of his class.

Let Hair and Whiskers Grow.

“Let your hair grow and defy the doctors,” is the health creed of Andrew Snellgrove, aged seventy-five, of Ann Arbor, Mich., who never had a hair cut, never had a shave—and has never consulted a doctor.

Snellgrove was a circuit rider in the Middle West in the early sixties, but, despite the many hardships he endured, he was never ill. He believes he owes his health to his whiskers. “My whiskers protected my throat, just as nature intended they should do. My hair protected my neck. I never caught cold, was never sick. Why shave, anyway?”

“Wish This Done,” Signed A. Lincoln.

A letter, faded with age, bearing a single line: “Wish this done. A. Lincoln,” is one of the treasured possessions of Captain Daniel Delehanty, U.S.N., now stationed at Pelham, N.Y. And back of it is a story that is now given to the public.

In the darkest period of the Civil War, President Lincoln was bowed by trouble. He summoned Henry Ward Beecher and Archbishop John Hughes, of New York, to Washington. It looked, he told them, as if the Confederacy would be recognized by England and France. He sent Henry Ward Beecher to England and Archbishop Hughes to France to talk in the cities and towns and arouse sympathy for the cause of the North.

The archbishop was the first to return, reporting that France had small sympathy with the North, particularly among the better classes. Bad as this news was, the president was grateful to the archbishop for his report. He thanked him and added that if there was anything he could do for the archibishop personally he should be glad.

The archbishop replied that there was nothing—but just as he was about to leave, he said:

“There is a boy, the son of a dear friend of mine, who wishes to be a soldier, but he is too young. If he could go to West Point——”

When the archbishop left, it was with the assurance that the boy would be admitted.

When he returned to New York, he summoned the lad and told him that the president had offered him an appointment to West Point.

But Daniel Delehanty—for he it was—instead of being overjoyed, said: “I want to go to Annapolis.”

“But there is no help for it now; the president appointed you to West Point, and there you go,” returned the archbishop.

Finally, however, the archbishop promised that, if by the next day he still felt averse to it, he would write the president that the appointment could not be accepted. Next day the boy returned and said he couldn’t resign himself to going to West Point.

“Well, I can ask the president to change the appointment,” the archbishop said. “But if you want to go to Washington yourself, I’ll write a letter to him.”

The archbishop wrote the letter, telling the boy that in all probability he would not see the president, but to see ——, and if it was possible, he would arrange it for him.

Off started the boy. He found the man the archbishop had told him about, and told him of the letter. The man, a messenger for the president, made him wait a minute. On his return, he said he had called the president out of a cabinet meeting, and that he was waiting at the head of the stairs.

The boy mounted the stairs. In recalling the incident, Captain Delehanty says that his most vivid recollection is of a pair of slippers which the president wore, with embroidered eyes on them. They so fascinated the flustered boy that he kept his eyes on them; they looked like tiger’s eyes. He was standing speechless, his eyes glued to the slippers, when he heard the president say: “You have a letter to me from Archbishop Hughes?”

The boy held out the letter. The president read it and then asked: “You want to go to Annapolis?”

“Yes, Mr. Lincoln.”

The president placed the letter against the wall and added the line:

“I wish this done.

A. LINCOLN.”

A wild desire to tell this tall, sad-eyed man how much it meant to him raced through the boy’s head. All kinds of grateful speeches crowded his brain. But all he said was: “Mr. President, you’ll never regret what you have done this day.”

The president smiled and turned back to the door of the cabinet room, while the lad, his self-possession returned, bounded away to the navy department. Within half an hour he had his appointment to the naval academy.

Great are the Claims of “Conjure Man.”

In most of the old “before-the-war” towns of Missouri there is an ancient negro who is regarded with superstitious reverence by a good many more people than will confess it. This individual is known as the “Conjure Man,” and many of the darkies who smile when they talk about him will slip around and invoke his aid in cases of distress.

The Conjure Man always professes the deepest piety. Were he in league with evil spirits, no negro would go within a mile of him. It is only the good spirits he calls upon. In nearly every case the Conjure Man is ignorant, but wonderfully cunning. He is generally honest, however, in supposing that he has some sort of a gift that will ward off evil influences. You can find in Missouri a great many old white people who will, in a somewhat backward way, admit that they have the same sort of influence.

The Conjure Man labors to create the impression that nothing is impossible for him. He will sell, for a moderate consideration, good-luck charms to bring lovers together. He will visit a home where there has been domestic trouble for the purpose of locating and driving out evil influences. When anything goes wrong, it is always the devil sowing seeds of discord, and it is the Conjure Man’s province to find where these seeds are planted and to yank them out by the roots.

There perambulates about some northern Missouri towns a distinguished member of the profession known as “Blue Jacket.” He is nigh on to eighty, but will cheerfully admit to one hundred if pressed. You might call Blue Jacket the dean of the Conjure Men, for his years and reputed cures well entitle him to the distinction.

One evil day doubts crept into the mind of a Macon negro regarding his wife’s fidelity, and he sent an urgent message to Blue Jacket to come a-runnin’ and remove the baleful influence. Blue Jacket came promptly and after sniffing about the yard, told his client that in a board buried in the yard was an old rusty nail which kept a house vine from growing; that in order to relieve the domestic turmoil it would be necessary to find and remove that nail, and that it would cost—after a deal of calculation—twenty-nine dollars and six bits. The distressed client produced the money and Blue Jacket pulled out a bottle and attached a fishing line. Then he went about the yard, holding the thing up, and talking in a queer lingo. Presently the “diviner” began to oscillate, and Blue Jacket asked for a spade. In a few minutes he found an old board, near the wall, and, sure enough, there was a rusty nail in it, which had been touching the roots of the house vine.

It looked like a gilt-edged conjure job, and the client would have been entirely satisfied had not his wife eloped that night with the man of whom he was jealous. The prosecuting attorney was appealed to the next day for a warrant against Blue Jacket, but the officer told the troubled husband that according to his own story, Blue Jacket was only agreeing to find a board with a rusty nail in it, and he had done it.

Blue Jacket was once commissioned to find out who was stealing coal from a colored Baptist church in Macon County. Inside of twelve hours he had a confession from the janitor. It was looked upon as a most miraculous case for a while, and then somebody found how it was done. Blue Jacket went at the job in a commonsense way. He examined the church coal bin and saw steps leading from it to the janitor’s home, and alongside the footprints were small particles of coal which had sifted through the leaky bucket.

“It is a remarkable thing how strong a hold the Conjure Man has upon some of the negroes, particularly in the South,” remarked the Reverend A.F. Jenkins, who was formerly pastor of the African M.E. Church at Keota, another mining town of Macon County. “One of the most noted of whom I recall just now was known as ‘Doctor’ George Jones. He practiced all through Mississippi, Alabama, and Louisiana. A Conjure Man with a reputation gets calls from a wider territory than the most noted of physicians. And he charges just what he wants, and generally gets his money down before he turns a peg. The president is impressed with no greater dignity than the Conjure Man with a reputation. And once he turns a trick which gives him standing, it is mighty hard to discredit him.

“I was in charge of the church at Vicksburg when I first had the pleasure of meeting the renowned ‘Doctor’ Jones. He was about fifty years of age, but over one hundred in impressiveness and dignity. From somewhere he had collected a lot of big, grandly sounding words and scientific terms with which he paralyzed his more ignorant constituents, which they took for inspired utterance. I begged my people to let him alone. He sent word if I didn’t quit interfering with his business he would set the witches on me. When I heard of that threat I resolved to give him a chance. One day when some of my members were talking with me, Doctor Jones came along, walking very stately down the street.

“‘Doctor,’ said I, ‘I’ve just been telling these people you were a humbug, and that I wasn’t afraid of all the witches you could turn loose. Now, if you’ve got any about you anywhere, I wish you’d call ’em up. I won’t run.’

“The people moved about away from danger, and I could see they were shocked at my foolhardiness. But the Conjure Man was too adroit.

“‘Brother Jenkins,’ he said, in a pitying tone, ‘I have the greatest ambiguity for you—I really has. You will be given a while for acceleration, and if you don’t submit to the tergiversation of the spheroids, you will be struck dead—next year.’

“At the dreadful malediction the brothers shuddered, and looked appealingly at me. I saw they firmly believed it was directly due to Doctor Jones’ magnanimity that the witches didn’t come sailing down on their broomsticks instantly and bear me away. The incident strengthened the humbug’s influence with them.”

Obeying the Lure of Buried Treasure.

Searching for Pirate Lafitte’s buried treasure has been one of the industries of Abbeville, La., for the past twenty-five years, perhaps longer. Parties come at intervals, each claiming to have a sure “tip” as to the location, and each returns empty-handed. But others do not learn from their experience. The lure of gold does not listen to reason.

These periodical searches are based upon the existence of supposed charts—one of which was drawn by the pirate himself, and two others by one Felton, said to be his secretary. The whereabouts of the original is not known, nor is it known that there ever was one, this being only the supposition of “Joe the Cattleman.” As to the other two, they are in existence and are signed by “Felton, Secretary.”

For several weeks a party of treasure hunters have been digging and surveying on “Outer Island” in White Lake, down in Vermillion Parish, for the supposed buried treasure. The party is composed of J.F. Stratton, capitalist, and M. Pearson, civil engineer, both of Houston, Texas, and others whose names are kept in the background. The Stratton-Pearson party have what they claim is a map of White Lake, but it is worn and the lines are indistinct. They dredged on a line which was supposed to mark the channel of a creek, and there, across the channel, they found the rotted timbers of an old vessel. They reason that Lafitte buried the gold on “Outer Island,” sunk the boat across a channel to blockade searchers, and in a little boat steered his course into Southwest Pass, and thence in to the Gulf of Mexico.

This rotted hulk furnished a “clew,” and the gold could not be far off, Engineer Pearson reasoned. It must be on the near-by Outer Island. He took longitudes and latitudes from a giant oak. From the rings on its trunk he estimated it was about five hundred years old. Perhaps, he reasoned, Lafitte would select this as the best landmark. He sank steel rods into the earth to a depth of six and eight feet, but struck nothing harder than dirt. After burrowing on every side, he changed his prospecting to another large tree, two hundred feet farther inland.

Pearson cut away the grass, and his hopes were somewhat shattered when he discovered at the base of this tree the outlines of a trench. The lines were traced to a length of twelve feet, and four feet in width. He excavated to a depth of four feet, when his shovel struck a few pieces of brick. The excavation continued until the entire trench was scooped out. Nothing was found but dirt. However, Pearson still believed he was on the right trail.

He returned to his camp, and next day went to the mainland and hunted up “Joe,” a cattle driver, who had lived in that section half a century. Joe stated that about seventeen years ago, while driving his cattle in the marsh for grass, he saw where some men were digging. In about a week he returned and the hole was six feet deep, and the men were gone. He did not know who they were, nor whence they came, but thought that they were Frenchmen “from a long distance,” and that they had Lafitte’s map—one made by Lafitte himself. Whether or not they got the money, he could not say.

Acting on the theory that the inner and smaller tree was not the point designated in the map, and that, therefore, the hole in the ground at its base signified nothing—perhaps only a cattle wallow—Engineer Pearson adopted another plan.

He again returned to Houston, and sought out one “Professor” Drummitt, an “expert” in locating minerals, oil, water, et cetera.

The engineer and the professor, with renewed faith and testing apparatus, descended upon the island and began operations. The professor stated that his compass and battery could find gold at a depth of two thousand feet, even though under water. The professor’s compass is in the shape of an oblique-angled triangle, with a battery at the apex. This battery is of copper, iron, gold, or silver, according to the mineral to be searched for, and is attached to the instrument by screws. Each of the steel prongs is held in the right and left hand, at an angle of about fifty degrees. The battery is attracted by the mineral and bends toward the ground.

The professor selected a hillock a few feet from the base of the larger tree, affixed the battery for gold onto the compass, and held it aloft. Finally it began to move, and then to bend down.

“There is the gold!” exclaimed the professor. “It is six feet down. The vault is of cement. It contains gold, but I can’t say how much.”

Acting upon this scientific tip, the engineer fell to digging with his spade. The soil is soft, and it did not take long to go six feet, being encouraged by the prospect of scooping up $7,000,000. But nothing was found, except mud.

The professor explained that the failure of his instrument was owing to the presence of salt water—that gold was there. But he could not explain the absence of cement. He wanted to make further tests, but the engineer had enough, and with disgust they returned to Abbeville, and the professor left for other fields. He was paid twenty-five dollars a day and his expenses and guaranteed the payment of one million of the stuff—if found.

While in Abbeville, the noise of the operations having spread, Pearson learned that there was another map giving the location of the buried treasure. It could not be the true map, according to the statement of Joe, the cattleman. But, as his own map was at fault, and the professor’s “compass” had led him astray, Pearson thought he would take a chance at this map.

Accordingly he rounded up the man with the third map, J.A. Davidson, a butcher in Abbeville. After several heart-to-heart talks, Davidson refused to unite in a search for the treasure. Evidently he wants it all or none, and has great faith in his map.

The story of these maps is something on the line of the usual maps locating pirates’ treasure—and which do not locate. After Lafitte and his pirates bold were chased out of the Gulf by the government revenue cutters, they sailed up Southwest Pass, we are told, and finally into White Lake. They planted their ill-gotten gold on the first island in the lake, known as Outer Island. It is not known how many were on the good ship, but tradition mentions Lafitte, his secretary Felton, and two negroes. After burying the treasure, they cut the throats of the two negroes, threw their bodies into the lake, scuttled one of their vessels, and sailed away.

Lafitte went to France and reformed, and like his ancestral sea robber, Francis Drake, was given a title. Under the title of “Count Languedoc,” he married and “lived happily ever after.” The historical statement that he died in Peru, a pauper, is thus controverted.

Many years after, when very old, Felton rigged out a ship at New York and sailed for the lake down in the Acadian country in Southwest Louisiana. The lake then had no name and he designated it on his map merely as a large body of water. While en route, Felton was taken sick, yielded up the ghost, and was buried at sea. But before dying he gave his map to his faithful body servant, Jim Ambroise, an octoroon. It seems that the conscience of the old pirate smote him, for he then confided in this servant his part in the killing of the two negroes. When the ship landed at New Orleans the crew scattered. Jim finally found his way into Acadia, and found work on a plantation in what is now Iberia Parish. When Jim came to die he gave the map to his employer, Captain Magee, who lived at Opelousas. He also handed down the story of the killing of the two negroes by Lafitte and Felton. It is this map Pearson is operating with.

And now comes the story of the second map—or duplicate, or key—neither being complete without the other. In earlier days, Davidson, the butcher, was an overseer on the plantation where Jim was working. When Jim died he also gave Davidson a map, according to Davidson’s statement. Jim did not tell him of the existence of another map, nor did he tell Magee that he had given one to Davidson. Both of them went in hot pursuit of the supposed hidden treasure, each believed that the other was shadowing his tracks. On one expedition, about ten years ago, Davidson lost his map. He thinks one of the party appropriated it, and he has ever since been searching for it, so that he could renew his search for the millions. The one he now has was made from memory.

Theater Poster in Gas Main.

In the office of the Peoples Gas Light and Coke Company, of Chicago, a large theatrical poster was recently displayed. It was printed in 1884, and announced, in bold red and blue letters that “Abraham Lincoln,” the stirring war-time drama, was appearing at the Chicago Opera House, and that on the following week Chicago theatergoers were to hear Minnie Hauck and her opera company.

Officials of the gas company explain that the poster is of interest to them because it was found in a six-inch main near the site of the old Chicago Opera House.

Chicago gas had passed through the paper tube for thirty years, but the colors were not faded, and the white paper was unstained, except for several spots of iron rust from the gas main.

TOBACCO HABIT

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E.J. WOODS. 230 K. Station E. New York, N.Y.

“THE MAGAZINE WITH A PUNCH”

TIPTOP SEMI-MONTHLY

IT STANDS ALONE

If you like rattling good stories about sport, adventure, and about almost everything in this interesting world, read TIPTOP SEMI-MONTHLY. It is a magazine with a definite purpose. That purpose is to publish a semi-monthly magazine that will be read by every youth, and will be welcomed by fathers and mothers, and by sisters, too.

CLEAN—BRACING—GRIPPING

Buy TIPTOP SEMI-MONTHLY, and you will vow that you never got so much for ten cents. Why? Because it is written, edited, and published for _you_, exacting reader. And each issue will be better than the one that went before.

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Issued on the tenth and twenty-fifth of each month

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.

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.

125—The Pirate Yacht.

126—The Crime of the White Hand.

127—Found in the Jungle.

128—Six Men in a Loop. Dated February 27th, 1915.

129—The Jewels of Wat Chang. Dated March 6th, 1915.

130—The Crime in the Tower. Dated March 13th, 1915.

131—The Fatal Message. Dated March 20th, 1915.

132—Broken Bars.

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