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lewis m. grist, proprietor. | ^n Jndfjjfiulcnt <Jamilg ^Jfuispapw: rJfoi; the promotion of tin; $jolitiqaI, gonial, ^ptultuipt aiut (fommrpiat Jntcrijsfs of thi; ^oulh. | terms?$2.00 a year in advance. VOL.37. YORKYILLE, S. C., WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 35, 1891. . NO. 42. ' ' - - - *i* ? N ' , / . THE MAN W BY W. C Whose Nom (le Pin Author of "The [Copyright, 1891, by Cassell Publishing mcnt v SYNOPSIS. Chapter 1.?John Dorison, son of th head of the house of Dorison A Co., d( ceased, returns after eight years of war dering under a cloud, to the old home i New York city. The basement is used t a saloon, and "stepping in Dorison mak< a chance acquaintance with Job Netth man, who knew the Dorisons in thei best days. Chapter 2.?Nettleman leaves tb saloon and in a few moments blood i seen trickling from the coiling. The saloo keeper and his customers rush to tl front stairway to reach the floor abov< Dorison goes up the rear stairs and find a young woman weltering in blood. H also discovers a miniature portait of hi father and a familiar ring on the stanc both of which he secures.' A sera of paper lathe dead woman's hand an another on the floor are also taken and w creted. The entry of detectives and polic place him under suspicion. The roor is used as a costumer's establishment b Mme. Delamour. Chapter 3.?Dorison, using the alia James Dudley, calls on Dettleman to hel him conceal his identity. At Nettleman' office he meets Simon Cathcart, a privat detective, who engages him to assist i working up the munier case. Dorison' father died while writing the letter, whic apparently accused the son of grav crimes. The scraps found in the cos turner's room are in the handwritin of Dorison, senior, and appear to relat to the subject broached in the unfiuishe letter. Chapter 4.?Madame Delamour, th costumer, is Mrs. Farish. Cathcart got to her private house and finds that she hti been murdered in the same manner a the young woman in the costumer's shop The latter was Mrs. Farish's daughtt Annie. A mysterious young man calle on the Farish's at intervals, and on hi last visit went away angry. Cathcart find a man's glove near Mrs. Farish's body. Chapter 5.?Mystery in the Faris house. Mrs. Farish assumed mourning Annie withdrew from society and a so disappeared, all about the date of Dorison' death. The glove found near Mrs. Fai ish's body has an extraordinarily Ion thumb. Chapter6.?Cathcart starts Dorison or as a young man of fashion to discover th wearer of the glove with a long thumn. Chapters 7 and 8.?Dorison saves young lady from being run down by carriage on Broadway. She is the daugh ter of an old friend of his father, Mi Eustace. Chapter 9.?Dorison protects a woma from insult and arrest, and discovers man with a long thumb. Chapter 10.?The man with the Ion thumb is Charlie Eustace, brother of th rescu td girl. Chapter 11.?Dorison dines with youn Eustace in a restaurant, while Cathcai looks on and concludes that Eustace is th man with the long thumb. A man be lieved to be the myterious caller at th Parish's is /'shadowed" as suspect No. Chapter 12.?The new suspect is Hai ry Langdon, a dissipated young man wh has been in company with Annie Farisl CHAPTER XIII. NEW DISAAPOINTMENTS. "We have a good basis now," ex claimed Cathcart in high glee as the; walked to Fourth avenue. "We kuoi the owner of the glove, we know th walker in Union square and we knoi the caller at stated intervals. At firs I supposed the three to be one. This however, turns out not be the case But if the owner of the glove is on man, the other two prove to be th same person. The work ought to g straight now. I have something t show you." Taking from his pocket a small pack age carefully wrapped in paper he handed it to Dorison. It proved to be a lancet such as snrgeons nse, the handle of which was of tortoise shell. "Examine that carefully," he said, "burn it into your memory." Dorison did as he was bid, even carefully noting the marks cut into the steel. "Well," he said as he returned it That is what killed the two women.' Langdnn halted to say "There are tw< things to do." 'What!" cried Dorison, startled anc surprised. "I have no doubt of it. That girl wh( was with me in the park was the servan of Mrs. Farish at the time she was killed She gave me that lancet. She found il on the parlor floor under the door. Sh< did not find it urtil after the captaii and I had concluded our search of th< house, and did not produce it at the cor oneriB inquest because no one spoke ol it. Lately her conscience has troubled her about it, and when 1 hunted her nj she gave it to me." "What did vou hunt her ud for?" To see whether she could recognize in Langston the caller at stated inter vals." "Did she?' 0, -Perfectly. 1 did not even have t< direct her attention to him. As soon ae she saw him she cried out, 'That is the pa an.'" "Why do you want me to remembei the lancet?' Cathcart glanced at Dorison, whe thought he detected a fleeting expressior of surprised contempt. "Young Eustace studied surgery didn't her "Yes." "Well, I want to know if he has a case of instruments of which this lancet maj be one. Find out if you can." If the old detective saw the gesture oi disgust and impatience Dorison made he ignored it. "Now one point more," he continued "Get Eustace to talk about Langdor upon the first opportunity you have Find out what he knows about him There must be some reason for hi: haughty treatment of the fellow, want to know what it is." They hajJ reached Broadway as the; talked, and continued as far as Twenty third street. On the corner Cathcar stopped to say: "What maybe the outcome of the dis coveries of this morning it is difficult t predict. Something must come out o them. We are no longer groping in tli dark. Langdon bore some relation t theFarish family, knew something abou them, was .associated, it is fair to pre suine, with their troubles. What h does know he must reveal." "Do yon mean to take him in ham immediately?" "No; not until I know more about hi surroundings and antecedents." "Have you not already learned all yoi are likely to?" "1 think not. Who is he? He cam from Chicago three years ago. Notic this coincidence. Mr. Carman says Mrs Farish sought him in trouble and dis tress three years ago." "Yes, 1 see," said Dorison eagerly "and Miss Belknap saw this man witl the daughter since that time." "Precisely, and these stated calls onl; ITH A THUMB" . HUDSON, me is Barclay TVortlt, Diamond Button." Company ami published by special arrange- i vitli tuein.] Degan since"three years. There is another ie coincidence I want yon to note. Eight j years ago Mrs. Farish suddenly, giving no reason, dresses in mourning. Eight is years ago your father dies suddenly. ? Now another point. One of the slips of r~ paper in your possession, written by 1 your father, talks about the misdeeds of ie | a boy named Harold. This man Langis j don is called Harry by his associates. " I Do yon see where we are slowly getting L. j to? Now. suppose" a j The old man stopped short. Dorison, : c : greatly interested, looked up to see the j j8 cause. The old man's eyes were fixed j p upon an object some distance off. j d Searching about for that object, Dori >- son saw that it was a man approaching ' j? from the park who engaged the attention y of Cathcart In a moment he recognized in the per ^ sen the alert, 6harp eyea man wno nau P had the mysterious exchange with Large don near the corner of Twenty-ninth ' n street and Third avenue. ? The person approached directly on a e line with them. Cathcart, stepping i- back into the shadow of an adjoining g door, bade Dorison to stand in front and j ? conceal him as much as possible. He did so, moving slightly, so that he I e could keep himself between the old de- : ? tective aud the man until he had passed a on, going down Twenty-third street. ^ "Do you remember the story I told >r you of the mysterious exchange between d Langdon and another on Twenty-ninth j? | street?" asked Dorison, after the man had i passed by. h i "Yes, and what then?" sharply asked | Cathcart. I1 "That man was the other one." Cathcart grasped Dorison's arm with : g such a grip that the latter nearly cried out with pain. it ? w "Are you sure? Man, man, are yon Buret" a : "Sure, yes." a_ j The old man fairly dragged Dorison r~ after him as he hurriedly followed the man, who by this time had crossed Fifth 11 avenue and was apparently lost in the a : throng. g | Hurrying along they saw him stand- j e ing in front of a house, since transformed where once another celebrated ^ murder was committed. e His head was bent to the ground, and >- he appeared to be debating with hirn0 self whether he should go on or tarn r back. o Cathcart, dodging behind Dorian, , i. mattered: "He saw me and is trying to find out : if I am following him." Whether the old man was right or J I not, the man continued on his way, mov- ; * j ing aloug at a rapid gait. y "He is going to meet Langdon," said I v I Cathcart e j "Who is this man 1" asked Dorison as v : they followed him. j "His name is Pittston," replied Cath?> j cart "Some four or five years ago I >' I was on a bank robbery in Chicago. 1 e | made np my mind it had been done j e : through connivance from the inside, o | Pittston was a clerk in the bank. My 0 : suspicions fell on him. The president, i whose relative the clerk was, would not have it and was indignant at the idea, 1 for Pittston lived with him. Persisting t j in my belief, I had so many obstacles i thrown in my way that I gave up the job in disgust. They dismissed the clerk some time after. He knew all about it, for he assaulted me afterward in the ! Palmer House, charging me with attempting to ruin him. I must locate , ! him, for I have some facts that will i I make him open his mouth wide." While he rapidly told this to Dorison, i Sixth avenue had been reached, and j Pittston turned to go up it Cathcart stopped on the corner, i "You must do some shadow work | now," he said. "I am certain he is go- j j ing to that restaurant to meet Langdon. ; j You must go there ami see if be does ! I ^ i-- ? r .....? I I UUL intftfi uuu. ucaiu wuao ;uu utmu a . will wait for you at the Hoizman j House." Dorison without reply went at once to < the restaurant designated as the one ! daily visited by Langdon. Entering, he ; sat himself at a table in the middle of the room, from which point he thought > he could command a view of the room. ; It was an eating saloon of the third or ! I fourth class, though well kept and cieanJ ly. A waiter bustled up and received | | an order for a substantial breakfast. As he looked about, Dorison could see neither Langdon nor Pittston, and feared : that he had gone into the wrong place. Examination of the room, however, showed him an opening in the side wall I ) ?a passageway, making the adjoining room a part of the eating saloon. I He rose from his chair to investigate, j and walking dowu the room saw that > the cashier's desk was so placed as to ; t command both rooms. On this desk ; was a mirror tilted forward so that the j ; cashier could, with a slight turn of his , ) head, observe each of the two rooms, t Dorison also found that by taking a seat , j at a table next the opening he could see each occupant of the front part of the ! j next room. [ He therefore changed to this table and j > | immediately discovered the pair he was j I in search of. Sitting at a table situated ' relatively as the one he was seated at, j j with only the wall between the two, i Langdon and Pittston were deeply en- ; gaged in conversation. Pittston was telling a tale which evi- ; > dently gave great annoyance to bis com- ! } ! panion. > I In the meantime Dorison's breakfast j | was served and eaten. He had not { : I heard a word of the conversatio: of the i i two he had come to watch, nor did there i > 1 seem to be any likelihood that he would ! i ; be able to hear any of it. He had, how- | I ever, established two facts. Pittston , i had sought Langdon as Cathcart had | j foreseen, and confidential relations ex- j ; isted between them. Believing he could ) ! do no more, he was about to depart, j r j when the street door of the room he was ; in opened and the officer the old detect- j F ive used as a shadow entered. , j Dorison beckoned to him. ; "Do you want to see me?" he asked, as . ! the officer came to him. 1 j "The old man wants me to follow and report a man lie thinks is here with Langdon," was the whispered reply. 3 Dorison pointed to the mirror. I "Is that the man?" asked the officer. "Yes, the one talking to Langdon. i j Now get away so they will not see you talking to me." t J The officer was not a moment too 6oon j in leaving, for the pair in the other h room rose from their table and went to o the cashier's desk. f Turning indifferently as he leaned on e the desk Langdon saw Dorison and 0 started with surprise, scowling at him t meanwhile. Dorison maintained his i (- composure, conducting himself as if he e did not recognize him as the ma n he had j met that morning. 1 j Calling the waiter Dorison gave liira something more than the amount of his 3 check, and without waiting for the j change donned his topcoat and went a out, conscious that Laugdon had directed the attention of liis companion to him, | e Dorison. e As the door closed on Dorison Pittsi. : ton said: i- | "Hanged if I don't think that very man stood close to the one 1 was telling : , you of." h "Who, Cathcart?" "Yes." f "Then you were followed." "Nonsense! He was not talking to j Catkcart, only standing near him. I tell you I was not followed; I stopped to , Bee." * "What else bnt to follow you brought such a swell as that hero?a man who either breakfasts at 'Del's' or the Hoffman every morning." This had been said within the hearing of the cashier, who asked: "Talking about the man who has just gone out. Harry?' "Yes." "He changed his seat." said the cash- : ier, "from the middle of the" roomTabd ! seemed to be watching you by that mir- i ror." "The devil!" cried Pittston. "Could he do that?' "Try it!" laughed the cashier. The two quickly satisfied themselveB that, sitting where Dorison did, watch- | ing them at their table was an easy mat- ! ter. j "A curious uuiig uuruncu) v,uuuuucu . the cashier, when they returned to his 1 desk. "A man came in whom your man recognized right away, and beck- j oned to him. They whispered together, i and then your man pointed to the mir- 1 ror. The other man went out right away. ?*jjt ****" "By cried Langdon, with an 1 oath, "you were followed." "I am afraid so," replied Pittston gloomily. The two walked to the street door, j where Langdon halted to say: "There are two things to do. You must walk as straight as a die and do : no business, go nowhere you are afraid ! any one should see you, and keep away from me. That's the first thing. Next, j when you go from here, I will watch to ' see if you are followed by anybody. I 1 suspect that to be the game. If you are I will let you know. Not hearing from me means you were not followed." "Who is this fellow, anyhow," asked Pittston. "I don't know, except that his name is Dudley. He's a howling swell and goes j with the best. The first time I saw him he saved a young lady of my acquaint- i ance from being run over. She didn't know him then, but now he's as thick as peas with her brother, and he goes to the ; house often. This very morning I met , him in Madison square walking with a ' stunning looking girl. I hate him and would like to dose him, especially since 1 I find him interfering in my affairs." "Mine, I should say," said Pittston , with a laugh. "No, mine," persisted Langdon. "I don't see it. If he followed any one he followed me." "That may be," said Langdon impa- J tiently. "But it all comes back on me. I have a good reason for saying so, since ; I know he is such a great fricud of young J Eustace. That is what makes me so un- ; easy?this following of you." "I don't see the connection." "See here. Cathcart can't be following you for the Chicago affair, can he? That affair is closed up, ana you nave told me you were protected in it by your uncle for the sake of the family." "Yes; that's so." "Well, if you were not followed for that, you were for something, weren't you?" "Yes, there was some reason of course." "Now, hero it is. They're after me, and because they followed you I am afraid they have got into the business we have together and want to strike at the through that Do you tumble now?" "I see. It is serious." Pittston was thoughtful. "Drop the whole business for awhile." "By /'cried Langdon with another oath. "It's dropped for us. My man is kicking and refuses to go any further in it. I was going to put the screws on him to find out what is the meaning of his sudden independence. But this thing comes up and it won't do. I don't know but what he's been giving the Bnap away." "I thought you had him so tight that he had to do what you told him?" "So would any one think who knew what I have got on him," replied Langdon angrily. "But now he is doing the high and mighty, and swears if I push him any further he'll kick the whole bucket over and land me in jail for life, even if it rains him. tie says he u rather die than be the slave he has been to me for the last three years." "But can he?" asked Pittston. "He can, if he knows something I did some years ago. But, by heaven! I'm certain he don't?he can't. The people who knew about it are all dead. I'm playing him to know what card he's got up his sleeve. While I'm playing him we must drop the business. Give the word that way." They went into the street, Langdon remaining at the door. Pittston first walked to the corner of Twenty-third street, and turning came back and went in the direction of Twenty-fourth street. As he disappeared Langdon muttered: "The chase ended when they ran him down to me. He is not followed." At that very moment the officer was close on the heels of Pittston as he ; walked up Twenty-fourth street to j Broadway. Dorison had gone to the Hoffman ! House, where he met Cathcart, to whom I he related what had occurred. "I am more than satisfied that Pitts- ! ton recognized me." said Cathcart. ! "But that is a matter easily overcome. \ If he recognized me, he saw you. That I is not so easily overcome. Hereafter we j must not meet openly. We are getting to ' the end pretty fast." "I hope so," rejoined Dorisou doubt- ; fully, "but 1 frankly confess the end seems as far off as ever it did." "Possibly it does to you. Nevertheless ! the lines are coming together with tol- j erable rapidity. One day, when you ' least expect it, I will call upon you to ; witness the falling of the blow." CHAPTER XIV. i LOWERING SKIES. The events of the morning gave Don- | son food for thought. After Cathcart ' ? 1 J L_ - .1 11^.1 A.V. ~ uuu uepaneu 110 imwuieu iiuuuL uia : hotel as he endeavored to extract some j intelligence from these events serving j to justify the confidence displayed by ! the old detective that the end was in sight. The result was not satisfactory. Ev- ; erything was fragmentary. "Whether this is due," he said aloud, ! as he sat and pondered, "to the miserly j and fragmentary manner in which Cath- : cart deals out his information, or wheth- j er it is the exact condition of the case, 1 am utterly at a loss to determine. I know, however, it is utterly unsatisfactory, and unless something more posi- j live turns up within the next fortnight 1 will throw up my commission. So far as 1 Am uble to see, not one step has been made, nor one single fact gathered , that brings us nearer to the end, the ac- ! complishment of which is the only justification for my being involved in it at j all." He got up unci walked into tho street, j As he went up Broadway lie said: "What I will do will bo to seo Mr. j Nettleman and have a talk with him. ; That much is due him, and I have not seen him for two weeks. I'll do it this ! very afternoon. Tho life I am leading j is unbearable." Ho did not go that afternoon, however, for on reaching his rooms ho found his friend Eustace in possession, j "I have been waiting so long for you," he cried, "that I have come to believe these apartments are mine. Do you know, I like them better than my own." "Then perhaps you may obtain them," said Dorison. "Why? What does that mean?" "It means, Eustace, that you 6ee a disgusted and contemptible creature before you. I am half persuaded to cut this life and go back to Dubuque." "Something has gone wrong, ma ! chere. Tho blues, eh? I have them sometimes myself." "My trouble is far greater than the | blues," said Dorison, throwing himself at fall length upon the lounge, and looking at Eustace fixedly for some time. "I wonder, Charley," he said at length, "if there will bo u time when you will regard me with bitterness and contempt?when you will never be able to think of me without loathing and horror." "What condition of mind are you in today?" "The confessional, although I shall make no confession. Perhaps all these dark and gloomy vapors will pass away and the bright sunbeams play over us both. Whether any sunlight, however, will ever irradiate my life again I greatly doubt. Charley, my boy, I am a monomanaic. I have but one purpose in life, and" to that I am b?ding everything, sacrificing everything ? home, comfort, honor and friends. Beware of mel I am not what 1 seem on the surface. During my life I have never met any one of either 6ex to whom I have been so much attracted as I have been to you?no one of whom I have been so fond. Yet, my boy, heed me. If yon should run counter to this life purposo of mine, so comnletelv have I becomo its slave, I believe I would sacrifice you. I say again, beware of me! Hold me off at arm's length. Do not give me a single advantage. God knows that when I am in the mood I am now I pray fervently that the friendship we have formed within the past few weeks may ripen with our days, strengthen with our years, and bo still hale when our heads are gray. But I tell you, old man," and he rose froi# the lounge in his earnestness, "the day is coming when that friendship will be put to as severe a test as friendship ever was." Eustace, who had regarded Dorison seriously, said: "I think you are in a frame of mind which either is the result of a serious physical derangement, or great mental tribulation. If it is the latter, and I apprehend it is, I advise you to take immediate steps toward remedy. And in such cases I take it the best remedy is to pour out your confidences to some friend you can trust." "There are some thiugs that must be borne alone," replied Dorison with a sigh. "Mine is one. For eight years I have borne them" "And alone, nursing them," interrupted Eustace. "That is just it." "Why. I never bought an instrument, never even owned one." "Borne, they must be, alone to the end," replied Dorison. "Did you ever have a serious secret inflencing your life and nature, which you would not reveal lest it brought you the contempt and horror of your friends ? those you thought the most of/" Eustace's face flushed red. "Yes," he replied f teringly, "which if 1 thought it woulu become public I would kill myself from shame and disgrace." Dorison heard these words with his heart bounding against his ribs. "Is this tantamount to a confession?" he asked himself. Shaken and agitated he walked to the window and looked nvt. Then, turning impulsively to Eustace, he cried out: "Away with these 1 houghts! I'll have none of them. Wha brought you here to put me into this condition?" "I did not come h- re to put you into any condition, nor did I, for you were in your present mood when you entered. What 1 did come here for was to ask you what occurred between you and the pater last evening," r plied Eustace. "I think your father's treatment last night has something to do with my present frame of mind. You see," he laughed lvitroflif ??T fi,n Vimiml to nilt it. on snirto one of your family. To answer your question?I don't know. Your father was agreeable and pleasant to me as one could wish during the early part of the dinner. He has discovered in 1110 some strong resemblence to an old friend, and attempted to supply ino with a new set of relatives. The attempt involved an inquiry into my family relations. I ar; not always a muster i; my own moods, and I took the caprice to object to talking about them before strangers. Probably I was not as sensible of the honor done me by a gentleman of the distinction of your father, in manifesting an interest in my surroundings, as I Bhould have been, and gave offense by my evasion of the inquiry. If it be not that, 1 know not what it is. At all events he froze to me." "Yes, I noticed ho did," replied Eustace. "However, if that is all, the matter will be soon righted. Now my next reason for calling. I am thinking of giving a small theater party next Monday night, with a snack afterward at Del's. Will you be one?" "With pleasure." "Will you escort my sister?Evelyn, you know?" "I am honored." "And not frighten her with a gloomy iitiikm Iwir fn lmwnrh nf UULUUldb UliU ?T(UU liwt wv w you?" Dorison blushed and smiled. "I will endeavor to justify her brother's confidence." For a little while there was eilence between them, when Dorison suddenly said: "Eustace, the first night I ever saw you a man named Langdon approached you. You treated him with considerable hauteur. Who is the fellow?" Tlio young man turned a sharp, inquiring look upon Dorison; his face flushed and a vexed expression came into his eyes. "Why do you ask? Ho cannot bo a friend of yours?" "No, not even an acquaintance, hut I liavo reason for knowing more about him than i do." "The fellow was somewhat offensivo to my sister Evelyn the day you saved her from being run over, I think." "It did not appear to ino that Miss Eustace relished his .assumption of friendship." "I should think not," replied Eustace, indignantly. Ho looked out of tho window for a few moments, Dorison waiting for him to continue. After awhile he said: "I don't know much about tho fellow, Dudley. To begin at tho beginning, this is all I know: Something more than a year UjjV iu; oioiti, tuvn IIUUMI fifteen, was taken seriously ill and our regular family physician was unable to do anything for her, a fact ho acknowledged himself, and suggested the calling in of other physicians. That was done, but she continued to decline, and both mother and father were nearly frantic. When she was at her worst, and when the physicians were despairing, 6ome one called father's attention to a young physician named Fassett, who was making marvelous cures. Our own physicians, having admitted their inability to cope with the strange difficulty, could not object to his being called. He was, and declared the difficulty to bo principally a nervous one, and began a treatment diametrically opposed to that she had been under. Notwithstanding the protests of her other physicians against the treatment, sheimproved steadily. In the course of a fewuaonthsshe was completely restored to health. Of course you can understand that under the circumstances our people were grateful to Dr. Fassett, and though father 3aid that j from the first he appreciated that Dr. . Fassett was far from being a gentleman, he was loaded with attention by our people; he had saved tho pet of the ; household when she was given up to die. Then mother and Evelyn fell sick, and lmfVi hrnnrrlif frinmnVinnf.lv buvj nuw &/\svm v?. ^^uuu..j through by Dr. Fajisett, who i;i undeniably ft skillful physician, as well as a coarse, vulgar man. No one can get upon more familiar terms with a family than its physician, and one day, without asking consent or permission, he introduced into the family this fellow Lang. don?an insufferable cad?vulgar, ill | bred, dissipated B.nd coarse. Without request the fellow began to call, until finally orders were gi ven the servants to say no one was at home when he called. Father tells me he had quite a scene j with Dr. Fassett over this, and was , obliged to tell him that his position as medical adviser to the family put him (father) under na social obligations, and : that if, in adaition to the fees he ex| acted, he demanc.ed social recognition ! for all of his friends, much as it was to ! be regretted, the relations between them | must cease. | "But that did not end the persecutions, j Langdon seemed to have secret sources of information, and turned up at the theaters and other public places where our folks went, and forced himself upon them; more than tba?waylaid my sis ters on the street. This was going on ' when I returned from Europe and was ! told of it. So, the first time it occurred when I was near I took Langdon aside and forbade him to speak to my sisters or mother again, promising him a jolly good thrashing if he ever presumed to do so. Hang the cad, if he had shown fight i then, or had not subsequently attempted ' ' * 1 ' ' ' - ' ' T ; to ingratiate 111 nisei i wun mc, * numu have had some respect for hiin." , Eustace hesitated as if he had some' thing more to say, and Dorison waited for him to continue, i "Hang it all, Dudley, 1 think I'll tell ' you the whole story. I could not to one i I regarded less as a friend than I do yon. The annoying thing about it all is yet to come, and it is to a certain degree hu; miliating. The only excuse lies in the j extreme youth of my sister Dorothy, ' who ii but sixteen now. 01' course she I was grateful to Dr. Fassett, and he has I naturally obtained a considerable in; fluence over her. Sli? began first by taking up his quarrel a \iins.t the family , and espousing the can of this fellow j Langdon. I am quite certain that Fas| sett has been endeavoring to make interest with Dorothy for Langdon. At all I events I found out that Langdon was | managing to see her alone, and' she? foolish and romantic creature?begun to be interested in him. He was bent on mischief. His desire was, of course, to win and marry her, and force himself on the family. This is our secret, and the proof of my friendship for you is that I give it to you." "Thank von." said Dorison simply. "We have taken steps to prevent thit thing. Hard us it is, we have had to keep a Btrict surveillance upon Dorothy for some time now, and in the spring the family will go to Europe to escape the fellow. But this is net my way o? dealing with him or with Fassett. The latter I would deny the house, and the former I would deal with vigorously, but everything is bended to prevent a scandal. Who the fellow is, or what he is, I don't know. He has a wonderful induence over Fassett, aud, in my judgment, it is not through superior intellect or force of character, for he is in both deficient, but through the possession of some secret in Fasj.ett's life. Of course that is mere supposition, and I base it wholly on the manner in which he treats Fhssett and the hitter's subserviency, so foreign to his nature. Fassett says he has known him for years, and that he was a fellow student of his at a western medical college, where he failed to take his degree by withdrawing just before the close of hie term. I've told you all 1 know about the fellow, except that his associates here in town seem to be thoroughly disreputable." "I have no knowledge of him," said Dorison, "except that he touches an affair in which I have some interest, and was therefore desirous of knowing more ?an affair, let me say, lest I be charged with not giving confidence for confidence, which really belongs to another person, and of which I have no right to i speak without his permission. By the ! way, did not Bushnell tell me that you I were a medical student?" "Student," repeated Eustace, iti mock indignation; "behold an M. D.I Dr. Eustace, at your service?I have my de| gree. Yes, I am an Esculapian. I de; voted myself to the surgical branch, but I have never practiced. Long before I | attained my degree I abandoned all idea ! of it. I threw my parchment aside with | my books?never assumed my title, j Why, I never bought an instrument, : never even owned one." He had answered the very question i Dorison was leading up to before it was j asked. | Shortly after he went away, and Dori| son, reclining in his easy armchair, I picked up a book and fell asleep over it. CHAPTER XV. STEPS FORWARD. -PS" | "/rctjrct,mld Cnthrart, rouslm/np, "(hut this misti>nh:rst<tn<Hn{] has arisen." In no better frame of mind Dorison j awoke. Yet he remembered the old dei tective's instructions to report as soon as he had anything to tell. So ho set out j and in time found Cathcart in his rooms j in Bond street, busy with papers ho had I pushed aside to listen to his visitor. Wlimi flio u*:is finished the old inun made no comment, but paced up and down his room with his hands in his i vest pockets. "My belief is that 1 could have yesterday brought the murder question to an issue, were it not for the fact that your ! matter is not advanced to the stage I de: sired. 1 believe the germs of that unfinished letter and the murders are to be ! found in the one condition of affairs. "I have done little in the murder case I but direct your movements. You have put into my hands the material by which I I am certain that within the next twentyfours hours I could put into custody the 1 murderer were I to devote myself to the effort. For the past two months 1 have ! labored hard, as hard as I ever did in any two months of inv life, and"?he paused to give effect to his words?"nine tenths of that time has been devoted to your affair. You think no fact has been gained, 1 presume. I know more at this i moment of your fat lie/s life and business ! than you ever did. 1 have made the ! friendship of your father's executor. I j have won him as your friend, instead of your enemy, as he has been for eight j years. 1 have persuaded him to go to I work with a belief in your innocence. I He is a conscientious man and is cnthu | eiastic in his effort to repair the wrong he has ilone you. "I have examined the old books of the > firm of which your father was so long the head, and have run down every item of personal expenditure 1 suspected , might possibly have a bearing on your , affair. I have tamed over every 6crap 1 of paper in the possession of your fa- j ther's executor, and 1 have conversed . with nearly every man yet alive with whom your father did business. I have ( found, and to a great extent know, the ( cause of the dissipation of your father's j great property. The work is not completed. When you came in I was examining reports the mail brought me. which advance mo another long step on 1 the way. And this moment I can ue- j count for nearly every cent, except one block of ono hundred and fifty thousand dollars. This money was not lost in 1 speculations or bad investments. It was actually spent, deliberately expended in 1 pursuance of a deliberate intention, after having been raised by hypothecation of ] stock and securities. What was that 1 purpose or intention? And why so de- 1 liberate!}' and persistently pursued? 1 J have only within the hour gotten to a 1 j point where 1 could .pursue that part of t] J the inquiry with any degree of intelli- 1 gent effort or with Hope or aucceas. "1 never was engaged in a case where the lines cross each other in so confusing a manner, nor did I ever have two cases I was working together wherein the per sous in each case have such strange relations to each other without bringing the critical point of each case together. Here is an instance. We have young j Eustace under suspicion of being in ! some way connected with that murder. ; 1 believe your father, dead as he is, is in some way counected with it. I have reason to believe that the older Eustace was at one period of his life intimately connected with your father's affairs; I am certain the elder Eustace in no way touches the Fairish murder. You perceive how necessary it is to maintain a clear head and move slowly in this almost inextricable tangle of the two cases. Here are my instructions for your movements: I want you to engage the j elder Eustace in a conversation as to your father. The way is open. You ; told me he had discovered a great resemblance between your father and yourself. "A coolness has sprung up between ! the elder Eustace and myself,'" said j Dorison. "Indeed?how?" 'Over that very resemblance." The old man evinced increased interest, and demanded to know everything, the very smallest point. Thus urgfcd, Dorison gave him a minute and careful history of the incident. When the recital was finished the old detective thrust his hands into his vest l>oekets. and dropping his chin upon his breast closed his eyes in thought for a long time. When he spoke it was rather as if he were thinking aloud than addressing Dorison. "When Eustace was comparatively a young man," he said, "lie endangered his fortune by extravagance and bad management. Your miner came 10 ms aid. took charge of his estate, gave him financial aid, lent him the great power of his credit, and having straightened out his affairs obtained a diplomatic appointment abroad for him, so that the ravages in his fortuue might be repaired; in other words, saved him from ruin. In return, Eustace did some great service for Dorison. What its nature was 1 cannot determine. Nor will Eustace tell as intimate a friend as he has. Perhaps he may think idle curiosity prompted the question?that he would tell if sufficient teasons were given him. At all events the career Dorison set him on has resulted in his living abroad many more years than here since that time. Can it be?can that be the line to follow? If it should be that, that?but no, he was abroad when Dorison died?had been for several years. But would that have been any reason why it should not be so?'' He relapsed again into a brown study, from which Dorison waited for him to emerge, confused and perplexed by the maze in which he fouud himself, and unable to perceive even a glimmer of light. "I regret," said Cathcart, rousing up, "that this misunderstanding has arisen. It would have been avoided if you had followed rny instructions obediently. You did not play the part you yourself deliberately chose, before you came into contact. If you nssume a role you must play the whole of it, or necessarily fail. Yon choose to pretend to be 6ome one else, yet the first time you are seriously | questioned you refuse to carry out your i assumption. That was foolish. Your | lie would not have been any greater in j denying your paternity in words than it J was when you permitted yourself to be j introduced under a name intended to de! ny that paternity. How can you repair I fTavo von nnnrrpled with Ituo ^ ? young Eustace?" j "No," replied Dorison. "He asked me this afternoon to a theater party next Monday and to escort his sister." "Uin. This is,Thursday. Well, seek . an interview with the elder Eustace as soon as you can to repair the blunder." to uk continued next week. How a Coat of Tar Feels.?People who read of tarring and feathering know that the punishment is a very unpleasant one, but few I imagine how terribly painful and j dangerous it is. In Wyoming I once ! saw a man who had been tarred and ; feathered, and although he fully deI served the discipline, I could not help pitying him. Hardened tar is very j hard to remove from the skin, and j when feathers are added it forms a I kind of cement which sticketh closer ; than a brother. As soon as the tar I sets, the victim's suffering begins. It I contracts as it cools, and every one of the little veins on the body is pulled, causing the most exquisite agony, the perspiration is entirely stopped, and unless the tar is removed death is I certain to ensue. But the removal is no easy task and requires several days. The tar cannot lie softened by the application of heat, | and must be peeled off bit by bit, sweet oil being used to make the opcr1 ation less painful. The irritation to ! the skin is very great, as the hairs canl not be disengaged, but must be pulled , or cut of!'. No man can be cleaned of J tar in a single day, as the pain of the | operation is too excruciating for endurj anec, and until this is done he has to suffer from a pain like that of 10,()()() ! pin pricks. Numbers of men have i died under the torture, and none who | ; have gone through it regard tar and feathering as anything but a most fear- i ful infliction.? Interview in St. Louis I Globe Democrat. How Skim'KNTs Movk.?King Solo- j 111011 acknowledged that there were I "three things which arc too wonderful ; for me?yea, four, which I know not," and one of these was ''the way of a serpen': upon a rock." For hundreds of i years after the time of Solomon the snake's mode of progression remained j a mystery. Latter-day men of science have learned that his snakesbip's ribs furnish him with a means of progres- J sioit. So, instead of having a pair or | two pairs of "feet," they really have ! from lot) to -00 pairs. Aristotle | thought that serpents hail as many rihs 1 as there are days in a month, hut had he examined a python, he would have detected his mistake, that species having 4(H). Snakes move in this way : Kach vertebra supports a pair of rihs, i which act like apairoflegs,theextrem- i ities hein?j connected hy a hroad plate. I The hind part of this plate isfrec, and when the rihs are moved forward that ; end is raised, so that it takes hold of i the surface underneath, even though j it he glass, the straightening of the j j reptile propelling it forward. piswUmtrntis fading. I - la HOW OUR PAPER MONEY IS MADE. Did you ever think, when you took a one dollar bill, a hill of any denomi- n< nation in your hand, what it really was, how it was made, and what became of it after it was worn out? Very few a people ever do think about these' things P1 in connection with money. Our chief f13 thoughts in connection with money arc how to get it, sometimes how to m keep it, but chiefly what it will buy. ^ That the making of the pretty, new, ^ srispy bill should give employment to P1 many people many of us do not know. And yet, if we stop to think, we know ^ that paper money does not grow on hi trees, nor is it dug from the grouud, so ej it must be made, and the government has the undisputed monopoly of ?1 its manufacture. ~ Ic All the paper money, bonds, stamps, J1' revenue stamps, and gold certificated *8 are made in the Bureau of Engraving w and Printing in the city of Washington, V( the seat of the United States govern- 8< rncnt. The building, standing in a "i park, is of a plain, but dignified style ^ of architecture. The~ffrststep in the 0: manufacture of paper money is the en- 01 graving of the design, which is drawn by experts and submitted to the authorities for approval. When approved '] the engravers take up their work, 81 which is the engraving of the design ^ on a soft steel plate. Each designer P does a particular part of the plate; no one man does a whole plate. This ^ system is followed to prevent counter- 8 feitiug, and also because different parts 11 of the design require different kinds of ^ work. After the several parts of the e' design have been executed on the soft a, steel plate, the parts are put together ^ and hardened. 1 The printing now begins. The pa- Cl per for the money is made of special ^ quality, having a silk thread in it, and c'} the contract is awarded to one firm. a It comes in sheets of a specified size ei for the different uses to which it will P be put. For the paper money that we are most familiar with, it comes in sheets that will make four bills, leaving a margin which is cut off later, a The backs of the bills arc printed first, tl the green ink giving them a familiar tl appearance at once. A notch or mark n is put at the top and bottom of the fi sheet, and when the face is printed these marks are carefully fitted over a marks in the face-plate, so that the fi lines are perfectly exact. The greatest n care is necessary to accomplish this, as b all sheets that are not perfectly adjust- h ed are rejected as imperfect, and k thrown aside to be destroyed. ?In the t< manufacture of stamps and bonds the v same exactness is necessary, as all im- si perfect work is rejected. A very fine c: grade of engraving is done by the gov- v ernment, and prizes have been award- n ed to the government for its superior work when it has entered into compe- 1< tition in this line with other engravers ft and other nations. All the money is tl counted and packed in numbered pack- o ages. But it is not money while in this e building ; it would not, even a great tl package of it, buy one stick of candy, p It is not money until it bears on its face y the seal of Hie treasury. The engrav- t< ed notes or paper are carried to the h treasury building, and there each sheet n is placed on a press and a brown seal t1 stamped to the right of the centre. It c is money now, but it is not completed, ii It is given in bundles into tho hands of ii a number of women, who count it while k still in sheets, and mark the amounts h on wrappers. It is then given to those tl who run the cutting machines, and the e bills are cut apart, the margins cut off, n and the bill is ready for circulation, p It is again counted, and carried at last tl to a corner where a man gives the final counting, and puts the bills in pack- y ages of varying amounts. I saw "Five E Thousand Dollars" printed on most of a: the packages. The ends of the papers tl are sealed with great seals, and the tl money is then for sale, ready to pass ci into the hands of the people to become tl a great commodity by itself, and the ti purchasing medium of civilization. d Down in the vaults of the treasury d building is the coin that is held for se- u curity for this money ; for you know ft that every paper dollar is only a n promise to pay. If you should demand a silver dollar from the government tl for the paper dollar you hold, the gov- a: ernment has that dollar in bright, new silver, to redeem its promise to pay. y Deposited in the silver vaults are over h $91,000,000 of new silver, and you d will see by the following table that ri that does not begin to represent the o money deposited in the United States treasury : fi NUMBER. AMOUNT. DESCRIPTION. 1) , J SS),075,000 Standard Silver Dollar*, a I 1,205,000 Fractional Silver. ? ( 59,500,000 Standard Silver Dollars, tl \ 120,000,000 (Sold Coin. 11 :t 3,000,000 National Hank Notes re ceived for redemption. 11 4 500,000 Mixed moneys received ei dally for redemption, a 2,000,000 Mixed moneys for dally a use. a 0 220,000,000 Ilonds held as security t for National Hank clr- 11 culation, etc. O 7 290,000,000 Held as a reserve to re- . place worn and muti- 1 lilted notes untlt for c circulation. Total $091,370,000 b You will see by this what an enor- n mous banking business the government r does. Immense sums arc deposited to meet the demands of business. e Somel imes you will see paper money a very worn and very dirty. There is h no need of this money being kept in g circulation, and the government would o c-- 1 fnv rn. ll mucn preier nuviu^ 11/ aiumtu .v. demption. The money that it repre- n sents is in the vaults, and the govern- g ment will gladly issue a new promise Jo pay when the old is returned. 11 if a hill is partly burned, or money is mutilated by rats or mice, the pieces a can be returned to the treasury depart- y ment and a new bill will be given in t its place. ? What becomes of the old money? 1 It is destroyed as money. The old fi bills arc assorted as to denominations, s counted and arranged in packages of f varying amounts by women who are f noted for their accuracy and delicacy of touch; it is said that they almost t never make mistakes in counting, and r that they can detect counterfeit money ii as soon as they touch it. When the L old money is arranged in packages g it is fastened with a tightly fitting e band of paper and then taken to a u machine where four holes are punched a through each package. They are y then carried to a cutting machine, r which cuts each package in half. The a two part arc carried to two dill'erent f departments of the treasury ami each li part counted again. The packages are then brought back and fitted to each g other to insure that no part is missing, y Kaeh day this partially destroyed ii money is carried to the macerating fi machine at one o'clock, heavy pad- v locks arc unlocked and the doors in ji the top of the machine opened by the d representatives of the secretary of the u treasury and the comptroller, and the s mutilated money put in. Heavy n streams of water are turned on it. and v by the action oi tne water aim machine it becomes :i pulp, and the next a day, in the presence of the same repre- h sentatives, it is removed from the e machine, a liipiid of about the consis- p tency of paint. This pulp is sold by h the government at .54b per ton, and is g used in the manufacture of paper and c pasteboard. Somebody lias had the v cleverness to have souvenirs made of o this pulp. I have on my table as I y write a pitcher less than four inches i( high that hears a guarantee that reads v as follows: ''Made of United States a National bank notes, redeemed and h macerated at the United States treas- y ury department; estimated 510,000." h his in bulk is very much less than le money would be unless in the rgest denomination printed. Not only does the United States ensury hold the security for the bank otes it issues, but it holds the security r National banks. These security >nds are held in great vaults. When National bank issues a promise to vy it must deposit with the governent in bonds the value of that prome. You will notice that the governent holds $220,000,000 in bonds as icurity for the National banks, and a Ice amount to redeem our promises to WMost of the work in the Bureau of rinting and Engraving is done behind igh iron gratings; the unfinished work ich night is deposited in vaults the Dors of which, when closed, will not pen to any key; they are called time icks, and are set to open at a certain our; one door weighs over six tons, closed by the help of machinery orked by hand ; this door closes the ault in which the deposit of silver is :en behind gratings. The silver is in ags, and two bags are in each box. .11 inat tne visitor sees is me ouisiue 1 f these btoffcs and a few bags that are ' a the floor. This enormous door is ] ehiad a time-lock. The vaults of the ' easury have walls that are six feet 1 lick, and some of the vaults are in- ! de of these walls, and have a passage-ay between their own walls and the rotecting walls, or outside walls. Every part of the work is done un- ] er a system that aims to protect the 1 overnment, and those who know say i . is impossible to take money from the < uilding.' An engraver who had work- ] i for the government for years made 1 plate with which he executed a 1 fnited States five thousand dollar bond. < 'he excellence of the plate was the < ause of its discovery. The bonds to le amount of $250,000 were put in irculation; the fine work attracted i ttention ; the man who executed the graving was caught, with his accomlices.?Christian at Work. 1 PLAIN TRUTHS TO YOUNG MEN. j Why is it that so many young people re ashamed to have it thought that ' tiey have io money ? or why is it that aey are ashamed of economy in the ! lanagement of slender means and of 1 -ugality of living? There is no disgrace in being an 1 corn before an oak. Young people equently wish that they were grown len; but they were not ashamed of ] eiug young! No one is ashamed to ; ave it discovered that his strength, nowledge and skill are proportioned ! d his vears. But the same persous ' rill blush, and suffer shame, at being 1 apposed not to have money, under ircumstances which all the sensible ! rorld knows that they ought to have one. A young man has been sent to coljge_by the rigorous economy of his 1 itner and mother, and it is only by ! lie hardest industry and closest econmy they can sustain him there. Ev- i ry single dime is important. And yet lis student is ashamed not to bear his art in social expenses which go be- J ond his means. He is utterly unable 5 say: "I cannot afTord it!" It is ! arder to say it, because in a commu- ' ity of several hundred young men, 1 ivo-thirds of whom are poor and the 1 hildren of poor men, there is a lurkig shame of poverty which radiates 1 lto public sentiment and reflects a ind of disrepute upon those who bolder say: "I must deny myself beyond lie barest necessities of life of whatver costs money." This is an unforate characteristic of poor young men ; overty causes enough trouble without le addition of foolish sentiments. Who expects the general run of oung men to have money to spare ? >oes not the world know that they ( re but starting in life?that as yet ley have earned nothing, and that ley inherit no fortune?that they re?ive but a small stipend?and that, if ley would be honest, they must pracce a rigorous economy ? Why then o they engage in pleasures which ruin their pockets dry, and lay them nder temptation to dishonesty, for , sar people will think think they have o money ? j Of course, folks will think so! And lev will think so just as much as you re inveigled into unwise expenditures hich you cannot afford. A poor , oung man ought to be poor until he as broken the spell of poverty by illustrious enterprise; and he should ither glory in it than be ashamed f it. It is necessary that you should be ugal; it is necessary that you should e honest; but it is not necessary to ttempt to walk in circles of society iat will swallow up the pitiful penies of poverty like a quicksaud, and lvolve you in temptations to dishonsty. It is a good reason for not joining club, an excursion, a riding party, or n extravagant ball, that "you cannot onestly raise the money." Who ught to holdup his head the highest, he young man who quietly says : "I annot yet indulge in such expenses," r lie wno is asnameu 01 nis poveryi, ut is not ashamed to steal the loney on which he makes a false apearance? The essential spirit of thrift and conomy, the most rigid self-denial, is thousand times nobler than that freeanded squandering of money which ;ives a spurious reputation for genersity to people who are 011 the road to ankruptcy, and who have long spent loney not their own with a special racefulncss.?New York Ledger. KIN'T BE IN A HURKY TO LEAVE HOME. ! Young man, don't be in a too great , hurry to leave the parental roof. If ou have a good home, and have duies you can perform there to help 1 long your parents, stay right there, ienieniber you will never in the world j ind another place like home. You | ay you want to get out and "hustle" or yourself, that you are tired of situ- j >le home life?it is monotonous to you j -you want to see, learn and experience ! he ways of the world. It is but natu al for you to have these desires and inpulses if you are a vigorous and am- j litious youth ; lint I say don't he in too ; ;reat a hurry to jump into your own j anoe and paddle out into the teiupestious sea of life for yourself. This is 1 11 awful sinful and wicked world and | 011 will find many whirpools, many { ..m.iiiv wtm-iim and innnv dark ml starless nights as you pull your rail craft along the trackless sea of ife before you. If you are not composed of mighty j ;ood metal, the first thing you know <?u will he iloumlcring in some sinkole of despair, bewailing your early iillies?jterhaps you will be overcome nth the evil inllueiiecs of had society, icrhaps that demon of demons, strong rink, will have such a powerful grip pun you that your brain will become j o poisoned and mad thai you will be lade a forger, a thief or perhaps the fielder of an assassin's weapon. (Jo slow young man?don't lie in hurry to leave the haunts of your oyliood?he a hoy just as long as you an. Your boyhood days are the hapicst of all your life?one year of the right boyhood of the morn of life, j ilded with the roseate hues of joy and j ontentment, is worth ten years life , .'hen the sun is going toward the sea ! f death. Linger around the llowers : our mother planted in the garden as j ing as you can. Breathe the air that J fhispers through the vines that twine J bout your chamber window just as ! jng as you can. Every minute ; oil are under the good inlluenccs of i oine you become stronger and better. | stay at home always, 11 you cau ulu in honorable purpose in life to pursue ;here. Everybody will know you there, ;verybody will respect you and you will do better there than anywhere ;lsc. Perhaps you think this is strange addee from one who has been from home 'or years, and has seen and experienced nugh of the rough side of life, but such sersons are the ones who know. When )ne drift*, out into the world and away "rom home and friends, things take on i very different hue, and the young nan confronted, you might say by a lew world, inhabited by new people, is /erv apt to change too, and if he is not >f a pretty strong character, he is liaile to go to hades at a Maud S. gait. Stay at home as long as you can, foung man, and when'you start out to ight the battle of life, marry some good tvoman, seek a good location, settle lown and have a home of your own. Never start out to drift recklessly ibout the world, with no objebt in view md no purpose to achieve, for there ire enough vagabonds, tramps, and criminals in the world now. If you TK,i Gun man'a fldvlm VOI1 Will .aivu xu<>; k/uu UIHU M WV. ? ?- ^ ? ? stay at borne, at least- until you are married, and start out with a purpose in life?you will always have a home ' then and always be a man.?San Diego Bun. _ S0N6 OF.THE SHIRT. A New York Mail and Express re- / porter was standing in front of the 'gents'" furnishing goods department n a big East side dry goods store the 3ther day, when a lady entered, and pointing at a big pile of shirts which were spread out on the counter, with the prices marked on them in figures is long as your arm, inquired of the ilerk: "How much ?" "Thirty-nine cents each, madam," replied that functionary. "Three for $1, of course." "No, madam, we couldn't really afford it." And she picked up one of the garments and proceeded to test its quality by pulling with might and main at its weakest point. Failing in this laudable purpose, she threw it back on the :ounter, and with a look of disgust on ber face, bounced out of the store. "Usual thing, I suppose?" queried the reporter. "Oh, that's tame," he replied. "I was surprised that she did not report me to the manager. Now, just look bere a minute," he continued; "that woman can't afford to spend her time 3ewing that shi rt together, to say nothing of the material and cutting, for three times the amount we ask for it. Do you know how many stitches the seamstress had to put in that shirt to withst and the kind of usage it has just been put to ? - W|ll, just 21,000. "There are four rows of stitching in the collar, 3,200 stitches; cross ends of the collar, 550; button and buttonhole, 150; gathering the neck and sewing on the collar, 1,205; stitching wristbands, 1,428; ends of the same, 68; button-holer ;n wristbands, 148 ; hemming slits, 264 ; gathering the sleeves, 840 ; setting on wrist-bands, 1,468; 3titching on shoulder-straps, 1,880; hemming the bosom, 303; sewing in sleeves and making gussets, 3,050; cording the bosom, 1,104; 'tapping' the sleeves, 1,526; sewing up all other seams and setting the side gussets, 1,272 . This represents the amount of labor that must be put into a shirt, and explains how the home-made article has gone out of fashion." SECRET8 OF HAPPY WEDLOCK.? Respect each others individuality. Do not trv to mold the other's ideas, or principles or manners to the pattern of your own. Seek to influence each other only by the power of higher example. By your worthiness and culture make the other proud of you, and do not feel that marriage gives you any right to demand, to dictate or criticise. Maintain and allow the same freedom that exists between good and pure friends. Never ask personal questions nor seek explanations, for you are not a hundredth part as responsible for each other as you are apt to imagine. Let your love be founded in admiration and friendship. Strive to correct your own faults and 3tudy to make the other happy, and be exceedingly careful that you never reverse this rule. Keep your most kind and gentle manner for the home. Never refer to a mistake that was made with good intentions. When a wrong is pardoned bury it in oblivion. Consider the other's honor your own, and shield each others' weakness with sacred jealousy. Remember that ill-temper nearly al ways comes to disappointment or overwork or physical suffering. Treat each other as courteously in private as you treat your friends in the drawing room. Be rivals in generosity and let misunderstandings die for want of words. Share the joys and sorrows of life, its toils and profits as equal partners should. Whar Dem Hens??Among the passengers on the northbound Richmond and Danville Air Line train a few nights ago, was an old darkey named Dangerfield Hampton, on his way to the Old Dominion, after an absence of about filly years. When he was sixteen years of age he was brought to Georgia by Edward Locket, a negro trader from Richmond, and was sold to Mr. Wise Cousin, who lived near Madison, Ga., for $350. Hampton was a native of King and Queen county, where he left some relatives, whom he now desired to see. His Georgia master owned about 200 darkeys, and made from 1G0 to 200 bales of cotton. The Georgia railroad had just been completed to Madison when Uncle "Hamp" landed at Madison. After the war was over and he found himself free, he went to work in earnest and made money right along. He now owns 300 acres of land and made thirty-four bales of cotton last year. The old man was on his way to the scene of his childhood. He spoke of having lost $1,100 by the failure of a banking institution some time ago. The old man said, in a lauglung way, that he left eight liens and a rooster in Virginia when he left there, and that he was going there to look after them. He thought that he ought to haven good price for the chickens, and interest 011 the amounts from the time he left until now, which he thinks would lie (plite a nice sum.?Richmond State. Tmk (Jamw.inu Spirit.?Humbling is said to be on the increase. There lias always been a disposition on the part of mankind to rebel against the decree, 4*Hy the sweat of thy brow shall thou cat bread." All manner of devices have been invented for obtaining something for nothing, and the disposition to gamble in some way or q other seems to be growing into some kind of mania. Nor is it confined to men. Kven ladies from the highest circles of society can hardly resist the temptation to bet at this and that and to invest in gambling stocks. But after all, perhaps, people arc no worse in this respect than they have always been. The same disposition prevailed away back in the past. Jacob beat his brother out of his birthright and - A <1 tt'Smiitinr irotnn nQ aucrwarus |?ui^ i-ti ?v nuiiiin^ ^u...v ~ herdsman for his father-in-law and almost broke the old man up.?Pittsburg (ia/ette.