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^ ^ ISSUED SBMI-WSXKL^ l. m. grist's sons, publisher.. } % Ifamitj Jffetrspaper: |for *M f romotion of the political, Social, ^grienttural and Commercial Interests of the ?eogle. {TEISSrVmE iENT?VA!<Cfc established 1855. "" ; YORKViLL^S.^.7TIJESL>AAY12"l90a ISTO. 38. , ?M?t. m ?? | 01 By CLARENCE n!Un<niwwwiftiwiwwiww?i| CHAPTER XXVI. Picked Up?In London. As soon as Lurline Bannottie was safely at sea she transferred the money and diamonds from Mr. Lyman's valise to her own. She knew the possession of that old valise was only a little thing?an unimportant thing?but she knew that little things were sometimes liable to develop and grow into great ones. She did not mean to let this relic of Samuel Lyman's life be fraught with danger to hers. When the valise was empty, she filled It again. She put in various articles which were almost valueless, and very heavy. She cut small holes In the sides of the valise, so that the water might enter freely: she was careful that the holes should he so small that the articles used to weight it could not es cape through them: she was not going to run the risk of having that valise found floating anywhere on the broad Atlantic. Think how strongly she built for safety: think of the walls of caution and cunning she erected against danger and suspicion: that of her art and her skill! Wonderful! Wonderful! And yet?think of the trivial chances against which she provided: Suppose Lyman's valise found and identified, who could say that she had ever had it in her possession? Suppose it proved that she had had it in her possession. who could guess that it haa contained the money from the Boomville Bank, or that her ownership of it began in force, and on the night when Samuel Lyman walked the fiery path of torture to the debris-heaped fields of oblivion? Suppose the valise picked up at all. who would be likely to have any curiosity regarding its owner? Who would be likely to think of it as belonging to some one who had met his death by the power of fire in" * "1 n'o far9 Tn steaci 01 Dy me niiBiii. ui whom would the knowledge that it had been the property of Samuel Lyman Kive any further doubts or wonderings? Suppose the valise left to float on the waves of the sea, how many chances in a million were there that it would ever be seen again by any human eye? How many in a billion that any human hand would ever touch it? The eye of God would watch it: the Hand in whose hollow are all the waters of all the seas would hold it. Would not that be all? But Lurllne Bannottie was careful, very careful. She brought the weighted and perforated valise up on deck, one night, concealed under the thick folds of her heavy shawl. She waited until no eye saw her. except the All-seeing Eye which never sleeps. She cast the valise overboard, and the waves seemed to reach up for it, as though anxious to drag it down into the depths of the sea. and eager to conceal her secret from the handsome woman who learned over the vessel's side and looked down at them. Well, Lurline Bannottie. you have done well! The crime against Samuel Lyman's life and against Elsie Senn's property shall never come home to you. But?you must not forget that there are other things, other serious things, against the penalties for which, even from a human standpoint, you have not so cleverly provided. You must not forget that she who tells another her wishes and her deeds?tells the world. You must not forget that she who writes down what she has done? proclaims it as though from the housetops. And?you must not forget that beyond human laws, human acuteness, and human justice?there is God! Miss Bannottie's journey was a pleasant one. She arrived in London safelv. found ways in which to dispose of the diamonds?and without amusing suspicion on the part of the gentlemen who had her London business in their charge, and invested the money she had brought from New York, as well as that received for the diamonds and for some bonds and other securities which she dared sell. As for the rest of the securities which Mr. Lyman had stolen from the great safe in the Roomville Rank, and which she had stolen from him?the securities which could not be safely offered for sale?she burned them. No matter to her if they were of no use to her; no matter if they represented fortunes to those to whom they belonged: no matter if the return of them would have been easy?and not very unsafe; no matter. She would not trouble herself to do even a partial charitable justice. She burned them. Miss Lurline Runnottie was now rich. She had told those who cared for her interests in London (for a li beral compensation, of course) that a friend?a distant relative, I believe she said?had died in the United States. She showed her cautious ingenuity by giving him a name which was new to them: as new to them as to herself: and she located him and his business in a thriving city which isn't down on the maps, and for the name and some account of which you would look vainly in any gazetteer with which I am acquainted. In her story for Mrs. Senn ?for- Miss Rannottie intended to take no risks by having to invent her explanations on the spur of the moment ? her recently deceased friend had lived in some unheard-of place in Scotland. Miss Rannottie was rich: she had over a million of dollars invested in London. She and Mrs. Senn, nee Miss Elsie Rarron. had been such firm friends for so many long years, that it was fortunate?though, perhaps, no more fortunate than strange?that she had become rich enough for both (as the other's father, and, later, herself, had been rich enough for both), at just this time. For, long before Lurline Rannottie reached London on her return journey from America, the cable had dashed the news of the burning of Rarron's Rooinville Rank to rhe shores of the Old World. It had been the hard task of Walter Aldrich. in the absence of the deud-and-gone Lyman, to send the terrible story of her in.tihiHAMiiuaM.iii.iMim miimiiMi t . BOUTELLE. wmwifiwuwwfwm m m m HI i misfortune to his lost love?the story that she was a beggar! A beggar, did I say? Worse than that! The story that besides her own losses there was more than a halfmillion of money for which she was morally?at least?held, and toward which she would not have a penny to offer in payment. Fortunate, wasn't it, that Miss Bannottie had inherited, at this crisis in J o cnm me lire mm neeun <>i mnu, u ....... of money that would enable her to offer her old friend the means to be generously just, and still leave luxury and ease for both? Fortunate? Bah! Miss Bannottie had been in London a week. Her business was all done. Her money was all securely invested, and in such a way as to give her a very large income. She was very well satisfied with herself and with the world. She even felt thankful?thankful for dangers passed and benefits bestowed, though, as I do not believe in the idea of a personal Devil, I don't exactly understand to whom her emotions of thankfulness went out: bad as she was. I scarcely think she would have dared rise to the height of blasphemy it would have been for her to have taken "Thank God" upon her lips. In London a week. And tomorrow Miss Bannottie was going to leave for Naples. She was slowly walking home?that Is. to the hotel she called home? through the gloom of an early evening in London, with the atmosphere growing more and more full of fog. She did not mind the darkness?she was used to that, you know; she did not care for drifting mist and floating fog; she was quite sufficient unto herself, this quiet and self-possessed young woman of the world, and as much at home in London as in Naples; as much at home in the streets as she would have been in a palace; as much at home in the night of the world's metropolis as she had been in?(but, on the whole, and in the interests of exact truth and perfect accuracy, perhaps I had better say almost as much at home, and almost as thoroughly In her element)?as she had been in Barron's Boomville Bank, the last time she honored it by a visit. She came to a place where she wished to cross the street?one of those streets where the traffic of morning begins before that of evening ends, and where commerce-never rests nor slumbers. There was no policeman at hand to assist her; she had no gentleman friend to whom to appeal for protection; and she felt no need of either. She stepped off into the whirling vortex of trade, into the crush of hurrying teams and shouting men. She was coo], calm, collected?for she had done this thing: scores of times before?until a team struck some tiny parcel from her grasp. She turned to get it. stooped to pick it up. And then?one wagon jostled her on this side, and almost ran her down, another struck her on that side, and bruised her cruelly. She staggered to her feet, more than content to let the almost worthless bundle go, and attempted to get out from her danger. But. turn in whatever way she would, there seemed no escape. On every side, danger to limb and life menaced her. She lost her self-control, her quiet good sense, and raising her hands above her head in an agony of terror, she shrieked for help. Ah. Lurline Bannottie, do you remember what is true of the way of the transgressor? The danger is, indeed. great when those hands which so MWUUiy sum o?i111 un uj uiuu * *?? an earthly hell, and which have done other terrible thing's without trembling. are raised in helpless terror. The danger is, indeed, very great when your voice, which spoke treacherous acquiescence to the man who was once your husband, and later gave him scorn unmixed with pity, is raised in a despairing cry for help. It would he a vivid illustration of the certainty of Divine Justice. Miss I,urline Bannottle. if you were to die in the London street: if you were to die here unknown: if you were to die here with dozens looking on. and with no one to help you: if you were to die, despite your money and what it has cost you: if you were to lie trampled and crushed until no one could tell whether you ever had beauty in your face and a smile on your lips?or not; if you were to be dragged and trampled on, with the mud and mire and the nameless filth of this London street soaking into and through your rich silks and delicate laces, and leaving its awful foulness in your hair. It would be a deserved fate, Lurline Bannottie, so far as Fate has power to go with you; there would be only one inappropriate thing in it at all ?the fate that your body, in spite of all that might thus come to it to detile and dishonor it. would still be white and nil re and beautiful to look upon?when compared with your soul! Seconds count at such a time a? that. The seconds between the beginning of such a trouble and the end of it, one way or the other, will be few indeed, in any and all cases. Already the drivei-s. angry at each other, but but each anxious for himself that hf should not be responsible for any fatal accident, were pulling this way and that on the reins, and constantly making a bad matter worse. One or twr lauses were already beyond control: one of two vicious brutes were beginning to kick and struggle, unmindfu of the harsh cries of command uttered by their drivers. It looked, with a woman thus surrounded and attacked and especially as she had lost hei wits, as though it would be the end of the world?for her. And then?somt one sprang from the sidewalk into tin very midst of the sudden turmoil anc danger in the street. He caught t horse by the bit. here, and forced tin rearing animal hack on to his haunches, while he darted beneath the forelegs of the furious beast and went or his way unharmed; lie struck anothei horse over the head with his stout cane, there, and took advantage of the momentary drawing' back caused by the blow; he sprang over an obstacle in one place; he darted beneath some seemingly final barrier in another; he took advantage of a narrow opening between a horse and wagon, at his right; he found his way through, in some way, when there seemed no crack or crevice large enough for a man, at his left. In less time than it takes to tell it this man was at the side of the frightened and danger beleaguered woman, and had one strong arm about her waist. "My God," he exclaimed, as he reached her side, though she was so thoroughly beside herself that she did not notice it, and perhaps did not hear it at all: "my God, it is the same face ?the very same face?but more beautiful than I supposed possible?more beautiful than any I ever saw before!" He caught her firmly. He held ner tightly. And then, more slowly but no less surely than he had fought his way into the midst of the dangers in which she had been placed, he fought his way out with her. He met and conquered brute force on this side by his own physical strength; he eluded danger on that side by u quick and alert exercise of cautious cunning which was marvelous. Little by little, now moving to the right, now to the left, now standing still for a moment, and then hurrying forward, he won his way. He set the feet of Miss Lurline Bannottie in safety up on the sidewalk; he took off his hat and bowed to her. "Shall I have the pleasure of seeing you to your home?" he asked. "If you will be so kind," she replied, giving him one of her marvelous smiles; "I am really very much in need of asistance." "I do not wonder. You were in no little danger." "True. I suppose you saved my life, At A nnl >' VI 111 wu ||W V . "I think so. Perhaps it was not so serious as that, but " "Put it looked as though it would be? Is that it?" inquired Miss Rannottie. "Yes," replied the gentleman. He offered his arm. She took it. and leaned heavily upon it. Perhaps her nerves were really so much shaken that she felt she needed this support. More likely she had taken it into her wicked little head to play the clinging and dependent woman with this man. Here was evidently a gentleman: a gentleman who was brave and quick? quick with his thoughts and his hands alike: a gentleman whose face indicated experience, a large knowledge of the world, and an acquaintance with hardship and suffering. Perhaps one might excuse a woman for clinging to such a man as this, a man whose strength and dignity? maturity and manhood? proved him "a foeman worthy of her steel." But I suppose Lurline Bannottie would not have hesitated to play her pranks upon any man who had crossed her path in the populous "wtMemess of London. "I can never thank you enough." she said, earnestly, turning her glance upon him again: "you saved my life, and life is very sweet to me." Her rescuer looked at her. Admiration. respectful and chivalrous, but ardent and earnest, shone in his eyes. Bluffly and frankly, perhaps half in mischief and half in carelessness, he spoke the thought in his mind: "And your beauty, your face?I saved that too." Slip thought of the danger from which she had just come, and of what an iron-shod hoof might have done for her. and still have left her many long years of life. She shuddered, for a moment. in spite of herself. Then, with a light laugh, she faced him once more, and saucily answered him: "My face is not my fortune, sir," she said. "Perhaps not." he replied, gravely, but as frankly and carelessly as before: "but it is your power. Did no one ever tell you that?" She let her head fall forward a little upon her breast. She made him no answer. How could she answer that? Men had been telling her of her beauty?all her life. Hut no one had ever quite dared, before, to tell her just what he had. Power? How much she mnnh nmro til Jin PVPn urrviru it. i?"?t uv. ....? ? we. my dear reader, know or can know! And she knew he told the truth. And she had lived years enough to see beauty fade?in .the faces of others, though the mirror had never had but one tale to tell her since the happy, girlish years of the long ago?ere yet she had left innocence behind her. ere yet she had found womanhood, and an unavailing love to curse it?ere yet she had let passion burn and sear her very soul. What answer could she make to this bold man? What answer, indeed? She made him none. Hut she spoke again, after a little. She came back once more to the thanks she felt?or at least spoke. "I can never repay you," she said, earnestly. Ti.*. .1 nnijiif innir breath. "L suppose not." he replied; "but why should you try? Pass the benefit on to another. Save and assist the next : needy one who conies in your way. I cannot think of danger escaped having I filled the purpose for which it was ' wisely designed unless it has planted more of love and the spirit of brave and devoted self-sacrifice in the heart ; and soul of the one from whom it was averted. I-et my act bear fruit in your . actions, and I shall be more than blessed and more than content." "You speak strongly." "I feel strongly. It is only a short ' time since my own life was saved un: der very singular circumstances: only ' a short time since I was in very peI miliar danger. You remember your I own escape; what would have been your fate if I had been dead?" > The woman shuddered again. "I?I do not know," she said. "No." said the man, "nor do I. But I we may either, if we are brave enough. I guess. No one else attempted your rescue. What if no one had?" "I?I don't like to think of it." "I should think not. And yet. is not T this life a strange one? Who would 1 have supposed that I was to come ? across the Atlantic?to save you?" I "To save me?" i "Yes. What more important thing ? have I done?" he asked. Miss Bannottie laughed. "1 don't know. You must remember i that I have not known you long r enough, and that I do not know you i (well enough, to know much about what you have done or may do." "Well," continued the man, speaking slowly and gravely, but with an admiration shining in his eyes which he could not ? perhaps would not ? conceal; "well, what more important thing could I do?" "I don't know, I'm sure," replied Miss Bannottie. "Nor I," asserted the man, with fervent emphasis. "Certainly nothing more important for me." "Nor?for me?" He faced her with this sudden question. She flashed her marvelous smile and glance down upon him. He stood waiting for the answer she did not give him. They faced each other thus, for a little; then her eyes faltered, and she turned away her head. Miss Bannottie had met men who had made love to her on very short acquaintance, men who had found an early opportunity to protest that they had loved her at first sight; she had had most men of her acquaintance (we must make some exceptions) at her feet?figuratively speaking. But she had never met just such a man as this. Her prosaic day in London was having an ?n<tinp- niiite nnioue?even in her ex perienoe. She did not answer. He took It upon himself to speak again. He did not press his Impudent question. He did not put some other impertinent question in the place of it. He did not even look in her face, trying to determine whether she wished he would. He looked straight ahead. He walked a little faster?just a little. He brought the conversation abruptly back to himself?like the egotist he was showing himself to be. "Shall I tell you what happened to me?" he asked; "shall I tell you how I escaped?" "Yes; do." "I was picked up at sea." "How was that?" "An ocean steamer cut us down." I "Yes." "And they were too cowardly and inhuman to attempt* to rescue us." The woman winched. Rut she came back to the task of the conversation again?if task it was. "When was that?" He told her?told her the night, and almost the hour. She knew what that meant, and at once. It was her desire that had cut this man's yacht in o umio hf,r iifisOt'p which had left him to his chances with the forces of tlie winds and waves. She turned away her head. I hope she did not lie when she spoke aguin. "I?I am very sorry." was what she said. "I am not. Every event in the voyage. from its beginning to its ending, has been a link in the chain which drew me across the ocean to London, and gave it into my hands to be the fortunate man to rescue you. If I had not crossed the sea, I should not have saved your life, should I?" "No." " ?1 "And I should not have crossed the sea, should I, except in the steamer whose officers and crew saved me?" "I presume not." "And you will grant, will you not, that I should not have been rescued if I had not at first been wrecked?" "I suppose I must." "Very well. That proves my case. I am glad I was cast away?glad for myself. I mean." "Glad for yourself? What do you mean?" "I am sorry for the others." "What others?" "The crew, and " "The crew was lost?" Even the voice of this supremely selfish and superlatively wicked woman shook a little as he asked it. "All lost; all lost." "And?and any one else?" "Yes; my private secretary." "Ah? A friend, too?" "Yes." "Yes." "Of many years' standing?" "No; I had only known him a short time. But he had a grandly pure and noble soul." "Indeed?" Lurline Bannottie was not well calculated to judge of purity and nobility of soul. Perhaps for that reason? and perhaps for some other?she usually lost interest, temporarily, in any conversation into which such topics intruded themselves. "Yes, indeed. And, in spite of the terrible trouble in his life, a trouble which would have soured most men? and ruined some." "He had trouble in his life, had he, serious trouble? How romantic! Tell me about it? What was it?" "Ho was accused of a crime he did not commit. He escaped being unjustly punished, but it turned almost every one against him." "And now he is gone?" "Yes, he is gone." "And undoubtedly better off than when living?living with the world against him?" "I believe that firmly. But he was too good a man for the world to lose him fpiite so soon." "I?suppose?so." replied Miss Bannottie. absentmindedly. She was reflecting on some events in the life of a certain young woman she had seen, ...i *U ..I,,. ^1^...*. ilCTOS.S | '< 11II Mniir Mimiwnn iiuai fallen. She was wondering what she should do if?or when?the ex-cashier, whose life stood between his wife and a happy union with Walter Aldrich, should die. She was wondering' whether she would have power then to coerce and control the unhappy woman, waiting her return so lovingly and yearningly in Naples?the woman to whom she intended to dole out the means of living?from that woman's own money?though unknown to her, as long as she could have her own way with her in all respects; that woman against whom she intended to close all avenues of honest and honorable labor, shutting the iron gates of despair by virtue of the power of gold, if the time ever came when doing that would count the weight of a feather in favor of one of them with Walter Aldrich?or against the other! With her husband dead. Rlsie Senn would turn toward Aldrich as naturally as the flowers turn toward the sun. With her husband dead, Walter Aldrich would stoop to raise her to him?"as high as his heart"?though he found her a beggar. How glad she was that Senn was not a man to brave the storms of the ocean, as this gentleman's private sec-| retary had done. How glad she was that Walter Aldrich had no right to be Elsie's friend, while she had a right to pretend to be. How happy it made her to feel that Walter Aldrich could not bring this unfortunate creature to his own home, there to let her strong and womanly nature expand gloriously. How she gloated over the power she would have?over the authority she 'would exercise?over the gifts she would grudgingly bestow?over the tender girlish heart she would wound ?over the womanly will she would bend to her devilish wishes, or break! She was glad?glad. She suddenly looked up, and remembered that she had been very silent and must have seemed preoccupied. And she had not meant to be rude?she had meant to be very kind to this man: she might see the time when she would wish to use him. He was looking down at her, a smile that was half amusement and half annoyance curling: his fine lips. She asked him a question. She asked her question hurriedly. It was the most unnatural question, perhaps. upon which she could have chanced?I will not .say the most unnatural of which she could have thought: for thought (in the proper nUanlng of the term) had llttie or nothing to do with it. She asked because. she did not think. 'She only asked the question to make talk?to seem natural and interested. She didn't care to have this gentleman answer it. It was a question In which she was not conscious of having the ^lightest or remotest interest. "What was your private secretary's? name?" she asked. And the gentleman answered, as carelessly as she had asked, this question which must have seened strained and irrelevant to him. "His name was Gilbert Senn," he said. To be Continued. DOG VARIATIONS. Pointers and Setters Are of the Canine Aristocracy. It is a mistake to suppose that dogs are anywhere near alike in character. Even those of the same breed vary, and about as much as men and women of the same nationality. As to the manners and the morals of dogs, they are to a great extent the result of meir comaci wun num. unu iney utvelop along the same lines. And. on the other hand, it is impossible to make anything out of a mean spirited dog, just as it is out of a mean spirited person. Dog instinct is about the same as human instinct. A dog reasons, learns. Judges by facts, exactly as a man reasons. He is quicker of observation. He has the keen sense of smell, which makes up to him in some measure for the vicarious experience of human beings. The dog must experience a thing to know it, and his faculities have been trained by generations of observation, of taking note, until they have reached their present perfection. A dog has not the power of speech with which to conceal his thoughts. Consequently he is franker than man. but quite unconsciously so. When he is a dependent, he has the faults of one. He is vain, jealous, suspicious and a snob. Pointers and setters are essentially of the aristocracy of the dog world, and they have gentlemanly qualities. They have the grand air. They will allow themselves to be admired by ordinary people, but they never give their allegiance to any except the accomplished hunter. They are elegant or lorm and vigorous or muscie, line any. athlete, and have a power of discrimination and thought. The well bred contempt of a fine dog of one of these breeds for a man who has not intelligence enough to understand his strategy in the Held must be seen to be appreciated. There is a story told of a traihed pointer that was taken out with a party of inexperienced hunters. She was seen to spring to the top of a wall and then fall back. It was supposed she had caught her foot, and they ran to release her. She was holding by her paws and was beaten down as a stupid dog and turned and walked deliberately home. Tt was finally found that she had scented a covey of birds on the other side of the wall, and fearful of flushing them before the hunters came up. had fallen back out of sight. You can note the dignity and moral worth of some dogs in their carriage, the poise of their heads and the expression of their eyes. A dog of sterling character never steals any more than a human being of this kind steals. ?Amateur Sportsman. BISMARCK'S ANGER. The Incident That Made Certain the Franco-German War. The Princess Bismarck, so the story goes, changed the political history of France unwittingly, and but for her the Franco-Prussian war might never have been waged. Bismarck was unfriendly to France, but the Kmpress Fugenie hoped with her beauty to influence him so that the little trouble with France and flermany might be smoothed over. She therefore invited the German prince and his wife ' to visit the court of France, and the Prince and Princess Bismarck arrived in great state at the tulleries. rnai evening uu*i<- ?u.-> ? *ception, and Eugenie received the guests in a gown which made her so ravishingly lovely that even Prince Bismarck, German, stolid and in love with his wife, stood and gazed upon her with admiration. And Eugenie was not slow to observe the effect of her beauty upon him. She called him to her side and Bismarck came, with his wife upon his arm. Xow, the Princess Bismarck was tall and gaunt, and her feet were generous. As she walked she showed a great deal of sole. While Bismarck stood talking with Eugenie an audible titter was heard along the line of ladies. Bismarck, who was quick as a flash, followed the glance of their eyes and saw them rest upon the feet of his wife. That settled the matter. The political history of France was altered from that moment. A year later, when Paris was besieged, Bismarck himself fired a cannon over the ramparts, and those who were near him heard him shout: "Take that for the feet of the Princess Bismarck!" The slight was avenged. ^HisccUaneous ^catling. WOMAN WHO CAN KEEP SECRETS On That Ability Is Based Miss Giles's Business Success. Miss Katherine M. Giles is probably the only woman in Wall street who could, were she so inclined, turn the tide of cotton speculation so that operators would win or lose millions of dollars, for Miss Giles is the cotton statistician, who every now and then bucks up against the government reports and comes out with flying colors, beating men grown old in the business at their own game. If has been said that a woman can't keep a secret, but the author of that saw didn't know Miss Giles, for she is known as the sphinx among cotton speculators. She never by a word, a look or even the inflection of her voice indicates In the slightest degree any of the secrets for a knowledge of which some men would pay thousands of dollars. It isn't because she hasn't been approached that she hasn't told her secrets. Many men have attempted to extract a word from her as to crop conditions. wen 10 wnoin aiinmest inkling would mean heavy gains have tried ruses of all sorts to catch this young woman off guard. They have yet to be successful. It was some six years ago that Miss Giles earned the name of the Cotton Queen. It was on that eventful December 5 when her report of the cotton crop, differing from the government returns by a large percentage, turned the tide of the cotton market and Increased cotton values by some $5,000,000. Before that time she was comparatively unknown, but when this happened telegrams began pouring into New York from all over the country asking, "Who is Giles?" Few knew she was a woman then and plenty of her suscribers today have yet to learn the fact, for the address on the hundreds of return postals she sends out to the big cotton growers of the south to get information as to the extent and condition of the crop is simply "K. M. Giles, statistician." She Is probably one of the very few women in the country who by their own efforts are earning an annual income of $10,000. She has risen to this position by hard, conscientious work from a salary of $8 a week as assistant in the office of a cereal statistician in the Wall street district. Miss Giles was found by a Sun reporter at her office in the financial district pouring over a big pile of tabulated reports, while beside her lay symmetrical piles of return postals, some 300 of them, which had just come in the morning's mail from the cotton growers of the south. Somehow one naturally expects that a woman whose business Is almost wholly concerned with figures and mathematical problems should herself be cold, dry and calculating. Miss Giles does not meet expectations in this respect. She is youthful looking, exceedingly feminine, with a pretty, well rounded* figure, real golden hair and clear, steady eyes. With a pleasant smile she greeted her visitor and explained the nature of her business and how she happened to enter into a profession which taxes even the resources of the government of the United States. "To what do I owe my success?" repeated Miss Giles. She sat far back in her big revolving desk chair and thought a moment and in doing so her blue gray eyes took on a deeper color. "To the fact that I never speculate," she finally said, Razing steadfastly at her visitor to emphasize her words. "Yes, I am quite positive that to this fact I largely owe my success. You see," she went on rapidly as the idea grew on her, "the temptation to do so is almost overpowering, but it has proved the Waterloo to more than one statistician. If one speculates it Is only human nature to be biased in the direction in which you want the market to go. But you can see it is the utmost folly to do so, for though you might win and you might not. in either event you would lose the confidence of your clients. "Another important thing is to allow no one to influence you. You must rely solely on your own judgment. This is absolutely imperative. "Many persons have attempted it with me but have not succeeded, at least in the way they meant to. I well remember that one man who tried to make me believe that my calculations of the crop should be greater than they were managed to send me in the other direction. That season as a consequence my estimate was way too low." "Do the speculators ever try to get information by strategy?" Miss Giles was asked. "Indeed, yes," replied Miss Giles, her face lighting up in amusement at some of her experiences. "All sorts of subterfuges are worked in order to get a line on what my report will be and all sorts of stories and rumors are circulated for which 1 am held responsible. "When first I started in with this work 1 was kept in hot water all the time by these tricks. You can fancy yourself how it would seem when you were guarding your information as you would your life from the knowledge of any one, and some one came to you saying they heard you had given out certain important facts. It certainly used to try my soul. But I have got so now that I almost never answer the ohone even for fear of being betrayed into a reply that, no matter how innocent it looked on the surface, could be construed into news of crop conditions. "Why, I have had men to call me up and talk about the weather, then turn and twist what I said into a statement regarding cotton, which would be quite sufficient to put the market up or down as the case might be. Only last year a couple of days before my report came out a man called me up on the phone saying: " 'Is this Miss Giles?' " It is.' " 'We hear your report is coming out tomorrow.' " 'Did you?' " 'Yes, and we get rumors that conditions are better in the south than they were a week ago, and we want to know whether your report agrees with that rumor.' 1 "You can see how cleverly these questions were framed. I had to do a lot of quick thinking In order not to t make any admissions that I didn't t wish to make. So sparring for time f I asked, 'Who is this talking?" < "Then, making up my mind quick- i ly. I replied, 'I haven't sufficient re- < ports in to tell you,' and closed the j wire. As a matter of fact the reports were all tabulated and ready on my l desk to be sent out on the following ^ day, but I made up my mind that any | one who was so inquisitive hadn't a t right to expect the truth. This is j only one of many similar experiences < that I have to contend with." j Curious to know how it happened ( that a woman ever took tip such an occupation, the reporter asked Miss Giles to tell the story of her business career. "It was my good fortune," she said, "to be associated in business with one of the finest men in New York city, and to him, I am very frank to say, I owe all my success. He was a cereal statistician and his office is now scarcely a stone's throw away. He could look ahead and see the possibilities of my career, and so was in* sistent upon my making my own way. "I started in with him as a clerk at $8 a week ruling slips such as these, upon which were written the reports of the cereal crops. From this point I rose from one position to another, each time the added responsibility carrying with it an increase in salary. "One of the proudest moments in my career was when I was entrusted with the key of the letter box. It seemed to me then that I had risen quite as far as I possibly could. I took great pains in laying out and arranging the cards on the desk according to states and counties, so that wfien my employer came he would find all ready for him. It was also my duty to see that the subscribers -tt ? J 11 ?? ~ * IUa an reueiveu uifir in me taint ^ papers which we sent out with the reports. "After a while I was promoted to ] tabulating the reports and finally to , figuring, and eventually went so far j as to make my own calculations, and you can imagine this made me feel j quite important. The thing I dread- , ed most of all was the composition of ] the report from the material at hand. I used to worry about that more than | anything else, but since I have been in business for myself and write the report from my own calculations it holds no terrors for me. "I got along nicely until after I | had been receiving a salary of $25 a week for some time, when I got restless and wanted, yet feared to branch ^ out for myself. I decided I had got , in a rut and needed something heroic ( to bring me out of it. "One day I went to my employer , and made a suggestion about the dus- , iness which, as I look back upon it ^ now. I see was none of my affairs. I , also wanted a raise In salary. My ( employer looked up suddenly. ] " 'You are dissatisfied,' he said. " 'Oh, no,' I returned quickly, hav- ( Ing in mind a man in the office who ( had been discharged the week pre- ( viously for this very reason, and thinking that I had certainly thrown all the fat in the fire by my impetuos- . ity. ; " 'Yes,' he returned, 'you are dis- ( satisfied, and I don't want any one in my employ who feels that way.' "I insisted that I was not dissatis- 1 fied, only that I felt I had got in a rut and wanted to get out of it. Then I added, 'I hope some day to go in ( for myself.' ! "My employer stared hard at me, but didn't say much and the matter ( was dropped. I went back to my desk feeling that somehow I had ' made a fearful mess of things and in 1 all probability would be discharged. < "I felt ready to cry, and not daring to talk further on the subject I went home to mother as fast as I could get 1 there and had a good cry. But mother said: 'It'll be all right. Don't , worry. Just go ahead and do the best you can and it will come out all right.' "This in a measure soothed me for < the time being. But on the second morning?the day following was Decoration day?I went down to the office in fear and trembling and there, Just as I expected, on my desk lay 1 inai oniciai envelope mai i naa Deen dreading. "I opened the letter and read It. It said: 'If you wish to go into business for yourself it seems best that you do it ndw.' Well, everything got black before me. The worst had come. Finally I plucked up courage to ask my employer when he wanted i me to leave. ( " 'Leave?' he said 'I don't want you to leave. I want you to stay right here. You want to go in for yourself, don't you? Well, here is your oppor- i tunity.' "I thought it over, then pointed out that that would scarcely be feasible for the reason that others, knowing I had been in this man's employ, might think I favored him in affording advance information concerning the reports. He agreed that I was right. 1 "I had some $400 belonging to him ( for the yearly subscriptions of the farm papers. Before I had a chance to return it he said. 'You take that as my contribution toward your sue- ( cess.' "My employer, became my first sub- ; scriber and has since continued as such, though today I have subscri- i bers all over the world, even so far , away as Bombay, India." Miss Giles has secret cable codes of her own, one for each customer, and it may be imagined what a cablegram sent to Bombay costs, as she must pay 4 7 cents a word for messages sent to India. Among int1 iwtfivc muics Uiai fiiuu cotton she annually distributes 25,000 postal cards, the returns from which , must be tabulated. Monthly reports are sent out from now until June, but 1 from June to September semi-monthly letters are directed to her subscribers. Just now she is getting return cards from* the growers giving information regarding the contemplated acreage, the condition of the soil and < general remarks as to whether the ( season is earlier or later than last year, ' Hetween $25,000 and $30,000 is annually spent by the government in , getting a line on the cotton crop from which to compile its annual report, but in this, Miss Giles contends, there 1 are many mistakes. Many small towns, she says are never reported at all. Then she builds much on the j tenor of the general remarks of the i growers, which are a feature of her card system and from which she be- i lieves she comes nearer getting at the j real conditions than the government with all its special investigators. Each year about this time. Miss Giles says, the crop killers are heard from. They are men who tell what the crop is going to be before it is even planted. One of these recently said that there was likely to be a big crop this year and that fully 15,000,000 bales would be harvested. "As a matter of fact." said Miss Giles, "they know nothing at all about it. Why, the cotton isn't even out of the ground." A FRONTIER MARKSMAN. ^ild Bill Hickok's Skill In Use of the Six Shooter. Wild Bill Hlckok was the first fron:iersman who recognized the impor:ance of proficiency in the use of the fix shooter. This was the real secret )f his supremacy. He was an unerring narksman and shot as accurately unJer fire as when firing at a mark, apaarently taking no aim. Probably no man has ever equaled llm In the lightning-like rapidity vith which he could draw a weapon n time of emergency and in the horough self possession that made It possible for him to take advantage of ;very opportunity In savage conflict, tic had a standing order to his deputes that they should not rush in on lim In any of his affrays and espe;ally should not come quickly up in n the rear. By forgetting this a man named Williams met his oeatn at ADiiene, Hickok taking him for an enemy and Iring so rapidly that it left no oppor:unity for recognition. He readily tilled a wild goose across the Smoky Hill with his revolver. Riding at his lorse's highest speed, he fired shot ifter shot Into a tin can or a post a Few rods distant. Standing at one telegraph pole he svould swing rapidly on his heel and fire a pistol ball Into the next telegraph pole. These were some of the simpler feats he performed day after lay on the street to settle little wafers. He could shoot a hole through i silver dime at fifty paces and could irive the cork through the neck of a bottle at thirty paces and knock out :he bottom without breaking the neck. He could do what the fancy shots of the present day do, and possibly some of them equal him as marksman with a revolver, . but It must be remembered that he was the first to acquire the skill, and the so called crack shots of his day were poor imitations at best, although most of them boasted of their fame. He shot just as well with others shooting at him and at a man as steadily as at any other target. There were certain traits of his character, however, that were almost womanly. He was fond of children, and they liked him. He declined to quarrel with the peaceful settlers of the community, the business men, on any provocation. There was no foolhardy bravado about him.?Denver Field ind Farm. THRILLING SPORT. Rafting Oown the Canyons of an Unmapped Glacial River. With provisions for only ten days a party of explorers in Alaska found one September that they must build rafts and take their chances of letting the swift river carry them to settlements where food could be obtained; otherwise ice and snow would shut them in from all hope of rescue. In "The Shameless Diary of an Explorer," Robert Dunn tells of the journey on the roughly made rafts. "At 11 o'clock today began the most thrilling sport I know, rafting down the snaky canyons of an unmapped glacial river. "Fred and I captained the Mary \nn II. the other three the Ethel Way. We rasped and hauled them ever the gravel shadows of our tributary, shot out between the main walls uf the stream and seized upon that boiling current. "We reached silently from cliff to :liff. jammed pike poles into the slate ^helf overhead, twirled out of eddies. We bumped and grounded. We dashed overboard and on the run eased her across shallows. We tugged half an hour tn make an inch at each shove through the gravel, suddenly plunged in to our necks, and she leaped free as we scrambled on. "Bowlders rose through white ruffs of water In midchannel. We might or might not hang on them for a perpendicular minute. "You must be very handy with a pole. You must have a hair fine eye for moving angles, the strength of an eddy, the depth of foam ruffling over a stump. You must be surer of the length of your pole than a polo player of the reach of his mallet. You must be quicker than a Siwash dog. You must know the different weight of each log down to ounces, the balance of the duffel piled high like a dais, covered with the tent and the bean pot. the mackinaws and the ax lashed to ell the lashings. It's a pretty ?ame." Cf EDISON THE VICTOR. He Humbled the Pride of the Fast Telegraph Operator. Edison made his first record as a telegraph operator in Memphis. A contemporary says he came walking Into the office one morning looking like a veritable hayseed. He wanted a job, and, although his appearance was not prepossessing, the office was short handed, and he was assigned a desk at the St. Louis wire, the hardest in the office. "At the end of the line was an operator, who was chain lightening and knew it," says Francis Arthur Jones' "Life of Edison." "Edison had hardly got seated before St. Louis called. The newcomer responded, and St. Louis started on a long report which he pumped in like a house afire. Edison threw his leg over the arm of his chair, leisurely transferred a wad of spruce gum from his pocket to his mouth, took up a pen, examined it critically and started in about fifty words behind. He didn't stay there long, though. St. Louis let out another link of speed, and still an other, and the instrument on Edison's table hummed like an old style Singer sewing machine. Every man in the office left his desk and gathered around the jay to see what he was doing with that electric cyclone. "Well. sir. he was right on the word and taking it down in the prettiest copperplate hand you ever saw. even crossing his 't's' and dotting his 'iV and punctuating with as much care as a man editing telegraph for printers. St. Louis got tired by and by and began to slow down. Then Edison opened the key and said: " 'Hello, there! When are you going to get a hustle on? This is no primer class.' "Well, sir." said the gentleman in conclusion, "that broke St. Louis all up. He had been rawhiding Memphis for a long time, and we were terribly sore, and to have a man in our office who could walk all over him made us feel like a man whose horse had won the Derhy."