Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, October 21, 1891, Image 1
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xtwt. Qry YORKVILLE, S. C., WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 21, 1891. ' NO. 37. f?
? r? - " j
I THE MAN Wl'
BY W. C.
v# ?
"Whose Nom de Plum
Author of* "The E
[Copyright, 1891, by Caseell Publishing Co
ment witl
CHAPTER L
*"V "WHY, IT IS BLOOD!"
October of eighteen hundred and seventy-nine,
and a brisk evening. The
hour is nine. People walk rapidly under
the stimulus of the cool night air.
One of the number, however, does not
Closely examining the buildings on
either side of the street, he moves along
slowly. Sometimes he stops on the cnrbw
stone and gases intently at a house upon
the opposite side. Thus he makes slow
progress until he reaches the corner of
Broadway and Bleecker street. Here
he stops and peers down the cross street
Apparently he debates with himself as
to which way he shall go. Slowly he
walks off in the direction of the Bowery
and?into the middle of events which
powerfully influence his whole life
He was a tall, athletic man. A careless
observer would have said he was
nearly forty. Bat he was in fact barely
thirty-one. The stern, deepseated lines
of his face, suggesting settled grief or
harsh experiences in life, made him appear
older than he was?these, and an
expression of habitual melancholy.
His course lay upon the lower or south
side of Bleecker street. Crossing CrosV
by, he walked a few rods and then stopped
in front of a house upon the opposite
side.
"That is the house," muttered the
young man on the other side of the
street "To what base uses we may return,
and so forth. I have a fancy to
see the inside of it"
Crossing thfestreet the yonng man en0
tered the basement which was given
over to a wine shop. Inside be swept the
zoom with his eyes, and an expression of
^ astonishment mingled with disappointment
passed over his face.
* To accommodate the business of tho
dispenser of wines the partitions had I
been torn out so that the whole basement
floor was one room. Where the
hall had been the bar was, and behind
the bar a stolid looking German, smoker
ing a long pipe, contemplating without
the suggestion of an expression upon his
large, round face, a group noisily playing
a game of cards. In the rear of the
room were two billiard tables. In the
corner on the left as ono entered was a
round table at which there were four
chairs and on it several newspapers.
"ShaU imrudi^ifi wat myself at
this tabler
The young man sat himaelf at this
table. At one of the small tables in the
middle of the room and in close proximity
to the card players sat an old gentleman,
perhaps seventy, deeply engrossed
in his newspaper. As the young man
entered he lifted his head. Something
hi the newcomer's appearance arrested
rhis attention. He laid his paper upon
his knees and followed the young man
with his eyes, and his face took on an
expression of perplexity. Though he resumed
reading his eyes ever and anon
wandered to the young man in the cor
ner. Soon his paper lost interest for
him, for he again laid it on his knees
and looked into space over his spectacles,
without losing his thoughtful, perplexed
f expression.
The young man summoned the stolid
proprietor and ordered a stoop of wine
and a cigar. His order complied with,
he.ptruckamatch, and as he held it up
in the air wi$h hip right hand until the
sulphur should have burned away, he
held his cigar within an inch of his lips
with his left hand. The old gentleman,
watching him covertly, smiled; the
w wrinkles on his brow vanished, the perplexed
expression passed away, and nodding
to himself approvingly he returned
to his paper. By and by he beckoned
to the proprietor, and by a gesture indicated
that he desired the erhpty glass at
his elbow refilled. An unusually loud
outburst came from the card players;
with a smothered exclamation of disgust,
he picked up his glass and crossed to the
table at which thr young man was
sitting, saying politely:
"Shall I he intruding if I seat myself
at this table? Our friends, the card players,
are boisterous; they annoy ma"
"By no means," replied the young man.
"1 imagine every vacant chair in the
room belongs to the man who claims it"
With a bow the old man sat down.
"Perhaps so," he said, "but an etiquette
obtains, or should obtain, even
here, and I would not intrude upon one
w wishing to be alone."
"I am alone," returned the young man,
"not because 1 wish to be, but because
in a whoje cityful of people 1 am."
"A stranger to the city then?" inquired
the old man.
"Yes and no," was the reply, in the
3* :jji. ,,1
manner 01 one propounding a nume. i
am not a stranger, for 1 was born here.
1 am because I have been continuously
y absent for the past eig'it years. I walked
the streets today without seeing a face J
knew, and I do not know where to go to
find one 1 formerly did know."
"New York is a large city, and like
all large cities its face takes on a new
expression each year. Yon have but jost
returned then?"
"This morning."
* "It is strange the more celebrated
places did not attract yon."
"I stemjed ont of mv hotel near bv for
the fresh air, and I strolled hither under
the influence of a recollection of my boyhood,
almost infantile days."
For an instant only the old man peered
over his glasses sharply at his companion
and then said:
"I am much attached to this house,
not because my habit leads me here
nightly, but because 1 have been familiar
with it ever since I was a young
man."
The old man lifted his glass and
sipped his beer, apparently unconscious
that he bad said anything to attract the
increased attention the young man gave
^ Mm.
"Even younger than you are now," he
continued. "Lord! Lord! what dinners
I have eaten?what gay times I have had
in this very room. A young friend of
mine?we boarded in Chambers street
together in those days?bought this
house while it was yet building, and
when it was finished carried his sweet
young bride into it And a great housewarming
we had too. I was opposed to
it?that is, to the house; I thought it too
fine for him to begin on; for you must
know, young sir, there were few finer
houses in this city when this was built.
Yet he could afford it Young as he
was, he was the head of a flourishing
^ business, built up by his father, who
had died and left it to his only son, with
a number of old and experienced clerks.
Yes, indeed, no house in this city stood
higher than that of Dorison and Company."
rH A THUMB.
HUDSON,
l? is Barclay TVorth,
diamond Button."
mpany and published by special arrange1
them.]
As the old man indulged his remi
niscentiai vein, tne younger Kepi um
(lark eyes fixed upon him, and at the
mention of the name of the firm the color
crept slowly into his cheeks.
"Yes, there have been gay times in
this old house," continued the old man.
"I have seen the beauty and chivalry of
old New York gathered within these
walls. Sometimes when the weather is
fair I venture out to the park to see the
ladies drive by, whom as young girls, in
all their bravery of silks and laces, 1
have seen sweep up and down these
stairs. Happy times, indeed! 1 was always
welcome here as the confidential
friend of the head of the house, and 1
love it in its degradation. I have seen
sorrow and mourning here too. 1 have
followed each one of Dorison's children
through the door above to their gravessave
the youngest, a boy. But the time
came when this house was not fine
enough for Dorison, and he moved into' a
browns tone front in Twenty-third street
There disaster fell upon him. His wife
died and he was never the same man.
He retired from business?a mistake, for
the time hung heavily on his hands, and
he drooped. His only interest was his
only son?only child, in fact 1 saw him
daily if in town, bnt in those years, having
interests abroad. I was away from
town a great deal."
He interrupted himself to sip his beer.
Had he looked at the young man he
would have seen a most singular expression
on his face; high color showing
through his dusky skin and eyes intense
and burning. The old man did not for
he continued calmly:
"Dorison and his son lived in this
fine house alone for some years. Then
one morning early a servant entering the
library found Dorison bent over the
table at work. Wondering at the early
rising of his master he spoke. Receiving
no answer he went up to him. Dorison
was dead. He had died in the act
of writing a letter. The most singular
thing of it was that his executors found
that he, whom we all supposed bo rich,
had not a dollar. The very house he
lived in was mortgaged to its full value."
The young man leaned forward, and
extending his hand laid it upon the arm
of the elder man. saying with great decision:
"You have a purpose in telling me this
story!"
The old man looked up with a surprised
air as he replied:
"What purpose, young sir, could 1
have in telling such a story to an entire
stranger?"
The young man made no reply for a
moment, but continued to gaze steadily
into the eyes of the elder one, as if
thinking profoundly. Then he said in
a deep, low voice, quivering with emotion:
"I will continue the story. Mr. Dorison
was fond of the young man, his sou,
treating him indulgently and giving him
a most generous allowance. The son
was a youngster caught up <n the whirl
of fashion?a member of the leading
clubs, following what you doubtless
would call a fust life, but, as compar ed
with others, not fast if extravagant,
he brought no trouble upon his father;
if reckless iu his life, no disgrace upon
the name of Dorison. The letter his
father was writing when he was so suddenly
stricken with death ruined the
son. To whom this letter was addressed,
or what the father's motive in writing
it, never was known, and it is doubtful
now whether these things ever will be
known. The letter ran thus:
" 'My Dkaii Fkiknd?The end is well
nigh reached. Indeed, if you cannot
immediately give me the assistance 1
- l.j rrr'i.1 .u
need it is even now reacaeu. " iui t utu
assistance and a few years more of life
ill can be repaired. 1 am a broken man
inspirit and in health. The last few
years I have been tortnred as no human
being ever was, I believe. 1 have been
compelled to sit helplessly by and nee a
fine property devoted to covering the
consequences of crime; to making good
forgeries on my own name, against which
1 could not even lift my voice in protest;
to repairing losses of others by robberies
and defalcations; to stopping the wheels
of justice, which if permitted' to go on
would have brought exposure and disgrace,
and all the while have been compelled
to sustain and conceal the knowledge
that all this was done and brought
upon me by an ungrateful son, who'
"Death fell upon him," continued the
young man, "the moment he had condemned
the son. To whom was this
letter addressed? Crushed and agonized,
the son in a frenzy sought the one to
whom it was written as a means of proving
that the condemnation of the son by
the dying father was untrue. All efforts
were unavailing. The fact of the condemnation
was bruited about; it became
known in the clubs; it became public
property; it was published in the papers;
the police undertook to bring the crimes
alleged against the son home to him, but
they were no more successful than he
was in his efforts to disprove them. His
friends fell away from him; the doors of
his acquaintances were closed against
him; he was cut on the streets. Efforts
being made to expel him from one club,
he resigned from all and fled the city,
practically penniless, under an assumed
name. Seeking employment in a western
city, he remained until a f >w days
ago, when, under an impulse ho could
not restrain, he returned to the city of
his birth after eight years' absence. 1
am he?John Dorison?disgraced by his
dead father, not by himself."
"I was sure of it; 1 was sure of it,"
murmured the old man.
"You, too," continued the young man,
his voice trembling with the violence of
Wo omnfinn "vnn. too. a friend of mv
father, believed and do now believe the
libel my father left me as his only heritage."
There was something so despairing
and even pathetic in the attitude and intensity
of the young man that the spectacles
of the old gentleman became
dimmed with moisture. There was no
appeal for belief in the tones of the
young man. The elder read utter hopelessness
in the intense dark eyes bent
upon him; he 6aw the grief underlying
the strong face which he had newly
aroused was an old settled grief, not
one finding expression in wild gestures
and fierce words, but one that had come
to abide with the young man forever,
with which its possessor had become
familiar as with a daily companion from
whom he never expected to be parted.
The old gentleman, regarding the face
of the younger closely and for the first
time openly, replied slowly and forcibly:
"No; I did not believe the charge when
I first heard it; I never have believed it;
I do not believe it now."
The reply was unexpected. Dorison
fell back in his chair with a gr-sp, staring
blankly at the elder man. At the end
of eight years, and for the first time, he
had found one who believed him innocent
of the charges.
"You ? believe ? me?innocent?of?
those?vile?charges?"
"I do," emphatically returned the old
man. "When your father died I was
absent from the city. After I returned
and 1 learned the circumstances 1 sought
you to say so and to offer my assistance,
but you had left the city."
The young man luughed bitterly.
"Your words, the first of belief in my
innocence I have ever heard, are grateful
and comforting. If your belief were
based upon more substantial reasons, it
would give me wnat l am now utterly
wi thout?hope. My life has been ruined
oy that unfinished letter. Such is the
only result 1 have reached after eight
years of endeavor to fathom the incomprehensibility."
"My dear young sir," said the old man
kindly, but with a tone of pain in his
voice, as he leaned forward and laid his
hand upon the arm of the younger one,
"I can understand your bitterness. 1
sympathize with you from the bottom of
my heart. ' I admire you, that with the
strong feeling you naturally have, you
have given expression to not one word of
abuse of the parent who did you this
aJmost irreparable injury. However, it
1 is time for me to go to bed. Come and
see me tomorrow at my office. We will
talk this matter over then and see what
can be done. Here is my card. Good
night."
The old man went ont briskly. Dorii<on
remained staring at the. card, which
bore these words, "Job Nettleman.
Commercial paper negotiated. Number
? Broad street, New York city."
He fell back in his chair in a confu1
si on of thought Light seemed to be
breaking upon his dark horizon. Would
the sun rise? One man believed him innocent
It was not much, to be sure,
but he could not let go the fact
Suddenly he was startled into consciousness
of external things by a cry of
horrified surprise. It Came from one of
the card players:
"Why, it is blood!"
CHAPTER IL
A MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY.
At 'hit feet lay the body of a woman
XDCltcrhiQ hi her rnvn blood.
There was commotion in the room at
once. Every one sprang to hi3 feet
Crowding about the table from whence
the outcry came, they looked up to the
ceiling, from whence the drop which had
excited the exclamation had apparently
fallen.
A long, irregular crack in the ceiling
was plainly visible. At one end, that
over the table, a small, dark Bpot was to
be seen. Dorison, who bad come with
the rest, sprang upon the table. Hardly
had he assumed an erect position when
the small, dark spot, resolving itself into
a globule, dropped off, barely escaping
his clothes, being immediately succeeded
by another spot.
"It is blood," he said. "It is dripping
through this crack. It must come from
the floor above. Who occupies itT
All eyes were turned upon the German
proprietor, who, in reply to this mute
questioning, said:
"I don't know. Dey haf shoost move
in. Dey vos kostumers."
"Some one may have been murdered,"
suggested a voice in the crowd.
In an instant, as if by a common impulse,
every one ran out and mounted
the steps leading to the front door, leaving
Dorison alone with the proprietor.
The trampling of many feet upon the
floor above and poundings on the door
for admission was heard.
Clambering down from the table Dorison
asked the German if there was not a
rearentrance to the first floor.
"Yaw," replied tne tferman. "uo aat
door owit and oop the stairs."
Dorison hurried through the door pointed
ont, and found at his right a flight of
steps, which he ascended quickly. Pushing
open the door at the top he entered
a sheltered veranda. He tried the door
leading into the hall, but it was locked.
He sought the first window opening on
the veranda, and on trying to lift the
lower sash it ran up with ease. A curtain
obstructed his way, which he pushed
aside and stepped into a large, square
room, unfurnished, save by two chairs
and a worn carpet The gas burned
dimly at a side jet
He crossed the room to the sliding
doors, which were closed, but he found
no difficulty in throwing one back.
Heavy curtains confronted him; parting
them he passed into a room well lighted.
He recoiled with an exclamation of
hon-or. At his feet lay the body of a
woman weltering in her own blood. Of
steady nerves and strong self control, yet
the scene sickened him, and he staggered
back almost fainting, the while those in
the hall were thundering at the door.
The woman had fallen forward, and
as she had done so her face had been
tnrned toward her right shonlder, her
right arm stretched out as if she had
grasped at something and missed it
Where the neck was exposed a small
gash was seen, from which the blood
had spurted and streamed in torrents,
covering her dress and all things in her
immediate vicinity. A small stand, evidently
heavily weighted with articles of
clothing of fantastic color and shape,
had been overturned in the struggle
which preceded the murder, for the
goods were scattered some distance and
the woman had fallen upon them.
Recovering almost immediately from
the first 6hock of surprise and horror,
Dorison bent over the body. It was that
of a young woman, perhaps twenty-six
or seven. The face was prepossessing,
and he conjectured she might in life
have been called handsome.
Immediately ut his left hand, within
his reach, was a small round table. On
it were two articles. Barely conscious
of his act, he stretched forth his hand
and took them up. One was a ring, the
other a small, old fashioned oval portrait
in a narrow gilt frame.
He was astonished?overwhelmed.
The portrait was a picture of his
father, taken at least twenty years before
his death. He could not trust his senses.
Was his imagination affected by the horror
of the scene and playing him tricks?
He looked at it again. There could be j
no mistake. He examined the ring. He
recognized this too. He had seen it in
his boyhood days, a hundred times, on j
his father's finger.
Confused and overwhelmed, and uuder
an impulse he could not analyze, he
slipped them both into his pocket.
There was a new movement in the hall j
and new steps, which had in them the j
sound of authority.
A voice said:
"We can't open that door."
"Then we'll break it down," said a
stem one in reply.
Aroused, Dorison undertook to step
over the prostrate body at his feet, in- >
tending to open the door. As he did 60
he saw a piece of paper in the hand of
the murdered girl. Moved by an uncon
trollaDie impulse, anu wunuui, reason i
governing him, he bent down quickly J
and gently disengaged it. Hastening j
no\^ to the door, as he was about to push i
back the curtain he perceived upon the :
floor a large piece, which he picked up |
and pocketed under the same singular
impulse.
Drawing the bolts he opened the door, !
just as two policemen placed their :
shoulders against it to burst it open,
j They fell upon him, and without his assistance
would have fallen to the floor.
A man in citizen's clothes pushed his
way between the two policemen and i
hastily swept the room with his keen i
eyes. Observing the body on the floor, j
he turned to the officers and said:
"Guard that door. Let no one in or
out."
Walking over to where the body lav, j
he closely examined it and the surround- |
ings. Then he came back to Dorison and '
demanded: '
"What were you doing here?"
"Who are you?" demanded Dorison in
return. '
"An officer of the law. Answer my j
question." '
"I entered from the rear while the (
others were trying to force an entrance ]
from the front." !
The officer, who was the most cele- J
bra ted detective of his day, bent a pierc- 1
Ing look upon Dorison, who, however,
did not flinch from the scrutiny. ''
"We'll see about that Dolan," he
Baid, turning to an officer in uniform, '
"arrest this man."
"I shall not attempt to prevent you
from arresting me." said Dorison qnietly
but firmly. "But you must make no mistakes,
for I shall not forgive them." !
This calmness and self possession made ,
an impression on the officer.
"How is it that you were here alone?" .
he asked.
"I have told you. After the alarm .
was raised all who were in the saloon be- ^
low ran up to this door except myself. I ,
nsVwi the nronrietor if there was not a ,
rear entrance, and being told there was
came np that way and made an easy en- j
trance."
"Yaw, das iss so," remarked the proprietor
of the saloon from the door.
"Dey vo8 all gone owit an he ask me.
I say go oop de back stairs."
"He was drinking in your saloon then?"
"Yaw. He drink ein glass of wine and .
smoke ein cigar and talk mit old Mr.
Nettleman all de night."
"The gentleman sat with the rest of
ns, captain," said another voice from the
halL "When the man cried out that
blood was dropping on his cards, the
gentleman jumped on the table to see
where it was coming from."
"I see," Baid the captain in an altered
tone, and turning to Dorison said, "It
was imprudent of you to attempt an entrance
before the officers were called."
"Perhaps," returned Dorison with a
sober smile. "In Buch emergencies,
however, men are rarely prudent The
prudent thing for me to do was to walk
away entirely. As it is, I presume I
have made a witness of myself for the
coroner's inquest"
This was so true that the detective
smiled and regarded him with more
favor.
"What is your name?" he asked.
Dorison hesitated. He had registered
himself at a neighboring hotel under the
name he had borne since he left New j
York eight years before^-James Dudley. |
He knew the next Question would be Ids |
address, and if he were to give his proper j
name an examination of the register I
would discover the discrepancy, with a 1
resulting suspicion. If, on the contrary,
he were to give his assumed name, he
would, if application were made to Mr.
Nettleman, since he had not given his
assumed name to that gentleman, be at a
disadvantage in that quarter. He perceived
his dilemma without seeing his
proper course.
His hesitancy aroused the suspicion of
the detective. With increased sternness
the demand was repeated.
Under the belief that less trouble I
would result from using his registered ]
name, he replied: e
"James Dudley. I come from Du- <
buque, Iowa. I am registered at the c
Grand Central I arrived in town at 1
seven this morning. I have not been in e
New York for eight years before." t
"Why did you hesitate in answering?' 1
"BecausS I vainly thought by conceal* t
mentof my name I might escape the i
annoyance of being a witness, but a
moment's reflection showed me the ah- x
surdity of the idea." 1
This was promptly said, but frank and \
ingenuous as the reply seemed to those (
who heard it, the detective, looking into t
Dorison's eyes, saw something there t
which did not satisfy him. I
"Do you know this Mr. Nettleman?"
"I have known about him all my life c
?since boyhood." t
"Does he know your
"Yes." t
At this moment two men in citizen's
clothes, who were admitted by the uniformed
officers, entered and took rip ?
their stations respectfully behind the de- 1
tective. c
"What did you see when you entered?" *
asked the detective after a long and keen 1
examination of Dorison's face.
"That," replied the young man, pointing
to the body on the floor. "I had but
just entered when you came."
The detective did not permit his eyes
to follow the pointed finger of Dorison,
but still continued his stern and searching*examination,
while Dorison fully appreciated
that he had become an object
of suspicion.
There was a slight diversion at the
door. A man of average height, inclined
to be 8tout, perhaps sixty, with shaven
face, whose only striking feature was a
pair of eyes, small, dark, keen, active
and restless, who had been standing
without the door, pushed his way in. I
The officers guarding the door made a j
motion as if to stop him, but upon an almost
imperceptible nod from the cap- 1
tain permitted him to enter. n
The newcomer crossed to the table
covered with blue felt, his hands in his j
vest pockets, and leaning against the end
furthest from the body sent his eyes into
every part of the room with rapid darts, 6
finally fixing them on Dorison, without 1
abandoning the motionless attitude he c
had assumed on entering. J
The detective began a systematic in- ; '
spection of the body, the room, the i 1
entrances thereto. He took the names j r
of all present and those in the saloon j
when the drop of blood was discovered. , c
He closely questioned the proprietor, j 4
The only fact he elicited was that two j
weeks previously the rooms had been |
rented by a woman, who announced that j
ohft wnnld rnnduct a costumer's business, ;
and that the saloon proprietor had never ;
seen but one person he knew to be con- j
nected with the business, and that an old
woman, and she but once. Brought in
to examine the body, he declared he had
never seen the woman in life, and did
not know who she was or where she
came from.
The detective turned to Dorison again: ;
"When you ascended those back stairs ;
was the door at the top open or shut?"
"Shut."
"Did you try the door leading from
the veranda to the hall?"
"I did, and found it locked."
"How did you enter?" t
"By the window, next the door." i
"Was the sash raised as it is now?" 1
"No; I threw it up." t
"It was not fastened then?" c
"No." B
"How did you ent?r this room?" . t
"Through those sliding doors." j f
"Were they opeu as now?"
"No; I threw them back." e
"Was there a light in the back room?" >
"Yes; just as there is now." c
Turning to one of the men in citizen's <
clothes at his back, the captain said:
"Jones, go into thut yard and see if it t
is possible for q man to make his escape i
over the fence and reach the Btroet." t
"It would be possible for a man to i
descend those back stairs, enter the saloon f
below from the rear, and so gain the 1
street," said the old man with his hands t
in his vest pockets, without moving. t
The detective looked at him sharply, I
and replied:
"That is true." t
"He even might have sat down and <
drank beer afterward and been in the J
saloon when the blood was discovered." e
"That also might be true," returned >
the detective.
"The proprietor ought to know t
whether he served a customer whom he ; J
did not notice enter the front door." i <
"Again that may be so; Til inquire."
"Also," continued the old man, "if i
you are speculating, your man might t
have entered the saloon and slipped out
to gain this room b\ the rear as this I
young man did, and slipped back again 1
after he did the job." t
"Ah," said the detective, turning a i
ook of apparent renewed interest upon
Dorison. He took the proprietor aside
md questioned him on the points raised
ay the old man. The German was quite
certain Dorison had never stirred from
die chair he seated himself in when he
irst entered until the blood was discovered;
he was in full sight and could
lot have moved without his knowledge;
aesides, he had talked all the time with
Mr. Nettleton, a fact that attracted his
attention, since, though the old gentlenan
came there nightly, he rarely talked
with any one.
As to the possibilities suggested by the*
aid man with regard to others, he could
not speak so positively, though he did not
think that anything like that suggested
by the old man had occurred, because
the saloon had not been so full that he
could not take cognizance of every one
in the place. When asked to look over
the throng in the hall to see if all
were there who were in the saloon when
the blood was discovered he said after
examination that while there were some
in the hall who were not in the saloon,
there was one who was in the saloon
who had stood by him in the hall when
ae was called in to see if he could recKrulw
nrtinf wan not there
;6U44~ , ??-fy;
then. He was a st-rang^s who had come
in early and drank brandy. Heconld
aot describe him, save that he was not
fin old man, was not tall, and had blown
iair and mustache.
"That undoubtedly is the man I want,"
said the detective.
Sending Dorison to headquarters in
charge of one of the policemen in orler
tnat a statement as to himself and
the events of the night might be taken,
md telling the officer to put a man on to
shadow Dorison after he left headquarters,
the officer busied himself with completing
his examination of t he premises.
Finally, leaving an officer in charge, he
went away, accompanied by the reimainng
officer in plain clothes.
"This night has not brought forth
much," he said, "but I suppose we can
ind out from the woman who rented the
rooms who the girl is. We must hunt
ler up the first thing tomorrow morning.
Thai; must be your job."
CHAPTER HL
"HOW FORTUNE PLIKS HER SPORTS."
<j8J?
Hello, Simon the Cellarer! Come here
and *lt."
John Dorison awoke the next morning
>etime8, with an uneasy sense of having
mssed through a nightmare. It was
tome moments before he could recall the
wents of the night previous. When he
lid, he leaped quickly from his bed, for
>y them was also recalled a resolution to
leek Mr. Nettlemon as'early as possible,
;o inform him of the assumed name he
lad given the police the night previous,
ind to beg him to assist him in preservng
his incognito.
Therefore he hastily dressed, the while
le cursed the impulse.tbat had: induced
lim to return to the city of his birth,
vhore everything served to remind him
>f his undeserved disgrace. Absently
trusting his hand in his pocket he came
ipon the portrait and ring he had chained
the night previous.
It was with a shock of surprise that he
Irew them out. for he had forgotten
hem.
Taking them to the window he gave
hem a careful examination
There could be no mistake.
The portrait was that of his father,
ind the ring was too familiar for him to
nake an error concerning it But how
ame they in the room where he had
'ound them? Who was the young woman
n whose possession they apparently were?
uz? If, as he supposed,
she was no more
than twenty-five.
a she could have
A- been only about
seventeen when
Chis father died.
?"y?fr.M, -/fftt . The portrait was
?* ?*. wml fi- taken when she
wasaboutfive. It
was unexplained
<u~f> x*. e able> 0r- COQld
Madame Dela"?*? <*"*
mour be a dealer
y*" , in old relics and
Ctjffi &*<* ?*<* jewelry? It was
/?/ worth examining
into. But how?
He could not stir without showing
low he had obtained possession of the
irticles.
He returned them to his pocket and
loing so encountered the slips of paper
ie had found at the Bame time.
Both were written upon and he was
itartled by the similarity of the writing
:o that of his father. He endeavored to
>btain sense of what was written The
>ieces were evidently torn from letters,
rhe smaller one, that which he had
aken from the girl's fingers, conveyed
10 intelligence to him.
Dorison puzzled long over this, but
:ould make nothing of it. He examined
he other slip. It was in the same hand.
s
?
t44 iHmXiI ?^ilmiiny
T-As. -tf t
'/kwj'c ?/ ^"??g"
"^{?)l <u. < < ?? I O Lilt ?
<4 wil/Ml <S
<?M <&+u*yt+i)ft I it? ^44, 84^
>I>.^41 ??|^S |,'Mi/y6 .?<?
i*#U'^wO A
'<? ^?/ ? <a)iM4i iri^f r>. 1.1*1. /- 1 -1 ri ?
> t?m Auu ?.aXb> ?? .' t, A/ HYIIU
l?>*< ar~?y/*7* |f1,,,r
?** ? /?? ?vmn? ^i~*~Vi - 1
M M? M <w?
u. j<C? Cfyyii- j'-.j,, . r^ily
A little more intelligence perhaps was
o be gained Some one named Harold
lad evidently been doing wrong and
lad caused some one to pay out money
o repair the consequences of the wrongloing.
The more he studied the two
craps of paper the more he became conrinced
that the writing was that of his
atber.
Having exhausted speculation, he saw
aw it was after eight o'clock, and thinkng
it would be fully nine before he
:ould reach Mr. Nettleman's office, he
letermined to set out at once.
He did not notice that as he set foot
lpon the pavement a slight, undersized
nan followed him out of the hotel, nor
hat he entered the same stage he did,
lor that on reaching Wall street this inlividual
followed close after him and
lad business in precisely the same direcion.
He was too much preoccupied in
he events through which he had just
jassed to give heed to matters about him.
As it was, the slight, undersized inlividual
followed him directly to the
loor of the building in which were Mr.
Nettleman's offices, even ascending the
itairs to the second floor, where they
vere situated.
The old gentleman was at his desk, inently
reading the morning paper. As
Jorison entered he looked up, and cried
rat with animation:
"Ah, is that you? Do you know that
i murder was committed last night in
he very house where we met?"
"Yes," replied Dorison, sitting down
jeside the desk. "I was still there when
t was discovered. Indeed, 1 may claim
;he honor, if honor it be, of discover*
ng it."
"Oh," said the old gentleman, highly |
interested. " Were you the one who first
saw the drop of blood?"
"Not that, but 1 was the one who
forced my way through the rear, found
the body and unfastened the door for
the police."
"But the papers say it was a man
named Dudley?James Dudley. That is
as near as the papers get to it"
"The papers are right on the information
given them," said Dorison. "It is
about that very name I have hurried so
early to see yen this morning. You will
recollect 1 told you that when 1 left the
city eight years ago 1 did so under an
assumed name. That was the name 1
used,' and under it 1 registered when I
returned to town yesterday morning."
The old gentleman recollected well,
and Dorison liastily recounted his fears
.that the police would discover the
assumed name through Mr. Nettleman if
not warned in time, and giving his
reasons for desiring to preserve his
incognito, he begged the old gentleman
to assist him in preserving it.
At this poin t they were interrupted by
a caller. Handing the morning paper to
? ? ?a. Li 1#
i Donuon tne oiq gentleman sat uiuuteu i
down with the stranger in a remote cor- !
ner of the room, where he held a whispered
convention.
After the stranger departed Mr. Nettleman
return ad to Dorison, his fine old
face wreathed in smiles.
"Not a moment too soon. That was
an agent of the police come to inquire
about yon, just as you had anticipated.
Oh, 1 was discreet! Do not be alarmed.
1 vouched for you. I assured him your
name was Dudley, that you had arrived
in New York yesterday morning after an
eight years' absence, and I told him the
one be was inquiring about was you sitting
there. I threw the mantle of my
friendship and protection about you."
Well pleased that he had moved so
promptly, and congratulating himself
over his narrow escape, Dorison attempted
to lead their conversation back to the
subject of the evening previous, but
there was another interruption.
A short, stout, elderly man entered,
whom Dorison at once recognized as the
old man who had pushed his way into
the room of the murder, with both hands
in bis vest pockets, the night previous,
and who had done not a little toward
directing suspicion toward himself.
As be entered Mr. Nettleman cried
out' jocularly: "Hello, Simon the Cellarer!
Come here and sit"
The old man crossed the room with a
contorted face, which required the aid
of imagination to recognize a smile.
As he sat down Mr. Nettleman in
high spirits said, turning to uonson:
"My yonng sir, 1 want yon to know [
this man. He is my cousin, who was
brought up with ma Simon Cathcart.
I call him Simon the Cellarer. Did you
ever hear of Vidocq? There he is. Only
a greater one. He's u ferret?a ferret,
? V
nr.
The old gentleman leaned back in his
chair greatly amused over his own wit
and the perplexed face of Dorison.
All the time the sharp little eyes of the
newcomer were keenly scrutinizing Dorison.
"My cousin," he said slowly, "is a
very funny man. He thinks it very funny
that 1. who have spent my life as a
detective in the west, having accumulated
enough money to make me independent
at least, should, having nothing
in the world to do, follow from interest
occasionally my old business. Well, I
don't object. I get even with bim, for
he has to look after my investments for
the privilege of being funny at my expense.
It was you," he continued, breaking
off suddenly into a new subject,
"who brought me here this morning."
"I," cried Dorison in surprise. ,
"Yes. When you were giving an account
of yourself last night, Cousin Nettleman
was mentioned as having talked
with you, and I came down to see what
he knew abouj you."
"You don't suppose me to be connected
with the murder, do you?" asked Dorison,
amused by the directness of the old
man.
"No. 1 know you are' not But,
young man, you are not a good actor.
Any one could see you were concealing
something. The man who examined you
saw it at once. You are an object of
suspicion. You are shadowed now."
"Me? Shadowed? How do you know?"
"1 do know it, and that is enough,"
enf/1 tVio man nnaitivelv.
"Ah!" cried Mr. Nettleman enthusiastically,
"this is the very man to help
us. Simon, do you recollect the day
we went down to Coney island last summer,
when 1 told you at dinner that
strange thing about my old friend Dorison?'
"Perfectly well."
"And how he was found dead with a
letter Written before him?"
"Yes, charging his only son with certain
crimes."
"The same. And you recollect I said
1 believed the son to be innocent?"
"Yes. You said that the letter was to
be accounted for on one of two grounds.
Either Mr. Dorison was insane, or that
if he had been permitted to finish bis
letter it would have been found he did
not charge his son with those things."
"Precisely."
"And I told you that if you had stated
correctly the words of that letter, the
second ground fell and you'd have to
stand on the first And I further said
that it would be a pretty case to work
up."
"Precisely. Wsll, this young man is
the son."
There was no expression on the old
man's face as he turned it upon Dorison,
but his eyes showed a greater interest.
"You gave the name of Dudley, last
night?" he said.
"Yes," replied Dorison. "That is
what I was concealing. After my
trouble, and when I fled the city, I
' changed my name."
"1 see."
"Now," said Mr. Nettleman, briskly
and quite excitedly, "1 recognized him
last night by a trick he lias of handling
his cigar precisely as his father did, besides
his strong resemblance, so I sought
fcim in conversation. More than that, I
have promised to aid him in trying to.
get at the bottom of this mystery.
Simon, will you assist?"
"Yes. It's a pretty case, and it will
please me to unravel it if I can."
Much agitated, and not a little moved
j by the enthusiasm shown, as well as the
! conviction evinced by Mr. Nettleman
| that he was innocent, he failed to notice
the manner in which Cathcart had taken
! the case to himself and quietly assumed
I that he only could unravel it. He got
i np from his chair to walk about to quiet
1 himself. As ho did so ho thrust his
! hand in his pocket and felt the portrait
| and ring.
j He returned quickly.
"You say," he said earnestly to Mr,
! Cathcart, "that you saw I was trying to
- conceal something last night?I was.
I Something had occurred between the
j time of my entering and my admittance
I of the police which I did not speak of?
1 which I was concealing."
"Ah!" said the ex-detective, interested
at once.
Dorison took the portrait from his j
pocket and handed it to Mr. Nettleman,
. saying:
i "Do you know that picture?"
"Do I know it? Why, of course I do.
It is a picture of your father taken nearI
ly thirty years ago. And a very good pic- j
' * " r% _ # 1 .4.0 \T i ? I
I ture It 13. UO 1 Know n." lea, iuuccu, ;
and I can tell yon who took it. Freder- !
1 icks did. I was with your father when i
J it was taken. Ho had two, one of which. j
i ho gave to me. Where did you get this !
one?"
Without replying, Dorison took from. ;
his pocket the seal ring.
"Do you recognize this?"
I Much astonished, Nettleman took the j
ring in his hand and examined it closely, r
"I gave that ring to your father," he j
said, "the.day before he was married,
i He gave ? a hajf dozen of his young |
friends a dinner that day, and we each
made him a little present. This was
mine."
Be handed it back. The ex^etective
was an interested observer.
Dorison now asked Mr. Nettleman 1
whether he had any letters or documents
in his father's handwriting.
"I ought to have plenty of his letters.
Let me see. 1 did all bis insurance for
years. 1 gave up that business in eighteen
hundred and sixty-one. Let me look
at my eighteen hundred and sixty box. <
You are younger than 1 am, take that 1
stepladder and hand me from that upper
shelf the box with '1800' on it" *
Dorison did as be was requested and 1
brought the box to the old man, who,
opening it, ran over its contents and J
finally picked out a letter or two. 1
Dorison handed him the two fragments
of paper, saying: 1
"Please compare the handwriting on (
those two fragments of paper with my
father's letters and tell me what you 1
think." 1
The old gentleman, much excited,, did
so and exclaimed: '
"It is the same! There can be no '
doubt about it There is no doubt
about it" (
Doriaom. reaching; out. his hand, recos.-*
ered the two fragments of paper, and 1
turning to Mr. Cathcart said:
"Last uight, as you know, I reached ;
the room where the murder was com- '
mitted first and alone. On a small 1
round table near the sliding doors I
found this portrait and the ring. In the 1
nf fl,a mnrderod nrirl WAfl t.hia |
UdUU VI UUV U4 ?*w. v?> O ~~ ~ " <
smaller slip of paper, which I took from i
,t On the floor this larger slip. You 1
?n imagine my amazement on finding
my father's portrait and the ring I had i
10 often as a boy seen on my father's j
finger. Hardly knowing what I was do- j
ing, I placed all in my pocket when 1 ]
knew, the police were about to enter. (
This is what 1 was really concealing."
Mr. Nettleman looked with astonish- (
aient on the young man. almost helpless <
in surprise. j
"A rather serious thing to do," said j
;he ex-detective, "but I think I would
have done the same thing had I been in ,
your place."
"I have no regrets now," replied Dori- (
son. "But I am puzzled to know how
they got there, and what connection
there could have been between that girl
and my father."
The ex-detective got up, and placing
his hand in his vest pockets, walked up
and down the room in a deep study, the
others watching him as he walked.
After a time he said to Dorison:
"You want to find out the mystery of
that unfinished letter, and to prove that
the charges under which you have rested
for eight years are unfounded?"
"I do. most earnestly."
"1 earnestly want to find out who committed
that murder. I am impressed
with the idea that iu the discovery of
the one will be found the revelation of
the other. Well, then, let us join our
forces and work?give ourselves up to it
and do nothing else."
"There is an obstacle so far as 1 am
concerned," said Dorison.
"What?"
"1 ain without funds. 1 work for my
living, and must return to Dnbnqne to
my position."
"There is none," eried Nettleman. "1
have plenty, and"?
The young man interrupted the impetuous
proffer with an indignant gesture,
saying:
"I am not an object of charity."
"Will you take employment from me?"
asked Cathcart calmly. Perceiving the
young man to hesitate, he added: "The
pay will be one hundred and seventy-five
dollars a month and expenses?employment
to continue until the murder of
last night is ferreted out."
The young man's blood flushed into
his face and he inclined a glance full of
wonder upon the one making to him so
singular a proposition.
"1 mean it," added Cathcart. "I had
determined to enter upon the case of the
murder before 1 came here, and I foresee
I shall need just such a man as you are.
It will be hard work, and you will find
me a hard taskmaster. I offer you small
wages because there is the additional incentive
in the possibility of the discovery
of the secret that worries you. Come, is
it a bargain?"
"Where is youf profit?" asked Dorison.
"That is my affair," sharply replied
Cathcart, and seeing Donson's face
darken, he added, "There is plenty of
profit for me, but I am not going to tell
how or how much."
"I will accept the employment," said
Dorison.
"I do not see why I am pushed^ aside,"
said Nettleman reproachfully. "Do you
think I have no interest in this matter?
T . nnmmi.nHirolv vnnnC Til ftTl.
return it; a pudding dish, a little flavoring
extract, some baking powder, ,
or some oil. If they were asked if ,
they returned all this, they would answer
: "Certainly not; why we would ]
be just as glad to lend them." And (
the result is that your servants, imita- ,
ting youi*example, become systematic
plunderers of your neighbors. My ,
friend, do not get into the habit of borrowing.
It is one of the most vicious
you can possibly acquire. It makes
you lose all respect for the rights of
other people, and it can certainly give
you none for yourself. The persistent
borrower is a more or less well spoken
of thief. The borrower does not hide
her light under a bushel, for in time
her friends and acquaintances grow to
know of her weakness and avoid her.
So stop at the book, and do not permit
yourself to drift into, what it is charity
to call, a very bad habit.
Womkn Who I'lkask Men.?Man,
in many respects, is a peculiar animal,
says a writer in The Ladies' Home
Journal. He is easily persuaded by a
woman, but cannot be driven. A
o.w.l.c o imiiii'w ml miration. :
WUUiiill ? uw nvcao ** ~ #
and says by her demeanor or by suggestion,
"Admire my beauty or my j
brightness," is the woman from whom !
a man will turn quicker than from i
anything else. A woman always |
makes a mistake when she attempts to
force her beauty or her talents upon a j
man?or another woman for that mat- I
ter. A woman who seeks admiration i
always reminds me of a hollyhock, con- :
spicuous and flaunting, and anxious to {
be seen. Now, men never care for j
hollyhocks. It is not a man's favorite !
flower. The violet, or a half-blown \
rose is more to his taste. Go where ;
there is a company of well dressed i
men in evening costume, with boutonieres,
and if in season, the violet and 1
the rose will be seen upon the lapel of 1
nearly every coat. And what is true 1
with men of flowers, is true of what i
he always associates with them?women.
A man likes to discover a violet
or a rose; he wants to find out its
charm himself; he doesn't wish a directory
to aid him in this, and he is very
1 am wuiyaiavi?u?; ??VM| J 0 ,
and what I ain I owe to the aid your father
gave me over many years. That
mystery which has clouded his name has
been a sorrow to me these many years,
and I've wanted to clear it up without
seeing my way clear to beginning until
now. 1 can do bat little more than contribute
to the expenses of this search."
"We will arrange that matter between
ns," said Cathcart before Dorison could
interpose a word. Then turning to the
young man he said: "Do you now go
straight to your hotel and stay there
until I call upon you. Before you begin
work I must find some means to get that
shadow off your track."
With this he hurried off, leaving Dorison
and Nettleman together, astonished
at his abrupt departure.
[TO HE CONTINUED NEXT WEEk.]
An Editor's Duties?The New
York Journalist says: A good many
people do not know that an editor's
selections from his contemporaries are
quite often the best test of his editorial
ability, and that the function of the
scissors is not merely to fill up the
vacant spaces, but to reproduce the
brightest and best thoughts and the
most attractive news from all the
sources at the editor's command.
There are times when the editor opens
his exchanges and finds a feast for his
eyes, heart and soul. The thoughts of
his contemporaies glow with life. He
wishes his readers to enjoy the feast,
and he lovingly takes up his scissors
and clips and clips, and sighs to think
that his space is inadequate to contain
all the treasures so prodigally set before
him. Your true editor is generous,
and will sacrifice his own ambition
as a writer during such festal oc- '
casions, and it is far more profit to his
readers to set before them the original
dish of dainties with the label of the
real author affixed, than to appropriate
its best thoughts to himself and reproduce
them as his own. After all,
the true test of a newspaper's real value
is not the amount of original matter
it contains, but the average quality of
the matter appearing in its columns,
whether originul or selected.
The Longest Telegraph Lines.?
The longest telegraph line in the
world extends from 18 Old Broad
street, London, to 29 Cable street, Calcutta,
a distance of over 7,000 miles.
A irentleman went into the London
olfiee a short time ago, and was shown
the Morse printer in connection with
the main line from London to Teheran.
Whilst he was there the instrument
was switched on to Calcutta without
a break. The signals were excellent,
and the speed not less than four words
per minute. The wire runs through
Etnden, Warsaw,Odessa, Kerth, Triflis, I
Teheran, Bushire, Jack, and Knrra- j
chce to Calcutta. Another long line ;
of telegraph is that over which a ea- ;
blegram can be sent between British
Columbia and New Zealand. The i
wire crosses North America, New
Foundland, the Atlantic, England, '
Germany, both in Europe ami Asia, !
China, Japan, Java, and Australia, j
making nearly the circuit of the globe. |
gftisdlancous Reading. ! ct
================== | ti
WHAT A WOMAN CAN DO. *
She can talk faster than a man can ti
sear. tl
She can say "No" and stick to it for I
ill time. p
She can also say "No" in such alow, n
soft voice that it means "Yes." o
She can eat her breakfast in bed and i<
jnjoy it. This is something that no h
nan can do.
She can sharpen a lead-pencil if you
jive her plenty of time and plenty of P
pencils. c
She can see in a great big selfish e
bulk, qualities which he does not and a
sever did possess. P
She can dance all night in a pair of h
ihoes two sizes too small for her and 0
rnjoy every minute of the time. 1
flho r>aaa a riianlav window of a dry k
|/MWW M >. ? v
;oods store without stoping?if she is P
running to catch a train. ^
She can appreciate a kiss from her a
ausband seventy-five years after the 4
ceremony has taken place. a
She can walk half the night with a P
collicky baby in her arms without
ance expressing the desire to murder t
the infant. '
She can suffer abuse and neglect far
years, which one touch of kindness or ^
consideration will drive from her recol- *
lection. "
She can go to church and afterwards c
tell you what every woman in the <?cn- ?
jregation had on, and in some rare in- *
stances can give a faint; idea what the I
text was. c
She can look her husband square in *
the eyes when he tells her some cock- fl
and-bull story about being "detained *
at the office," without betraying in the c
least that she knows <him to be a colos- 1
sal liar. 1
She can rumple up $17,000 worth of *
dress goods and buy a spool of thread, r
with an order to have it delivered four 1
miles away', in a style that will trans- J
fix the proprietor with admiration. *
She can go into convulsions at the
3ight of a mouse, and five minutes la- ?
ter she can listen to her husband's (
3tory of his financial ruin with a lov- I
ing smile on her face and with a cour- 1
age in her heart that comes not within
the knowledge of men.
She can?but what's the> use ? A
woman can do anything and everyJ
^QKo nar Ha
tU!Ug, UUU UU 11/ 1TWI. uuu Uv
more in a minute than a man can do
in an hour, and do it better. She can
make the alleged lords of creation bow
to her own sweet will, and they Will
never know it. Yes, a woman can do
everything, with but one exception :
she cannot climb a tree.
ORIGIN OF PORTER*HOUSE STEAK.
A porter house steak, as everybody
knows, is part sirloin a?d part tenderloin.
Its origin is given in De Voe's
"Market Book," as follows: "Martin
Morrison kept a favorite porter house
at No. 327 Pearl street, New York,
near the old Walton House. It was a
popular resort with many of the New
York pilots, because here they were
always sure of a pot of ale or porter
and a 'hot bite,' including one or two
substantial dishes. On one occasion
in 1814, Morrison had had an unusual
number of calls for steaks, and
when an old pilot who dropped iA at
a late hour called for something substantial
to eat, he was forced to cut
from a sirloin roasting piece ^that he
had got for the next day's family dinner.
The old pilot relished his steak
amazingly and called for another.
This disposed of, he squared himself
iu front of his host and vociferated:
"Look ye here, messmate; arter this
I want my steaks off the roasting
piece ! Do you hear that ?' The old
pilot's companions soon learned to appreciate
these cuts, and it was not
long before they were all insisting on
having them. Accordingly Morrison's
butcher, Thos. Gibbons, of the Fly .
Market, asked him why he had ceased (
to order the large sirloin steaks. Mor- (
rison explained that he had found that j
the cuts from the small end of the sir- (
loin of beef suited his customers best, }
both in size and quality, and directed (
that thereafter, instead of sending him (
the sirloin roasts uncut, he would have ]
tV.nm nnf intn s>Vmna nr sfpilks as he
IKC1U VUV tUVV %>a ???.. ^
should direct. Gibbons daily order, j
'Cut steaks for the porter house,' soon ]
gave these the names of porter house ,
steaks, by which they became known ^
all through the Fly Market, especially ,
as this excellent cut rapidly became j
popular in all the public houses of the
the city." The name is now familiar |
wherever the English language is j
spoken. ,
THE HABIT'OP BORROWING. 1
It is the easiest thing in the world to !
begin by borrowing a newspaper, then '
a pattern; then a recipe, then a book ; !
some day a gown is borrowed to look !
at; another day one is borrowed to try
on to see if it would be becoming, then '
a little note goes asking that a fan be
lent; and the fan once borrowed it becomes
the easiest thing in ti e world to
get either a bodice, a bonnet, or a pair 1
of gloves. Now, when you began, if
anybody had told you that you were a '
moral thief, you would have been most
indignant; and yet that is just what
you are. It would be much more hon- '
est to borrow your neighbor's money
and never return it, than to keep up a j
constant borrowing of your neighbor's ,
belongings, getting out of them the j
wear that is not yours and the pleasure ,
that is by rights your neighbor's. :
What the mistress does, the maid does. ]
In the kitchen they do not hesitate to ]
n Tintont rott'ee not. and never i
ontemptuous of the woman who here,
bere and everywhere asks his admiraion.
The women who are popular
nth men are the women who impress
bem with their womanliness, and by
bis is meant that something that says
do not thrust myself forward, but,
erhaps, if you find me ydu may like
le." Men have always liked voyages
f discovery, and they like to seek the
leal woman and not have her thrust
er greatness upon them.
The Mormons.?The activity of the
roselyting Mormon apostles is indiated
by the expenditure for their travls
back and forth across the country
nd the transportation of their discilea.
It is estimated that two roads
ave earned $250,000 from this class .
f traffic alone within the past year.
,'hese roads are the Union Pacific and
be Kansas City, Fort Scott and Memhis.
The Memphis route brings the
oreigners from the southern Atlantic
eaports, ana ine uluuu xruviuu
hem from Kansas City to the Mormon
ettlements in the great West. Enough
roselytes pass through Kansas City
11 a year, says The Times of that city,
o keep the Mormon colonies in the
Vest'ever thriving.
Regularly every two weeks the conrerts
from foreign lands pass through
Cansas City in bands of from seventyLve
to 100. They are in charge always
f an elder who is sent by the MorQons
of Utah to work in Europe.
Lbout once every six months these
iroselyting elders return to the old
ountry after now flocks. They leave
Lmerica in bands. About eight weeks
go one of these parties passed through
Cansas City going eastward. It was
:ompo8ed of about seventy-five old,
nen and women, who shunned all Genile
contact. As fruit of the labor on
he other side over 5,000 converts have
eached Kansas City in about fifteen
nonths. A large number of them
lave been women. They come mostly
rom the. European peasant classes,
rhe men look lazy, and the women
ire almost beasts of burden. The ellers
in charge of the flocks will not
>ermit Gentiles to talk to their charges
nore than is absolutely necessary.
Cigarettes.?Cigarettes are not
ade out of the best tobacco in the
vorld in the first place, and to make
lp the deficiency in flavor it is placed
ibove burning opium so that the
'umes thoroughly permeate it. Every
>rand of cigarettes on the market conains
more or less opium. This is the
aste that boys learn to love, and it is
10 way akin to that of pure tobacco.
Burning paper generates oil of creoote,
a deadly poison. The cigarette
s lighted and the smoke inhaled. The
obacco leaves on the lungs a sediment
>f nicotine, which will kill a dog. The
japer deposits oil of creosote. The
umes of opium, ardused by the fire,
:rystalize into opium again. The
ungs are the great verandas of the
mman temple, where the heart takes
in airing once every second. The
iigarette smoker stuffs his heart with
licotine, opium and oil of creosote
ivery time it gasps for purification;
5iant Caesar's ghost?it will be your
fhost if you keep on. It is doubtftil
f the desire ever leaves one who has
>een an habitual user of 4he travesty
>n the habit the Indian taught us. To
luit is to enter a torment like that of
he desert straggler. To continue is
,o shove yourself into the grave, and
naybe further. There's something else,
i flower grows in Japan, one breath of
phose fragrance will kill a man; there
ire beings here at home, one whiff of
tvhose breath will make another man
wish he was dead, which is wicked.
Therefore the cigarette smoker is a
leadlier evil than the flower of Japan,
lince he prompts injury to the souls of
>tber folks.
He Was Every Inch a Soldier.
?A good story is told on one of the
jfficers connected with a local militia
;ompany. For a number of days be
'ore the inspection of tne citizen soiliery
the officer in question would each
ifternoon retire to the privacy of his
>wn bedchamber in the second story of
)f his residence, and after dressing
limself in full regimentals, would put
in imaginary company of soldiers
through a lively course of drilling.
He would clasp his sword at the hilt
Evith one hand and at the point with
;he other, and then walked backward
is if viewing the alignment of his
troops.
It so happened that while going
through this manoeuvre one afternoon
be walked abackward into an open
stairway, and tumbled into a heap on
the floor of the room below, and presented
anything but a soldierly and
lignified appearance as he lay there
rubbing his bruises. His good wife was
u the room attending to some housek~lrl
o.i/i oho rnahprl t/? the side
UU1U U U j (*14 VI 044V . uw?wv. WW
of the fallen hero, and in anxious and
tender voice asked him if he were
hurt.
With a quick bound her husbuand
regained his feet, and coming to an "at;ention,"
in a voice of thunder roared
out: "Hurt? No, woman ; what do
you know about war ?" and then ran
sack up stairs and dismissed his soliiers.
Yellow Pine.?The assertion is
made by the workers in ornamental
wood that yellow pine, hard fininished
n oils, is the r^val in beauty of appearauce
of any wood that grows,
not excepting the costliest of the well
known hard species, it being susceptible
of receiving, and maintaining as
high a degree of polish as any known
wood, while, when impregnated with
oil, it is well nigh indestructible. In
such a condition it is found, in fact, to
possess the valuable property of being
impervious even to hot grease and
other substances that leave an ineffaceable
stain upon such a great varifty ef
woods, including white pine, maple,
etc. The yellow pine characterized by
the valuable quality referred to, is the
long-leaf pine, or pinus australis, in
technical classification, and which
grows so abundantly in parts of the
South; and, as trees are found in this
species having a curled grain somewhat
similar to that of "curly maple,"
no other wood, it is asserted, is capable
of being fashioned into more beau
tiful work for cabinet purposes.
very large tree, one of the
largest in California, the country of big
trees, was discovered near Arlington,
Snohomish county, a few days ago. ft
is a cedar, and measures sixty-eight
feet in circumference. Around the
knotty roots the tree measures ninetynine
feet. About seventy-five feet
from the ground it forks into four immense
branches, and just above the
forks is a big knot hole. Five met
climbed into the hole and explored the
interior of the tree. It was found to
be a mere shell, and about forty-five
feet down it would ufiord standing
room for forty men. The tree is still
green, and a remarkable feature is said
to be that it is barked on the inside and
outside alike.
?e?F' Genuine sorrow is sometimes expressed
so strangely that the listener
finds it hard not to smile. A cose in
point is mentioned by a clergyman.
While passing a summer vacation in a
thinly setled portion of Maine, he was
called upon to officiate at the funeral
of a farmer who had died, leaving a
widow with whom he had lived in wedlock
for nearly half a century. After
the service the widow came to the side
of the coffin for a last look at the face
of the departed, and as she stood there
she heaved a deep sigh, and turned to
the clergyman to say, with perfect simplicity,
"Wall, I ruther liked him."
*lit