Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, November 11, 1891, Image 1
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______ "YOBKVILLE, S. C., WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 1891. NO. 40.
' ' ? - - ^ mi? T
THE MAN Wl
BY W. C.
11v " '
Whose Nom tie Flu.11
Author ol* "The I
[Copyright, 1891, by Cassell Publishing C
ment wit
SYNOPSIS.
Chapter 1.?John Dorisoh, son of the
-? head of the house of Dorison A Co., deceased,
returns after eight years of wandering
under a cloud, to the old home in
New York city. The basement is used as
a saloon, and stepping in Dorrison makes
a chance acquaintance with Job Nettleman,
who knew the Dorisons in their
best days
Chapter 2.?Nettleman leaves the
saloon and in a few moments blood is
seen trickling from the ceiling. The saloon
keeper and his customers rush to the
front stairway to reach the floor above.
/ * Dorison goes up the rear stairs and find a
** 1' a young woman weltering in blood. He
m also discovers-a miniaturejaoitait of his
father artd a fhmillarring on the stand,**
both of which' he secures. A scrap
of paper in the dead woman'b hand ana
another on the floor are also taken and secreted.
The entry of detectives and police
place him under suspicion. The room
is used as a costumer's establishment by
Mme. Delamour.
Chapter 3.?Dorison, using the alias
James Dudley, calls on Dettleman to help
him conceal his identity. At Nettleman's
office he meets Simon Cathcart, a private
detective, who engages him to assist in
working up the murder case. Dorison's
father died while writing the. letter, which
tho rnn nf rrrftVP
apphfcuuv acvujjcu iuv ovm w. 0
crimes. The scraps found in t ie costurner's
room are in the handwriting
of Dorison, senior, and appear relate
to thesubjeot broached in tne un inished
letter.
Chapter 4.?Madame Delamour, the
costumer, is Mrs. Farish. Cathcart goes
to her private house and tinds that she has
been murdered in the same manner as
the young woman in the costumeris shop.
The latter was Mrs. Farish's daughter
Annie. A mysterious young man callod
on the Farish's at intervals, and on his
last visit went away angrv. Cathcart finds
a man's glove near Mrs. Farish's body.
Chapter 5.?Mystery in the Farish
house. Mrs. Farish assumed mourning,
? Annie withdrew from society and a son
disappeared, all about thedateof Dorison's
death. The glove found near Mrs. Farish's
body has an extraordinarily long
thumb.
Chapter 6.?Cathcart starts Dorison out
as a young man of fashion to discover the
wearer of the glove with a long thumb.
Chapters 7 and 8.?Dorison saves a
young lady from being run down by a
caiViage on Broadway. She is the daugh
ter of an old friend of his father, Mr.
Fnctfjtre
CHAPTER IX- .
THE MAN WITH A THUMB.
He turned to go out when he saw the man
with the thumb enter the door.
Lost in gloomy thought he wandered
on, caring little whither he went. He
reached Third avenue without knowing
why he bad walked in that direction.
Near the corner an elderly man, with
long hair and beard, had erected a frail,
low platform which he had lit up with oil
lamps. He was an itinerant phrenologist,
and was holding forth in long words
and execrable grammar npon the marvelous
head of a 6treet gamin he had per
A?xt*ninofiAn Ouor
bQttUCU IU bUUUlil iu c^dmiuauvu. v*v*
bis bead was a placard. "A man is
wbat be makes himself."
Dorison did not ask what pertinency
the aphorism might-have to the old man's
occupation, but applying it to himself
langhed bitterly, and asked alond: "Is
that so? What am I bnt the football of
chance?a chip on the rushing waters of
life 1 can neither resist nor control."
He stopped idly to listen to the street
fakir as he gulled his auditors, standing
on the outer edge of the circle in a
shadow. Tiring of listening, he turned
to go, when his attention was attracted
by a figure which seemed familiar. A
glance sufficed to show that it was the
. young man he bad encountered at the
time of the accident to Miss Eustace,
who was so insolent. Perceiving that
he was not observed by the young man,
he determined to remain where he was,
rather than encounter for a second time
the one who had filled him with such
repugnance.
The young man, dressed as he was in
the afternoon, lounged under the shadow
of a covered entrance to the rear of the
corner saloon. As Dorison watched him
a man, sharp eyed and alert in his bearing,
taking note of everything about
him, passed by. Dorison heard a low,
shrill whistle, and thought he discovered
an exchange of signals between the newcomer
and the lounger, but so rapid and
inRicnifitiant were thev that, perceiving
no change in the attitude of the young
man, and seeing the other one pass on,
he concluded he was mistaken.
A moment later the sharp eyed man
returned, passing close to the lounger in
the shadow, and this time Dorison saw
plainly that a folded paper was transferred
from the lounger to the passer by,
who went on a little distance and then
sauntered back. As he passed the
lonnger he said, without turning his
head:
"When?"
"Tonight," replied the lounger.
The sharp eyed man joined the circle
of those listening to the phrenologist,
listened a moment, and then stepping
back said:
"What hour?"
"Between twelve and one," came the
answer from the lounger.
The alert man again joined the circle,
and again listening a moment stepped
back and Dorison beard the further exchange:
"How many?"
"Three."
With this the alert young man walked
off rapidly toward the corner and disappeared.
The lounger emerged from bis
shadow and went off in the direction of
Broadway. "Mysterious,"
muttered Dorison.
"Now, what can thut mean? If I were
Cathcart I presume 1 would construct
the theory of a great crime or a huge
conspiracy."
He came out of the dark corner. A
young woman was coming down the
street intent upon her own thoughts,
humming a tune. As she came opposite
the entrance to the saloon referred to as
the one under the shadow of the cover
of which the antipathy of Dorison was
lounging, the door was nung open ana a
loudly dressed man. partially intoxicated,
came out.
Seeing the young woman he cried out:
"Hello, Bess, old gal."
"Go 'way," she replied, trying to evade
him.
But he reached forward and, catching
her by the arm, tried roughly to pull
her to him, as he said, with a taunting
laugh:
"No, you don't, my bird. Come here
and give me a kiss."
_ "Let me go," cried the girl, struggling
to free herself. "Let me go, you big
loafgr, or I'll call the police."
I
h
I
TH A THUMB.
HUDSON,
tie is Barclay IVorth,
)iamond Button."
ompany and published by special arrangeh
them.]
"Or, Johnny the Grip, eh? Oh, no, you
don't go until you give me a kiss."
He bent over in an endeavor to carry
out his threat when she dealt him a
smart blow upon his cheek with her
open hand.
With an oath he made a motion as if
to strike tier, wnen a policeman, running
from the corner, cried out:
, "None of that, now."
Dorison, before whose eyes this scene
had been enacted so rapidly that he
could not interfere, supposed the cry of
the policeman was addressed to the
ruffian, but to bis surprise he saw Jiim
"Pre been looking for this. Now I'll
take you in."
"I've done nothing," 6aid the girl in
alarm. "He insulted me for no reason."
"Oh yes! Of course. That's likely,**
cried the officer, scornfully.
"Officer," interposed Dorison, "you
will do an act of injustice if yon arrest
this young woman. I was a witness of
the whole thing."
"Do you know this woman?"
"No, I don't, bnt I know she was not
to blame in this matter."
"Well, I do," persisted the officer.
"Whether you do or not," replied
Dorison, "you mustn't arrest her for
anything she's done tonight. If you
commit such an outrage I'll make
trouble for you."
"Are you a 'pal* of her's?"
"I'm a 'pjil' of nobody," said Dorison
with dignity.
"Do you know what she is?' asked the
officer with a sneer.
"No, and I don't ask. But 1 dc know
she was passing along the street quietly
when this ruffian came out of that door,
and seizing her tried to kiss her, an indignity
she very properly resented. You
must not arrest her; if you do I will
make a complaint against you where it
will trouble you. If you must arrest
' any one arrest the rascal who molested
her."
Impressed by Dorison's stern manner,
4-u.rv IAATTQ/1 PAF fVio nff/anilMr dp.
tau UiUV/Ci iwavu 4.W4 4MV
nounced and to the surprise of all he had
disappeared.
"He's had some reason for sliding out,"
said the officer to himself. Then turning
to the girl he said:
"You're in lnck tonight in havin this
swell at your hack. You look out though;
I'm watchin you."
The girl, who had not spoker a word
during the passage between th officer
and Dorison, now turned to the latter
and said:
"I am obliged to you for yoi.r kindness,
sir. You've got me out of a bad
i scrape, sir."
The policeman had gone back to the
| corner. The girl, watching him, laid
' her hand upon the arm of Dorison to detain
him.
'Tm not what that man wants to make
me out. I've got a man I am as much
married to as if the priest had 'said the
words. That man?the polictman?has
been following me for a year, md he's
got it in for me because I told t m to go
about his business. The otht: man's
crooked?he's a thief, and my man knows
he is. I won't forget your kindness. It
isn't every swell as would interfere to
help a woman like me."
She went off nodding and smiling.
"I'm in for adventures today," muttered
Dorison, as he retraced his steps
through Twenty-ninth street to Broadway.
"I wonder if destiny directed me
this way to help that poor girl. Apparently
I have an occupation in life?
the rescuing of pretty young women. It
does not promise to be remunerative,
yet if thanks were coin I wonld be rich
tonight."
The incidents of the evening had
I stirred him from his gloomy thoughts,
; and his mind reverted to the episode of
the early afternoon, bringing the fair
; young face with violet eyes and cluster;
ing golden curls before him. In what
j direction his thoughts strayed may be
! judged from the remark he muttered
aloud as he turned into Broad way.
"It was a sunbeam shot athwart
I dark life, and as unattainable as the sun
I itself."
Arriving in front of Daly's theater,
upon a sudden impulse he turned in
and bought a ticket Though the cur!
tain was up the play had not progressed
! far into the first act when ho found him'
self comfortably seated.
Passionately fond of the drama, he
was soon engrossed in the brightness of
the dialogue and the skill of the sterling
J favorites, Rehan and Lewis.
Immediately in front of him sat a genj
tleman with whom he had a slight ac;
quaintance. Beside this acquaintance,
I evidently his companion, sat a j*oung
| man whose countenance he noted was
i the most attractive he had ever seen in
a man. Somewhat plump and fair, good
humor, intelligence and refinement
: reigned in it. He further noted that
the young man was endowed with a
i head of hair which should by right have
I been bestowed upon one of the other
sex, for it was pure golden, fine, 6oft,
I silky and curly. From time to time, as
j interest in the play flagged, Dorison
! turned to look at that kindly, winsome
| face, remarking how ariless and re|
eponsive it was without losing a particle
; of manliness.
"Yet," he commented, "such a face, I
take it, would win more with men than
with women."
By and by the young man who had
thus attracted his attention threw his
arm over the back of the seat, permiti
ting it to hang limply behind him.
Dorison started violently. He turned
' pale and a feeling of sickening faintness
i swept over him. Had not all faces been
; intent upon the stage his marked agita|
tion must have attracted the attention
j of all about him. He trembled in every
: limb.
There was the hand he had been bid|
den to seek.
Not only was it the hand with protni!
L-nn/.t'ldu ynd with ili?_
| UCUb JUIUtO auu anuvn.vo MTIAV* T* .VM
i proportionately long thumb, but it was
i incased by the mate of the very glove he
' had that morning examined.
It was the same in color, in quality, in
j form and in the peculiarity of its make.
I Like that one, it fitted in every part of
| the hand that wore it perfectly,
j For a moment or two everything swam
i before his eyes. He seized the arms of
| his seat to prevent himself from falling.
! The sensation, as powerful as it was,
| passed away and he got himself under
j better control. He studied the hand
and glove. There could be no mistake,
j The opportunity for close examination
was ample before the young man withdrew
his hand.
From this moment the drama on the
j stage lost all interest for him. He now
I was concerned in a tragedy before whose
dread events the puny happenings of the
; comedy paled into insignificance. He
studied the face of the young man with
; new interest and from another point of
view.
"It is the hand and the glove," he said
- to himself, "but it is difficult to believe
that that face could have beCTi concerned
i in such awful work!"
Yet, while he expressed this thought,
he did not falter in his belief that the
; murderer of Mrs. Farish and her daughter
sat before him. For a brief moment
he contemplated the wild idea of denouncing
the man there and then. This
was due to the strength of Cathcart's
theorizing. Though the old detective
would have laughed at Dorison's certain
ty, he could not have failed to have been
complimented by this sincere testimony
to the power of his reasoning.
What Dorison did determine to do was
to wait until the play was done and follow
the young man, with a view of discovering
who he was. He grew so impatient
for the curtain to fall, and 60
nervous over the slow progress the
comedy made, that, unable to sit still
longer, he left his seat and went into the
rear of the theater, from whence he
could command a view of the house and
not lose sight of his prey. After what
seemed to him an interminable time the
curtain fell and the large audience slowly
made its way out. As the two upon
whom his eyes were fixed approached the
spot where he stood, the companion of
the man with a thumb recognized Dorison
with a courteous bow and passed on.
Dorison followed. At the outer door the
twain stopped and conversed earnestly.
And suddenly, before Dorison could anticipate
the act, the man with the thumb
flung a laughing negative to some persuasion
of his friend, darted across the
pavements, leaped into a waiting carriage
and was rapidly driven away.
The other turned to watch the people
pass out. Dorison stepped up, and saluting
him, said:
"1 have been strangely attracted by
the face of your companion of the even2
?? I Unnn WAWAIIT PAAtl AT\Q TMATO tXM T1
Ulg. I ua> u xaictj owu wuv m*v?v .?
ning. May I ask his name?'
The gentleman, who was one introduced
to Dorison through the maneuvering
of Nettleinan, laughed as he replied:
"The common experience. Every one
is attracted by it. 1 tell him that, like
the traditional girl, he carries his fortune
in his face. He is as good a fellow
as it indicates. His name is"
At that moment a gentleman with a
lady on either ann addressed the speaker,
and the sentence was stopped short of
the information it was to convey." Lifting
his hat to Dorison with request to be
excused, he offered h's arm to one of the
ladies and walked away.
Dorison was disappointed, but he consoled
himself with the thought that the
information was not lost, only delayed,
since he could soon find the gentleman
who possessed it.
Quite excited he strolled down the
6treet and entered that great thoroughfare,
the Hoffman House. Having made
a tour of the corridors and the art gallery
without finding any one he knew,
he turned to go out, when he saw the
| man with the thumb enter the door.
To his great surprise, also, he saw the
young man whom he had seeu twice before
that day under most dissimilar circumstances?the
insolent young manstart
up from a corner and address the
other.
The man in whom he, Dorison, had so
great an interest returned a cold and unmistakably
haughty bow and passed on.
while the other colored, frowned and returned
to his corner.
The man with the thumb supplied
hiniRAlf with a eicar nt the case, went
oat again, and leaping into his cab was
driven off.
"Strange," mattered Dorison, "that
that man should cross my path three
times today, ending np with showing
he knows the man I want to know so
badly."
CHAPTER X.
j BY WAY8 UNKNOWN. ^
"The name of the gentleman you Inquired
about is Eustace.
Early the next morning, even before
he had breakfasted, Dorison sought the
old detective at his room.
"Have you found your glovemakerr
asked Cathcart as he entered.
"I have something much better," replied
Dorison. "The man with the
thumb."
"You are expeditious," said the old
man, so coolly as to dampen the ardor of
the j'ounger one, who rather anticipated
an outburst of surprise and excitement.
"It was purely by accident." he said.
"Well, tell me the story, and begin at
the beginning."
Thus adjured, his enthusiasm repressed
| by the total lack of it in the other, DoriI
son began with his entrance into the
j theater, omitting no detail.
When he had finished. Cathcart shook
j lis head dubiously.
"What is wrong?" anxiously queried
j Dorison. "Do you think I erred in perI
mitting the young fellow to get away
without learning his name?"
"No: that can be e;isily obtained. But
1 I distrust the conclusions of your infor|
ination."
Dorison was puzzled and Baid so.
"I mean this," said the old detective.
"Not only did you find a hand which
! answers perfectly to the one I want, but
! you found an exact mate to the glove
I which you examined yesterday morning.
' You have found too much. If you had
j found the hand without the glove, or the
1 glove without the hand, I would feel beti
ter satisfied. You have found so much
I at the first blush, which being establish!
ed would almost justify immediate arrest,
it shakes my confidence. 1 am
afraid your imagination ran away with
you."
"Not in this instance," said Dorison.
highly displeased and disposed to resentment.
"There could possibly be no mistake."
i "My sensation is one of disappointI
ment, and 1 give great heed to mysensa
j tions. Perhaps you may be entirely
right. But let me present a considera|
tion to you. You do not doubt that the
man who lost the glove failed to discover
his loss, do you?"
"No."
"Then having done so, recollecting
where lie removed it, and having committed
the murders, don't you think he
would be worried over the loss and
would fear that by it he had given a
clew to a search for himself?"
"Very probably."
"Do you think a man so worried
would don an identically similar pair
and go into so conspicuous a place as a
theater?"
"Well, what do you argue then?"
"Either that you have been grossly
' mistaken, or that the man with the
thumb is not the man wanted."
"You are discouraging."
"1 do not nieau to be so; we must bo
cautious in so important a matter as an
: arrest."
"You must see the man yourself then,"
replied Dorison, much nettled. "I can
do no more than tell you I have found a
man whose right hand corresponds precisely
in every particular, even to the
peculiar prominence of the second
' knuckle, to the hand you want, and
i who wears a glove precisely similar to
the one I saw yesterday morning. Now,"
; continued Dorison, growing more earnest,
"when I examined that glove I paid
less attention to the form of the hand it
fj,o? tn Hi? 111:1 kp kind and
lUUlLUkCU vv fc..v ..... T
color of tho glove?particularly the
color. 1 accepted your description of
tho baud as true. On seeing it I saw it
j was one of the kind a man of fashion
would wear in the evening."
"Ah!" cried Cathcart. interested.
"Follow up that point. Tell ine what
i you mean?"
"The man who wore it was in full 1
dress. Fashion's laws are inexorable.
At present it prescribes just that kind
of a glove for evening wear, just that
color. Probably ten thousand men wore
just such a glove last night in the cities |
of the east. Now, that young man, putting
on full dress, would naturally draw
on one of that kind. You said the man j
who wore the glove was a bit of a dandy.
This man is." |
"You have made a point," said the
old man. "The man we want, besides
having a big thumb and prominent
joints, was tall and slim, with brown
hair."
full FT a ViQrl fnrrrntfan I
LSKJk IDKJL1 a 1HWU 4VII. MW UMS4 I
this requirement. He hesitated to reply.
"Well," said Cathcart, "does your
man answer to that?"
"No," replied Dorison sullenly. "He
was short and plump, his hair was light,
a golden color." '
"Then he is either not the man we
want, or we have come upon a variation in j
our theory. However," added Cathcart, '
"that is not to say your information is J
j not important. Upon the contrary, it j
; is highly so. You must follow him up: I
make his acquaintance, gain his regard, j
an4 if possible get on terms of intimacy
with him. When you have found out
his haunts I must get a look at him."
"You would do all this believing he is
not our man," asked Dorison. with something
of a sneer.
"I believe nothing," replied the old j
man testily, "but I disbelieve nothing, i
You jump at conclusions. It is a bad j
fault, especially in an inquiry like the
one we are engaged in. You came here
certain you had found the murderer.
Now, upon the expression of a possible
doubt, you are certain he is not. Yet
yop have shown me a flaw in my reasoning.
I neither believe nor disbelieve
at this stage of the game. I am open
to conviction on all sides. This man
with the thumb must be followed up.
Obtain his name?all about him."
"I had two chances at him last night
I saw him afterward at the Hoffman."
"Indeed. Was he alone?"
"Yes, at the Hoffman. Though a man |
who had crossed my path twice before j
during the day accosted him."
"A frieud?"
"Evidently not. My man was cold i
and haughty toward him?came as near |
giving him a dead cut as he could with- j
out doing so."
"Who and what was the other?"
To- answer that question involved a j
statement of the episode of rescuing Miss
Eustace, the call of the father, and the i
strange incident upon the corner of j
Third avenue and Twenty-ninth street
When Dorison finished, the old man, I
who had been an attentive listener, said:
"The meeting of these two men was
mysterious. Something wrong there.
So this man spoke to your man, eh?"
"Yes, attempted to, but was repelled
by the other."
"Mr. Eustace rPscovered y<?nr strong
resemblance to your father. You must
follow that up. You must cultivate his
acquaintance."
"To what end?"
'He was intimate with your father,
and you may find him valuable in solving
the mystery of that unfinished letter."
"Oh," exclaimed Dorison, with peculiar
emphasis, "I had supposed that inquiry
was lost sight of in the superior
importance of the other."
The old man keenly regarded the other
as he gave expression to the slight sarcasm.
"Do you not know," said Cathcart impressively,
"that in the revelation of the
mystery of one the mystery of the other
will be revealed?"
Somewhat abashed, Dorison hesitated J
before he replied:
"You have not been particularly communicative
as to your theories. I have
followed you blindly."
"1 believe success is more surely attained
by keeping my plans to myself,"
replied Cathcart calmly.
"I do not complain," replied Dorison
hastily. "1 recognize my own want of
skill, and therefore am content to obey
implicitly."
"And thereby be most useful. Now
seek this man of yours. You need not
come to me until you have learned all
you can. Let me tell you for your own
satisfaction, that notwithstanding your
belief that the one thing in which you
are particularly interested is being overlooked,
that I have devoted the past
three days, and will possibly for several
days to come, to a most searching in
quiry into the relations your father
maintained for the years immediately
preceding his death. What I have
learned I shall not tell you, for 1 have
not yet digested it. As soon as you can
accomplish it, arrange so I can get a
good look at your man."
Dorison, as he walked away from
Cathcart, felt as if he was a very inexperienced
man, and had much yet to
| learn of the ways of the world.
It was in this frame of mind that ho
, Bought the Hoffman House for breakfast
The hour was not early, and he was en|
abled to obtain one of those tables ad|
joining the windows looking out on
J Broadway, where he could watch the
I tide of humanity us it floated by. He
was so much engrossed in this watching
that he did not observe a gentleman ris!
ing from a table near him, and cross the
I room to his own table. It wasBushnell,
the one whom he had seen in the theater
the previous evening with the man with
I the thumb
: 'I suppose an apology for my abrupt
| departure last evening is due you, Mr.
Dudley." he said.
! Dorison replied courteously:
j "The apology was made in the very
fuiwM uf interriintion."
| "I am glad you take it so politely. I'll
; answer your question now. The name
of the gentleman yon inquired about is
: Eustace, and there is uo better fellow
i alive than Charley Eustace."
"Eustace!" said Dorison in surprise.
I 'Eustace! iudeed. What Eustace?"
"He is the son of Herbert Clavering
! Eustace, an old New York family of
wealth and social position. Charley h:is
i beeu abroad for many years, having only
returned a few months ago. Do you
know the family?"
! 'I can hardly say 1 do, although I had
a call from Mr. Eustace yesterday evening
Earlier in the day I had the honor
, of saving his daughter from being run
over on Broadway, and ho called to
; acknowledge the service."
"Indeed!" replied Bushnell, "was she
I injured? I heard last evening she was
ill - i presume it was she who was illthere
are two daughters, you know."
j '1 did not know it." answered Dorison.
"Miss Eustace was not injured, though
she was knocked down by a horse; but
j that she might be ill from the shock she
received. I can readily believe."
'Yes, it tnust be she." returned Bushnell.
"Charley, who had not been home
to dinner?indeed lie maintains bachelor
i apartments?did not know of it last
night when we were together. She is a
charming girl."
j Dorison did not reply for a moment or
' two. His mind was busy with thoughts
of bow singularly the affairs of these
people were becoming tangled with his
own.
His companion rattled on:
j "I saw you were much attracted to
Charley last evening. Everybody is. He
carries the stamp of his goodfellowship
on bis face."
, "1 was much interested in him. Does
he follow a profession?"
'No: he has studied surgery here and
; abroad "
Dorison gave such a visible start that
his companion stopped in wonderment
and looked at him.
! 'It is nothing." said Dorison, casting
1 about for a reason for his involuntary
manifestation of surprise. "1 saw a man
at that moment on the street I could
! have sworn was two thousand miles
from here. You say your friend studied
: snrgery abroad?"
"Yes,.hero and abroad. But 1 doubt
If he will ever practice ft. He is independently
wealthy by the will of an
nncle. and lie has his share in his father's
estate, which is not small. Would
yon like to meet him?'
"Very much Indeed."
"He will dine with me tonight here
at six, and if you will join us in this ,
room at that hour I. will be pleased to
have you." i
Accepting the invitation gladly the 1
two young men parted at the door of the 1
restaurant. 1
"Fortune favors me," muttered Dorison
to himself. "The opportunity to observe
the young man Cathcart desired is
made for hiin. I must find him and 1
give him notice." (
The work of finding the old detective 1
was not so easy, and the greater part of
the day was consumed in the search, ludeed,
when lie was found, there was
! barely time left Dorison in which to prepare
for dinner and tneet his engagement.
_Lv* '
[to be continued next week.]
.. _ A*
gtU5CCuawuM;t> gwuuuij.
I*.
How Brave Soldiers Have Met
Their Fate.
CALMl.Y COURAGEOUS VETERANS.
Tlie Observations of a Light Artilleryman
During the Tremendous Struggle
In the Wilderness ? A Soldier Who
Fought Till Three Times Wounded.
[Copyright, 181)1, by American Press Association.!
|
**'" OW do men tlie in
iA battle? That is a
^ difflc,llt 'i11681'011 i
lato answer. Almost
Vpp-X every death is dif'
[ i t /^lrw\\\afc ferent. And the |
\\jJI Wjui nianner of the i
^J ' deat'' depends on i i
^ ||/g the won nd and on [
y 1\]' the man, whether i
he is chicken |
AK h \ hearted or brave, <
L. <whether his vital- i
I /J&jfiSW lfcy u lar?e or
^ /W^. small, whether he I j
'3 a ,,,an ?' act've i
imagination or is t
dull of intellect, whether he is of nervous I i
or lymphatic temperament. I will In |
stance some of the deaths and wounds that |
1 saw in Grant's last campaign. I |
1 was a light artilleryman, but fought as j j
an infantry soldier during the first two I j
days of the battle of the Wilderness. On i
the second day of that battle 1 saw more I |
men killed and wounded than i did before ' |
or after in the same space of time. I knew j |
but few of the men of the regiment in wnose i
ranks I stood, but 1 learned the Christian j i
names of some of thein. A man named i
Will stood next to me on my right. He |
was cool, brave, determined. In the morn- |
ing wheu the Second corps was advancing |
and driving Hill's soldiers slowly back, 1 i i
was flurried. Will noticed it and steadied !
my nerves by saying kindly: "Don't fire so | i
fast. This fight will last all day. Don't i
hurry. Cover your man before you pull |
your trigger. Take it easy, my boy, Lake I |
it easy, and j'our cartridges will las: the i
longer." During the day I had learned to |
look up to this man and to lean on him. i
Toward evening, as we were being slowly
driven back to the Brock road by I^ong- i
street's soldiers, we made a determined |
stand. I was behind a tree firing, my rifle
barrel resting on a stub of a limb as I took
aim. Will was standing by my side, bul; i
in the open. He, with a groan, doubled up
and dropped ou the ground at my feet. He
looked up. His face was pale. He gasped for
breath a few times, and then said faintly:
"That ends me. I am shot through the
bowels." I said: "Crawl off to the rear.
We are not far from the intrenchments
along the Brock road." I saw Will sit up.
and indistinctly saw him reach for his rifle,
which had fallen from his hands when he
fell. Again I spoke to him, urging him to
go to the rear. He looked at me and sail j
impatieutly: "I tell you 1 am as good as |
dead. There is no use in fooling with ma
I shall stuv here." Then he pitched for j
ward dead, shot again and through the
head. We were driven back by Longstreet's
men, and Will was ieft lying in a windrow
of dead men.
Late in the afternoon of the first day's
fighting in the Wilderness 1 saw a battle
exhausted private of a Maine regiment
"THAT ENDS ME."
* standing behind a largo oak tree. He held j
I his rifle loosely in his hands, the butt rest- j
ing on the ground. His back leaned heav- j
j ily against the tree. The soldier was not.
| shirking. The Confederates were directly
1 in onr front. The Maine volunteer was
j apparently resting in perfect safety, a i
| solid shot from a Confederate gun struck '
; the oak tree squaiely about four feet from j
| the ground, it did not have sufficient
force to tear through the tough wood. The j
| soldier, who had sought the protection of
! the tree to rest, instantly pitched forward
dead, killed by the concussion of the tree,
j His skin was unbroken.
J When the Second corps got into tiie
l Brock road intrenchments, on the after|
noon of the second day's fighting, a man a |
few tiles to my left fell dead, idiot just
I above the right eye. He did not groan or
j sigh or make the slightest physical move]
merit, except that his cheat heaved a few
j lime*. The life went out of his face in
: stantly, leaving it without a particle of ex- |
j pression. it was plastic, and as the facial
' muscles cotitracted it took many shapes.
| When this man's body became cold and j
| bis face bad hardened it was horribly distorted,
as though be bad suffered int.-nseiy.
A few minutes after lie fell another sol|
dier, a little farther to the left, fell with
! apparently a precisely similar wound. He j
I was straightened out and lived for over an
i hour. He did not speak, simply lay on his :
back, and ais broad chest rose and fell,
i slowly at first and then faster and faster
j and more and more feebly until lie wus
j dead. When his face hardened it wits alI
most terrifying in its painful distortion. I
i il.?;t<l men's faces wreathed in
smiles and heard soldiers say that they had
evidently died happy. 1 do not believe that
I the face of a dead man ever allows the
i meutul or physical anguish he suffered or
j the serenity he enjoyed before his death.
In the Wilderness, ill front of the 11 rock
' road intrenchments, 1 saw many of our
wounded burned to dentil. Must tliey not
I have suffered horribly? I am not at all
| sure of that. The smoke rolled heavily
: and lowly before the fire. It enveloped the
wounded men, and I think that by far the
larger portion of the stricken soldiers who
were roasted were suffocated before the .
flames curled around them. The spectacle
I was courage sapping and pitiful, and it
i appealed strongly to the imagination of
j the soldiers who saw it, hut I do not be|
lieve that t he burned men suffered greatly.
I saw near Spottsylvania, as my battery
wa> inoviue into action, a group of wound- j
| ed men lying in the shade cast by some
large oak trees, near which a field hospital
stood. All of these men's faces wero gray.
They silently looked at us as wo marched
J past them. One of these wounded soldiers,
j a blond giant of about forty years, was i
smoking a short brierwood pipe. His
j strong, white teeth were firmly set on the
pipe's stem. 1 asked him if he was badly
; wounded. "1 am having my last smoke,
young fellow," he replied. His dauntless
blue eyes met mine, and be bravely tried
to smile. I saw that he was dying fast;.
Another of these wounded men was trying
i to read a letter. He was too weak to hold
it steady, or his vision was clouded. He
thrust it unread into the breast pocket of
I his blouse and lay back with a moan. Tin's
j group of soldiers numbered eighteen cr .
' twenty. All of them were supposed to be '
fatal 1 j' wounded. T11ey received no atten
lion from the surgeons, who were working
at the r bloody tables, on which soldiers
whose lives could be saved were lying.
None of the fatally wounded soldiers
who had l>eeti abandoned to their fate
;ried aloud; none called on wife or mother
jr father or their childreu. They lay on '
the ground, pale faced and with set jaws,
waiting for their end. They moaned and
groaned as they suffered, but not one of
them flunked or cried for mercy. When '
my battery returned from the front, five or
tlx hours afterward, almost all of these 1
men were dead. Ixmg before the cam- i
-* --> f
paign was euueu i cuuciuucu lu?l
men seldom culled on those who were deari!at
to them, seldom conjured their north- i
trn or southern homes, until they became
ilellrious. Then, when their minds wander
"I'm n ^ '* * ,
ed and fluttered wildly at the approach of
freedom, they babbled of their homes.
Some were boys again and were fishing in
northern trout streams or gathering nut9
In brown leaved forests. Some wandered
through the pastures and meadows of their
family homesteads. Some talked to their
wives and children. Others stood, spougo
staff in hand, at the muzzle of their gnus,
Dr, rifle In hand, stood in buttle line. But
nearly all were delirious.
Wouuded soldiers, it mattered not how
slight the wound might he, generally hastened
away from the battle line. There
were many exceptions to this rule, as there
would necessarily l>e in battles where from
10,000 to 20,000 men were wounded. I per
sonallysaw but two men wouuded who
continued to fight. But I saw many
wounded soldiers inarching with their
colors. During the first day's fighting in
the" Wilderness I saw a youth of about
twenty years skip and slap his thigh. He
turned to limp to the rear. After he had
gone a few steps he stopped, then kicked
jilt his leg once or twice to see if it would
work, then tore the clothing away from his
leg sj as to see the wound. He looked at
it attentively for an instant, then kicked
jut his leg again. Satisfied that he was
not dangerously wounded, he pushed his
way into the battle line and resumed firing.
I'here was considerable disorder in our
line. Individual soldiers moved, uow a
few feet to the right, now a few feet to the
left, to find u position from which they
could see the Confederates.
One of these movements brought me
alongside of this wounded man. I could
see clearly from that position and pushed
Into the gaping line. In a minute or two
the wounded soldier dropped his rifle,
clasped his left forearm and exclaimed, "1
am hit again!" He rolled up the sleeves
Df his blouse and shirt. The wound was
very slight He bound his handkerchief
around it. picked up his rifle aud again
took bis place in the line. We fired together,
and faced each other as we reloaded
our rifles. I said: "You seem to be out
Df luck today. You had better get out of
this." His eyes blazed with anger. He
swore he would not leave the line until he
bad satisfaction for the wounds he had re
ceived Suddenly his head jerked. He
staggered, then fell, then gained his feet.
A tiny fountain of blood, teeth, bone and
bits of tougue burst out of his mouth. He
had been shot through the jaws. The lower
one was broken and hung down. 1
looked directly into his open mouth, which
svas ragged and bloody and tongueless.
He attempted to speak, and finding he
could not, lie cast his rifle furiously on the
ground and, clasping his broken jaw with
bis hands, staggered to the rear.
Next day. while fighting on the Second
corps' line, I heard the peculiar cry a
stricken man utters us the bullet tears
through his flesh. I turned to see who
HE SWOICE HE WOULD NOT LEAVE,
was hit. I saw a bearded Irishman pull up
his shirt. He had been wounded in the
left side, just below the floating ribs. "You
are done for. my boy," I said to myself.
The Irishman looked at the wound. The
color left his face. The uplifted shirt fell
from his hands. He leaned against a tree
for an instant, as though to gather strength
and to nerve himself. Then he lifted his
Bhirt again and, after lookiugat his wound,
gently poked it with one of his powder
blackened index fingers. Ho flushed redly
and grinned broadly with intense satisfaction.
He tucked his shirt under his trousers,
picked up his rifle nud was lighting
in the ranks before 1 had finished loading
my musket. The ball had cut a grove in
his skin only. The play of this man's face
was so expressive, and hisemotions changed
so quickly, that I laughed aloud.
Fit ANN WlLKESON
Looking Ahead.
The coming woman?she who is playing
with her doll today?is going to be well
equipped with the small silver for her
coming establishment. The custom of
giving single spoons on birthdays and ut
/~*l?lirtlfc. /Iii 11 rrlitoru nf I
V-'iiriMIIlfia i'lliic LU vusi livwv uwub?.vv.w W. |
the home is becoming so prevalent that
some silvei>.miths keep duplicate patterns j
for regular customers. The colfee and i
dessert spoons are selected in harlequin !
patterns; the tablespoons and the forks are i
preferred of a single design.
In some family circles different members |
take upon themselves the providing of one |
certain set of silver; as, for instance, grand- I
mother elects to give the dessert forks, an
aunt the dinner size, a mother the tablespoons,
and a father, perhaps, the dinner
knives, and so on. A single piece is select |
ed for each holiday, bearing the proper i
date and name, and when the small miss j
becomes a large one, exchanging eight |
years for eighteen, she hus a case of solid i
silver that represents a considerable sum, j
and is a valuable start in her housekeep- i
ing.
Another pretty custom in the same dl- !
rection is the reversal of this just recount- j
ed, where the children contribute, each of
them, on mamma's birthday to the home i
silver basket.?Her Point of View in New 1
York Times.
How Abyrtslnlau Women Tattoo.
Painting is temporary and needs frequent j
renewal. In many parts of the world we
una color designs, eiauoraie, curious, some- |
times beautiful, made permanent by tattooing.
The pattern and the method vary
greatly with locality. In some regions
men only tattoo, in others only women, in
others both sexes. Here it is confined to
the nobles, there to the servile. In Abyssinia
women chiefly tattoo. The whole
body is covered; even the gums are picked
blue. An old woman operator's tools were
a pot of blacking fcharred herbs), a large i
iron pin, bits of hollow cane uud pieces of
straw?these last for pencils. She marks
out the design, pricks dots with the pin
loaded with the dye, and goes over it repeatedly.
To allay the subsequent irrita- '
tiou it is plastered over with a green poultice;
the scab must not be picked ofE.? j
Popular Science Monthly.
l'attl's Ago.
There is a row about Patti's nge. The
Bible in her castle has been stealthily consulted,
and the date of her birth is fixed at
Feb. 18, 1647. Then she must have been
less then ten years old when she sang in
Cincinnati at Smith & Nixon's hall, near
Vine street, on the north side of Fourth,
with her sister, Mrs. Strakosch, and Ole
Bull drew his magic bow with the diamond
in it over his ancient violin.?Murat j
Ilulsteud In Cincinnati Commercial Ga
zette. '
A PICTURE OF THE CHILIANS.
Naval Cadet George W. Williams gives
an Interesting Description of what
He Saw on a Trip from Valparaiso
to Santiago.
Correspondence of the Yorkville Enquirer.
U. S. Steamship San Francisco,
in the Harbor of Valparaiso.?At
8 a. m., September 10, in company
with four of my messmates, I boarded
the parlor car attached to the Santiago
express, at the Puerto station, and ten
minutes afterward we rolled out along
the sea wall of the Valparaiso harbor
bound for the capital of Chili. For
the first ten miles the road runs along
the sea front, affording a fine view of
the hay, and then, when the valley of
the Vina del Mar river is reached,
makes a sharp turn to the right and
follows the winding course of the bed
of the stream, crossing and recrossing
as the winding hills make it necessary.
Just at the turn is the town of Vina
del Mar, with its summer hotel and
cottages, where the rich people of Santiago
and Valparaiso spend the hot
months of the year. Notwithstanding
its having lately been occupied by rioting
trdOps, we could see few signs of
pillaging beyond one or two broken
windows; but off the railroad, some of
the houses, we know from report, had
been burnt. Among them that of Senora
Balmaceda, the Spartan mother of
the late unfortunate president, who,
when her son showed signs of weakening,
would urge him to stand by his
colors to the bitter end, and who, on
account of her championship of her
son's cause, incurred the bitter hatred
of the opposition, so that when the
insurgent troops entered Vina del Mar,
the first house attacked was hers.
Pillaging in South America, from
the practice afforded in the frequent
national riots that occur, is a fine art.
The house is broken into in a quiet
business-like manner and completely
denuded of everything portable?valuables,
furniture, pictures, and even
wall-paper being carried off. The
building is then fired.
The next point of interest is Quillota,
where the opposition army cut the
railroad and the telegraph line, thus destroying
the means of communication
between Valparaiso and Santiago during
the battles around the former city.
From there we turn and twist up the
narrowing valley, constantly ascending,
until Llai-llai is reached, where we
have a 20 minutes stop lor DreaKiasi.
We attempt it, but the "mozos" have
evidently not been educated up to our
Spanish, and we finally compromise on
"snpa, cafe y cigarillos ; rather a light
meal after a forty miles ride through
the cool mountain air.
From Llai-llai to Santiago, is the
most interesting part of the road. For
the first twenty miles there is a constant
succession of gorges, tunnels, deep
cuts, high embankments and dizzy
trestles, after which we enter the valley
of the Mapocho, a broad level plain
fifty miles wide and hundreds of miles
in length, beyond the eastern edge of
which the stately peaks of the Andes
can be seen looming up through the
atmosphere. ?
We are now in agricultural Chili.
The haciendas, with their low mud
walls, adobe houses and bridges of
slender poplars, are passed in rapid
succession, and just as I am dropping
off to sleep in my comfortable chair,
the train runs intb a narrow street,
and a few minutes afterward stops under
the curved roof of the Santiago
railroad station. We get a cab and
are driven up the Alameda, a broad
thoroughfare having a driveway on
each side of a central avenue of trees,
the middle of which is ornamented
with statues of Chilian generals, placed
at intervals of a few hundred yards
apart.
Arrived at the Hotel Addo, we secure
rooms and the middle courses of
that breakfast, the ends of wincn
we demolished at Llai-llai, after which
we start out to see the sights.
The first place visited is the "Cerro
Sau Lucia," a rocky eraineuce several
hundred feet in height, with almost
perpendicular sides, on the top of
which, some three centuries and a half
ago, Don Pedro Valdivia, a Spanish
adventurer, set up the yellow standard
of his native laud and luilt a fort, thus
founding the present city of Santiago.
Since that event a broad, winding
stone wall has been built from the bottom
to the top, flower beds have been
laid out, grottoes excavated, statues
erected, and fountains constructed until
there is hardly a single square foot
of surface on the hill's sides that does
not show some evidence of man's handiwork.
At the extreme top is a summer
house, from which can be obtained
a magnificent view of the surrounding
country. Underneath you the city
spreads out over the plain, the trees of
the Alameda and those along the banks
of the Mapocho, giving a dark green
to the prevailing red of the tiled roofs
of the low houses, with their central
courts paved with red brick.
Out beyond the city's limits, the
plain stretches for iniles and miles,
the white walls of the hacienda houses
shining out clearly in the sunlight, and
then just as the land seems to melt
into misty indistinctness, you lift up
ovoc nnrl tlinro nlmnst, directlv
Juul V-J) ?? ? > ?
above you, are the great silent peaks
of the Andes, their snow mounted
heads dazzling bright as they reflect
the beams of the western sun, giving
you an overpowering feeling of the insignificance
of man's productions when
compared to these mighty works of
nature.
Down the hill we slowly walk, halting
once to read the inscription on the
monument erected to Valdivia, and |
again to view his armour and accoutrements
in their house near the gate.
And then, on reaching the level of the
street, we hoard a car for the Quinta
Normal, taking a roof seat, for which
piivilege we pay one cent American, to
the woman conductor.
Arriving at the Quinta, we wander
through the surrounding park, inspect
the zoological gardens containing sped- j
mens of the animals of South America,
and then enter the museum, where we .
spend an hour or more over the mum- |
mies, relics and trophies, finally returning
to the Addo for dinner at G
o'clock.
In the evening we take tea with an
American family, who two weeks hefore
rested in quiet security in the
American consulate at Valparaiso, {
guarded by the blue jacket sailors from
the American cruisers in the harbor ; j
out HOW I Hell HID D'lUtl \>iii in u.ti , .
have returned to their home ill Santiago,
where they give a hearty welcome
to visiting countrymen. Bidding good
night to our friends at 11, we walk j
hack through the silent streets of the
city, being closely inspected as we pass i
by the soldiers on duty as policemen, !
wearing their red bands, the disting- !
uishing mark of the opposition, with j
the proud air of victors.
The next morning we visit the Mineda,
the ollicial residence of the presi- ;
dents of Chili, a large jail like building
covering an entire block. Next we
visit the cathedral, with its high eol- i
limn supported roof; its marble floor, i
over which devout worshipers move in J
reverent silence; its allegorical paintings,
with a small closet box, a confessional
under each. Then last, but not
least interesting, the market place,
where can he seen the "peon,*' as the
poor class Chilians are known, in all
his glory.
These peons are the descendants of
the original inhabitants of Chili, and
the combination of Indian ferocity
with Spanish treachery, makes a combination
that is not advisable to butt
up against. Their dress consists of
rough cotton trousers and shirt, a poncho,
a bright colored braided garment <
with a hole in the centre, through ]
which the head is thrust, and a broad
brimmed white straw hat. Each and *
every one carries a long knife that 1
they are ever ready to use. i
The women wear black invariably, <
their head gear consisting of a "manta," i
a black shawl thrown over the head and i
drawn around the shoulders. These <
mantas are worn by the poorer class- <
es at all hours, but alter the church t
hour the women of the upper classes 1
throw them aside and don dresses i
made after the Parisian fashions. <
From the market we return to the j
hotel, take a late breakfast, pay a fare- I
well visit to our friends, and then board i
the train for Valparaiso, and go Speed- t
ing off through the gathering darkness 1
to the coast. The run is made in five i
hours, and at 11 p. m. the train draws
up at the station at the mole. We 1
hunt up the captain of the port, get i
permission to get off, and gladden the ]
heart of a Chilian boatman by em- 1
ploying him, and with the direction, '
"Buque de guerra Americano San i
Francisco" \ye shove off and go glid- i
ing through the shadow of the big. dry i
J--I * tha ]
UUt'K. post tllC Uiaua uuuo vt vuv
meraldo" and the "Champion," giving i
a "Pargo" to the one and a "no, no" i
to the other, and answer to their hails i
across a bright space of moonlit water, i
to the gangway of our gallant white i
beauty, where we dismiss the boat- i
men with a "peso," and a "Buenos ]
noches," and mount the ladder. We 1
are received on the quarter deck by I
the officer on duty with the most wel- 1
come words he could possibly utter: i
"The ship is under orders for home." ]
George W. Williams. <
? ? i
THE GOSPEL OF GOOD EATING. <
Since eating is the only subject on
earth, or in the heavens above the earth,
or in the waters under the earth, which 1
engages the thought of every human i
being, daily at least, it is not surpris- <
ing that wise men have said many <
notable things about it. Robert B. 1
Roosevelt, ex-minister to the Hague, !
who is known as the successor of Sam <
Ward, the most famous bon vivant of <
America, is perhaps as notable an exam- i
pie as can be cited today of the quick- ]
ening, generous impulses which good i
living gives to a broad nature. He i
has said:
"More divorces are due to an ill- <
regulated kitchen, when the trouble i
arises with the man, than from an ill- i
regulated morality. No husband ever <
abused or deserted a wife who always <
gave him a perfect dinner, unless driven
to it by dire force. Good cooking is at <
the foundation of all happiness, for
there can be none without it, and it ;
should be taught in our public schools <
i . / T> 1 1) i
ueiore eveu me -mice ivd,
Jay Gould says: "I do not myself
believe that any man can stand the
strain of a large business unless he
lives on the simplest food he can get."
But Richard A. McCurdy declares emphatically
in favor of French cookery,
and says: "An American salad to a
person just home from the other side
looks absolutely naked. It is almost
indecent."
Edward B. Harper, president of the
Mutual Reserve Fund Life Association,
says: "The gospel of good living is the
most important of all things earthly."
Henry Ward Beecher, before he had
dyspepsia himself, spoke in a similar
strain, denouncing sickness as criminal.
Dr. Robert Collyer said: "I think
the American people, take them all in
all, are the best livers of any people in
the world. I was only too glad when I
got to a land where I could live twice
as well as I could in my native country."
Charles A. Dana was seventy-two
years old last week. When he was
asked some time ago how he preserved
his youthful vigor as marvelously
as he has done, he said : "I live well
and take rational exercise. I have no
hobbies about plain and simple food,
but eat everything I can get that is
good and that I know by experience
agrees with me. Theories about eating
n.re n.11 nonsense. Experience must
govern every sensible man's selection
of his food."
Such sayings could be quoted by
columns and would only emphasize the
importance which every intelligent
man appreciates, if he stops to think
ol it, of care and discrimination in the
use of food. It was almost for a century
a standing reproach to this nation
that its people, richer in food than any
other people on earth, were almost the
worst cooks, and altogether the most
foolish feeders in the world. It is to
the infinite credit of the present generation
that such a thing can no longer
be justly said.
A VERY EASY LANGUAGE.
"Ibrahim" (Abraham), said a European
traveler in Palestine to his native
guide, "I want you to teach rae some
Arabic. If I wish to go into an Arab's
house, how ami to say to him, 'Let me
rest here, and give me some food ?'"
"You needn't say anything at all to
him, Effendi" (master), "but just walk
in, and sit down. As for food, if it
is his meal time he will give you some
without being asked ; and if it is not,
you will not get any, whatever you
say."
"And if I want to buy anything from
him, how do I ask the price of it?"
"You don't ask it, master, but just
point to the thing and show him some
money. If it is not enough, he'll hold
out his hand for more; and if he does
not give you enough of the things you
want to buy, whatever they are, you
hold out your hand for more, and so it
goes 011 until you are both satisfied."
"And in case we fall in with robbers,
-L - tr.?. tlT.ilf i t
WlliVl S II1C Allium iui ituiv. v. fire
?'"
"There is no Arubic needed in that
case, master. If there were only a sinpie
robber, my comrade Yacob" (Jacob)
"and I would kill him before he could
say one word; and if there were a
band of them, they would kill us before
we could say one word."
"And supposing I want to climb up
on to the roof of a house to look at the
view, what shall I say to the people of
the house?"
"Say nothing at all, but just climb
right up. Then the people to whom
the house belongs will climb up after
you and ask for money, and you'll give
them some."
"And if they are not satisfied with
what I give them, and begin to threaten
me, what shall I say to them ?"
"Don't say a word; just whistle for
me," replied Ibrahim, with stern significance.
"Hut if am thirsty, and see a man i
coming along with a pitcher of water, [
how am I to sav in Arabic 'Give me a '
drink ?' "
,4I)on't say it at all. Kfiendi; just j
catch hold of the pitcher, take a drink, j
and pass on.''
"And supposing I go into a native vil- I
lagc, and see there a pretty girl whom 1
I wish to compliment," asked the I
traveler, with a somewhat sentimental I
air, "how am I to express in Arabic j
'Vou are a beautiful child'?''
Ibrahim's small black eyes twinkled
appreciatively. "If you take my ad- j
vice, KH'cndi, you will not try to express
that at all. for if you do, her j
father and her friends will come up
and begin throwing big stones at you." j
Olio!" cried the traveler; "do you
speak from experience, my friend?" i
Ibrahim answered only by rubbing
the back of his head with a meaning
grin; and here the Arabic lesson end- !
ed. the traveler being by this time j
fully convinced that Arabic, if studied
in tiie right way, is one of the easiest
languages in existence. j
Fleet mail-uakbiekb.?me mlian
runners are familiar figures in
Mexico. They are employed by the
government to carry the mails among
;he Sierra Nevada mountains, and
nake better time than any animal that
can be employed. A runner will car*
ry from twenty to thirty pounds of
nail, and never be delayed by washcuts
or swollen streams. He is always
cn an easy run, that must carry him
ilong six or seven miles an hour at
east. AHe is nearly always dressed in
white cotton cloth, which makes him a
conspicuous figure against the sombre
green and black tints of the high mountain
levels, and which, late in the evenng,
causes him to look like a ghost or
spectre flitting among the pines and firs
ind moss-covered bowlders strewn
ilong the trail.
The trails, on the steep places, wind
backward and forward in stretches
from fifty to seventy-five yards in
length, in order to find a grade up
which a laden pack-mule can make his
way. But the athlete carrier does not
run the whole length of these windings
in descending a hill. He cuts off
the corners at each bend by placing his
hand on the edge of the trail and vaulting
to the lower level whenever the
two levels are not more than six or
seven feet apart. All this time he
never gives up the little dog-trot that
is carrying him forward rapidly and
3urely. The carrier will, in half an
hour, go down a mountain side that
would take the best mule in a bullion
train or the fleetest one ridden by the
little Mexican caballero, the best rider
In the world, half a day to accomplish,
[n ascending, too, the carrier has methcds
of taking shorter cuts up steeper
Inclines, so as to gain time and distance
it every turn.
First Love.?Ask any very young
lady what she thinks of "first love,"
and she will tell you that it is the
quintessence of all that is ecstatic,
compared with which any so-called
love that may come after it must be as
jky-blue skimmed milk to clotted
cream. Put the same question to an
enamored young gentleman of 18, and
and he will vow that it is the champagne
of human existence, to which
all subequent emotions dignified with
the name of love are mere Jersey cider.
But the mature of both sexes, in nine
cases out of ten, can tell you a different
3tory. Boy-and-girl love is but a faint
shadow of the intense passion which
often overcomes and enthralls the middle-aged.
The capacity for loving is not fully
developed in the young miss who has
just cast aside her dolls, nor in the
youth whose chin is but newly acquainted
with the razor. The enthusiasm
of these novices in the tender
passion is generally evanescent. Of
course there are exceptional cases, but,
as a general rule, love does not take a
firm root in the heart before the age of
twenty-five. Professions of undying .
affection fVom vouncr men of nineteen
or twenty are rarely to be trusted.
The question which a lady who receives
an offer of marriage should consider
is not merely whether she has
won the affections of her admirer, but
also whether, if won, she could keep
them. To have and to hold are two
things.
Curious Effect of an Earthquake.?The
recent earthquake in
northern California occasioned phenomenal
results in Sonoma county.
On the Polpula Rancho of J. E. Poppe,
the ground was cracked and seamed
in various places. From these narrow
openings in the earth large quan
tities of water of various temperatures
have been gushing forth ever, since.
In some places the water is ice cold,
while in others it is warm, reaching a
temperature of 100?. The Polpula Rancho
has always been noted for its many
springs, but the recent earthquake has .
opened up many new ones, some hot
and some cold, and caused the old ones
to gush forth ten times the amount of
their previous flow.
In town the flow of General Vallejo's
artesian well has been increased about
100,000 gallons per twenty-four hours.
On the Rhine farm of Jacob Grundlach
is an artesian well which has always
given but a meagre supply of water.
It was Gruudlach's intention to resume
boring operations, but the shake has
caused the well to send forth a large
supply of artesian water, and the idea
of having it sunk deeper has been abandoned.
On Captain Joye's farm, a
short distance from the town, the flow
of gas from his natural gas-well has
been increased to a great extent, and
a spring that has hitherto been cold
has been converted into a basin of hot
water.
Unpleasant Women to Meet.?
Women who wear diamonds with cali
co dresses.
Sneering women, who snap at your
clothes, your family and your friends.
Women who talk baby talk to each
other, and kiss each other on all occasions.
Women who gossip, and who never
fail to tell you disagreeable things said
of you.
Simpering, babyish women, who
haven't brains enough to know when
they are hungry.
Women who wear rainbow gowns
on the street and a whole millinery
store on their heads.
Women with voices as sweet as a
turtle dove's coo in society and like a
buzz saw in the family.
Hysterical women, who burst into
floods of tears if you cross them in the
slightest particular.
Beautiful women, who think their
beauty entitles them to all of the eflrth
and a good share of the planets.
Women who lug dogs around in
their arms when there are millions of
motherless, homeless children in the.
world.
An Organ's Grinder's Sparring
Combination.?An organ grinder who
has been in this city for a month has
a scheme which is making him a small
fortune.
Instead of the customary one monkey,
this industrious son of Italy carries
two. When he stops, the ordinary
tricks of climbing and begging are
dispensed with, the monkeys are set to
fighting and bets are made by the owner
with any of the spectators who are
so inclined as to which monkey will
win.
The owner's bets are freely taken, and
they rarely go against him. The result
is that where, under the old method,
he would probably receive a few
nickels he now receives dollars.
A reporter watched the man with
the monkeys for nearly an hour in front
ofthe new city hall, where lie was surrounded
by a large crowd, who were
freely contributing their quarters, halts
and dollars to the coffers of the musi
citui.?San Francisco Chronicle.
Wc&" Applicants for official positions
in government departments in Washington
are so numerous, importunate
and pathetic in their appeals that the
appointment clerk of the interior department
says he has to keep his heart
locked up in the safety vault of (he
department as a protection against
moving talcs of woe that are every
day brought before him by the score.
Further appointments just now are a
mathematical impossibility, because
there is neither room nor money for
more people than are already engaged.
Still people will persist in struggling
for government appointments when
they could make much more money in
a far more satisfactory way in civil life.