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i ^ ^ ISSUED nXI-WISKl.^ l. m. grist's SONS. Publishers. } % |amitj| Jlftrspagtr: |or th? fromotion of the political, jSooial. Agricultural and (Commercial Interests of the people. {TEKSrao^c2rr. nvl ii^vastl! ' established 1855. "' YORKVILLE, s7c., TUESDAY, MAY 5, 19Q8. ISTO. 36. i tii mil in iiiiiuiyMiiiymiyiaiu ' THE Mi 9T5-"*9B 90 I 01 i i By CLARENCE * WWWIfllfWWIUfWWITHI HIlH 111 I CHAPTER XXIV. "All That Was Left of the "Home. 4 ward Bound." It was night. Not a night of wind and tempest, but a night in which the clouds drifted slowly?slowly? weeping their tears of Springtime sor- ' row, over dying winter, into the thirsty sea; a night when the clouds seemed to stoop lower?lower?until they dragged their misty draperies upon the J waves; a night so dark, so damp, so utterly given, over to the showering waters above and the swinging waters below, that one seemed lost in the dread immensity?cast away in this 1 4 black chaos in which it was hard to say where sea ended and cloud began 1 --and harder to say whether there was : earth below or sky above, anywhere. ' Almost all the sails had been taken ' in on the Ocean's Own. There was no ' wind to carry them on their way. Mr. ' Prier had no particular way in which P* to go if thet^ had been. Mr. Prier had 1 come out to search the sea for Jas- ! per Jahnway and the Homeward Bound. He meant to search thorough- 1 ly. And how could he search here? j What could he do in the black night and the thick darkness? With the sunshine or the moonlight on the water, or even with the star-sown azure ' vault mirroring Itself in the long 1 waves sweeping along the sea, he could ' hunt and hope. But. tonight, he was 1 powerless; tonight, he must put no ' faith in sails or in rudder; tonight, 1 he must make no use of instruments j (or observations; tonight, he must have ' no confidence in himself; tonight, it 1 9 must be a stronger hand than his guide: tonight. it must be a greater ( mind than his to direct; powerless? 1 lost?a mere waif of ocean?tonight he 1 could only trust in God! Rverything was peaceful and happy on the Ocean's Own. Prier was in ; the cabin. The captain sat opposite ' him. Most of the crew were cornfor- ( tably disposed, and were enjoying ( themselves thoroughly. A few. includ- ' ing Gullens. clothed in such a way as ' to be as thoroughly protected from the storm as was possible, kept watch ( on deck. "Tomorrow " began Prier. It Is not true that "tomorrow" has been the rock on which Failure has of- 1 i tener wrecked itself, and that to which Success has more frequently fastened hp mhlp-rhain of the anchor of its ' hope, than any other? "Tomorrow " And Gullens came shouting to them all to come on deck. "Come" he cried, hoarsely: "come quick, for God's sake!" ^ They hurried on deck. There was nothing to be seen. Not a glimpse of white, to tell of a passing sail. Not a shadow, still deeper than night's darkness, to show a vessel slipping away from them like a half-rememW bered dream. Not a light?on the sea or in the heavens above. There was nothing to be seen. Nothing. But they listened. They listened carefully. Kar away, so far that one scarcely knew at first whether it was a harder shower of rain pattering into the sea. or a breeze suddenly sprung up in the drenched air. they could hear a sound. j . A sound that grew and intensified as 1 the seconds ticked themselves into 1 eternity. A sound like a whisper ot 1 danger?a sound like a murmur of 1 menace?a sound like a muttered threat 1 of evil?a sound like a thunder of triumphant malice?a sound "An ocean steamer." said the captain. ( "Coming at full speed," said Prier. "And straight our way." added Gunlens. "What can we do?" asked Gullens. "Nothing." said the captain. "Kxcept wait." concluded Prier. I They had not long to wait. The \ steamer was coming at a terrible speed. Their anxiety would soon be over. Whatever the result, there were only a few moments for either hope or fear. . "Which side of us will they go?" asked an old sailor. He had a wife and children in Maine, and the roar of the approaching vessel somehow made him think of them, and more tenderly than tnual. "To the right." said flullens. "To the left." said the captain. But Prier stood silent, and only listened. The old sailor laid his hand on the detective's arm. " "What do you think?" he asked. "What?" said Prler. "What do you think? Which is right?" "I?I don't know. I?I think " began Prler. He paused, more as though he had forgotten to speak than for any other reason. The old sailor laid his hand on his arm again. "What do you think?" he persisted. "That I heard a voice out there in the darkness, a cry of terror and despair. Did you not hear it? There! . there it is again! Did you not hear it F then?" ' "No," said the sailor, "I did not hear it. and I did not mean that. Which?" the steamer was very near now. and they could see her lights rising higher 4 and higher, and seeming to move straight toward them without swerving to the right hand or the left ? "which?one?was?right ?" "I do not know." "For Clod's sake, what do you think?" "I think?neither," said Prier. solemnly: "but did you not hear that cry again, louder, wilder, more agon* i'/ed than before?" "I did not hear it." said the captain: "it must have been your imagination." "Nor did I," said the old sailor. "Nor I." echoed Gullens. - And then, suddenly, it rang out again, so loud and wild and shrill that all heard it, and all crept closer together and clung to one another. "I heard that," said the captain. i s h JTSIBI!! ; v BOUTELLE. I , ; h nnwrwinnwiwirw m mm i s c with a shudder: "the voice of one n without hope." tl "And I." said Patsy Gullens; "the t< voice of a man drowning in the sea." h "And I." said the superstitious old tl sailor, in an awed whisper, stating his shipmates' convictions, no doubt, as it well as his own; "the cry of a lost a soul." n tJUl trier spone his cunviviiuiu un 3er his breath, and none but himself H Heard them. cj "The voice of Gilbert Senn." was what he said. t* Their danger drew nearer?nearer? Inenrer. Then it swung aside a little?and a w little more?and a little more. The great s< tteamer passed then so closely that an w iglle man. a railroad brakeman, for n Instance, used to doing his duty in h connection with our great freight fi traffic, night and day, in darkness and b in storm as well as in sunshine, and c< ready to swing on to the rushing cars. J swaying and swaggering above the h whirling wheels, would have scarcely H Hesitated attempting to climb abroad ci from the deck of the Ocean's Own. o The steamer taking Lurline Bannottle a: Home?if we may call Naples her home ir ?if the outcast offispring of Cain may 01 He said to have any home?had al- a most done what the steamer taking b' Her to Amercia had done, or worse; ind she was sound asleep in her berth; lc ind she had not spoken to the captain w it all, and had scarcely more than p fiven him a civil nod. Prier's opin- tl Ion had been almost true: he had h nearly come to the end of his efforts aj ind his endeavors, as we shall ;\ll II come to ours?some day?whether we ir ire more ready than he was to lay all w work aside for ever, or whether we are P ess. The steamer, seen dimly for a few T seconds, shrank into the darkness to- a ward the east. Her lights disappear- tl ?d. The thunder of the machinery be- si came a mutter?a murmur?a whisper, d ind died into the wash of the waves t; ind the beating of the rain and the fitful voice of the rising wind, and out si if their lives for ever. si Gilbert Senn had been drifting in an ir ipen boat for days! he could not say u for how many days, for he had lost U almost all account of time; some- p times he felt as though his faculties were slowly leaving him, slowly drift- q Ing away from his brain, slowly trans- h< forming his powers into nothingness, di ind making him an idiot or a mad- g man. ai Then, fiercely as he had struggled b for life, sternly as he had repelled tl tieath, much as he hated to give up t< all that he must give up, and die with ? the secrets he held untold to those who should know them, much as he ir hated to die and leave Elsie free again, h and Walter Aldrich free to wed where n he had already wooed and won (and hi he dreaded this more than all else), hi he still prayed that before his brain h; went his heart might give up the bat- h tie of life; that though he died?he ? might die sane. Gilbert Senn had grown very weak. c' There had been a few biscuits in the O boat when he had lirst had onlv this tl frail craft, and half tilled with water it that, between him and eternity. He h had eaten heartily, the first day?eaten s< more than was good for him, no doubt; the second day he had had enough, w barely enough, and had taken better d< care of his slender store than he had t? when it had seemed to him that twen- d ty-four hours must bring rescue to a n man whose boat drifted in the track d r?f transatlantic travel; the third day lie had been hungry; the fourth day 8' he had been starving; the?but he P had forgotten what came next, and he h hadn't the will-power left him to go a back and count it all up from the be- T ginning again. He only knew, a.s the 8< long night dragged on. that he had had d nothing to eat yesterday; he was not ? sure of the day before that. He knew o that all his food was gone; he did not tl u know how long it lasted or when ne " finished it. He tried to remember how v long it would take a man to die of c starvation; he felt sure he had read s about it some time?somewhere?but ci he had forgotten?forgotten?and? 1' And. perhaps, it made no difference d anyway, for he had forgotten when he c began to starve. d There had been several bottles of a fresh water in the boat at first. He a believed he drank a quart the first day, for there was a raging fever in his ? blood despite the icy water and the a wintry winds. He thought a pint had 0 sufficed for his careful needs the sec- s ond day. And then?that was all. He couldn't tell what there had been since. He feared he had lost a bottle v or two. It seemed as though he could 1 remember watching one?or two?was it two??drift slowly away from him, r while he. helpless, without an oar, ?stretched himself over the side of the ? boat in a vain effort to get them again. v Six inches away, tnese Domes wnicn *might mean all the difference between a life and death to him: a foot: two feet; three. Had it gone that way. f or had he read such a horrible tale of e hope fulling strangled from the icy tin- " ge:s of despair? He could not tell, f He only knew that yesterday he had " had only us much water as would have half filled a spoon: he only knew (' that he must have help soon?or die. I A ship had passed him. not more 11 than two or three miles away, just e before night came on. He had shouted until he was hoarse and tired: it t had been of no use: they had not seen a him: they had not turned in the least 1< from their course. He had tried to a rise up in the boat. He had found it impossible to do it. He had wept s thbn. for the first time since his lonely ride, cast away in the wet and cold, 11 began. How dark the night was. But no s darker than his future seemed to him. r He almost believed he had given up d all hope. 1 He had suffered much from the cold. 1 But he was thickly clad, and possibly 1 the boat, half filled with water, in 1 vhich he had been obliged to lie and uffer, was better than a perfectly dry oat would have been. He could carcely meet death by freezing while n it. Dark! Dark and silent! Sileht? 11 but the everlasting dash of the waers against his boat, which would not ?t him sleep?and the steady beat of he rain, which he caught in his cloth:g and greedily sucked up?and?and Vhat was that? A breeze among the pine trees in Is boyhood home, with his mother tanding near him and singing a rooning song with a strangely mootonous beat in the music? No, not nat. He woke from his dreamy fancy i the awful reality of his loneliness? is hunger?his scarcely half-satisfied "first?and the fearful cold. He dozed again. He could not help ;. He scarcely cared. Death was oming. He knew it. Ah, well; he >ust die some time; he?he had done is best?he had not altogether failed, [e believed he was dying. He did not ire. "Dear?old?Aldrlch"?his voice failed and the words came slowly?"I? ?did?wisely. Check?to " And, as suddenly as slumber fell, akefulness followed. What was the lund? What was coming? What as the awful clangor of machinery so ear him? What meant it all? Was e suddenly going mad?or?or?was ?te coming hack to finish what had een so thoroughly begun? He was ?rtain, after a little, just what it was. ust as an ocean steamer, driven at of n?mnst ?nppd had found the [omeward Bound in her way, and had ut her down, cut her in two, gone ver her in the darkness of the night, nd gone on without an effort looklg toward rescue, so here came anther. straight toward him, as swift nd as merciless as the other had een. He shouted once?shouted loud and >ng?shouted in the hope that his cry ould be heard and the steamer stoped. and a boat lowered from her for le humane purpose of rescue. Then e dozed away into half unknowingness gain. Dying? Ho did not doubt It. ut if his soul's salvation, instead of lerely his life, had depended on his akeful activity, he could not have aid the price. He must have lost it. He woke again. He shouted again, he lights of the vessel seemed almost hove him. No answer; no ceasing of io machinery; no swerving to one Ide. And he slept again, in his halfelirious weakness, and dreamt a fanistic dream of home and mother. Again consciousness came back, lowly?reluctantly?imperfectly. He tiouted again, more loudly and more ladly than before. The steamer was pon him. He closed his eyes, but not t sleep?this time, this time he exected the mercy of sudden death. The steamer went by. She did not uite touch his boat?not quite, though e lay so far under her side that the oQoma/1 Hodnor fltlfl more til Mimo r-tv iuvu x?w|^v. loomy than it had been before, thick nd dense and damp as the clouds had een. She did not touch his boat, but ie rushing, roaring swirl of the wa?rs which she tossed aside struck it -rolled it?filled it?swamped it. Gilbert Senn found himself helpless 1 the sea. his boat gone from beneath im, his garments hampering him and listing any movement he might ave tried to make, the blanket he ad thought himself so fortunate in aving to wrap himself in. dragging Im down like a pitiless demon?down -down?down. Is it any wonder that his despairing ry reached the ears of all on the cean's Own? Is it any wonder that ie sailor could think of nothing else > appropriate to call it as the name e had given it?"the cry of a lost ml?" He went down Into the depths. He as down so long: that he began to oubt whether he would live to come > the surface again; and what if he id not? Why need he care? Was it ot better, since he must die, that eath be speedy? He came up to the surface. The hock of his overturning and the deep lunge into the sea had driven away is drowsiness and given a temporary nd fictitious strength. He loved life, here were many reasons?many unplfish ones?why he did not wish to ie. And, after all, does hope ever die ut while life remains? I can think f no more horrible crisis of danger han that in which Oilbert Senn found imself, unless it were the fire-walled engeance to which Samuel Lyman ondemned himself: but this castaway hook himself loose from his blanket, ast off some of his garments, and lepared to make as brave a fight? espite his weakness and his almost ertain hopelessness?as he would have one had the shore been in sight and half-score of men hurrying to his ssistance. He did not shout now, for the sound f the steamer's machinery had died way into silence; he shut 4us eyes losely together; he husbanded all his trength, almost every breath. And hen? "Out with the boat!" shouted a oice, in the darkness, not far away? he voice of Frier, the detective. And how Senn shouted in answer! >h, no. kind reader, you are too fast: ienn did not shout in reply at all. He nly muttered, in a weak, complaining oice, while all his efforts ceased as ompletely as though a sudden parlysis had chained his muscles with Is cold and cruel strength: "Merciful lod?is this the end? Was it not nough that this man should drive me ut from my life of happiness and useulness and honor, making me a man utside?outside of pity?outside of ope?outside of pardon?without thus riving me mad and mocking me as die? Must Frier's voice and Frier's iiemor.v haunt my last moments of arth?" "H-o-0-0!" came, loud and clear, hrough the darkness, in Frier's voice, nd mingled with the sound of the ang. sweeping dip of oars, as if in nswer to his question. He shouted now. This time lie anwered. "Ho-o-o-o!" rang out the call again. iearer than before. Down in the sea, with the water trangling him. and his heavy garnents seeming like leaden weights to Irag him down. Senn heard this. He leard it?and he could not answer, ie was drowning: lie knew it. And lelp was so near?so near! ("Sod's land had been stretched down so close J to his?the Divine Omnipotence s< close to the human weakness?and hi could not do a tiling to help himself He could pray?in "his heart?fo: speedy rescue and a future; he coul< thank (Tod?in his heart?for the as sistance which had so nearly reache( him. But he could do no more; h< could shout no more. Out from th< here?into the hereafter?he was going?going?go He rose to the surface again?his only power an ability to gasp foi breath. The voices in the boat wen very near him?very, very near. Ar oar struck the water a foot from hi! hand?again, a yard away?again, further away still. Did he cry out then? He did nol know?he could not tell. He knew that life depended on it: that it wa? his last hope: and that he tried! There was a confused murmur in hi! ears, which grew into a thunder whos< sound seemed agony. Lights flashec before his eyes?flickered?faded? went out in utter blackness. And h( knew no more. ******* When Gilbert Senn came to himself again he was on a comfortabh couch in the cabin of the Ocean's Own His clothing had been removed; h( had been rubbed dry; and he was snugly wrapped in hot blankets Friendly hands were rubbing him tenderly but with a strong vigor which was strength-giving in its character There was a grateful smell of brandj in the air of the cabin?or?or?was it a taste, in his breath and on his lips instead of an odor? He believed 11 was. Gilbert Senn was weak, but the liquor had masked his weakness for a little time, and some one stood at his side with suitable food, hot and savory ready to give him all that it was prudent to allow him to have at first. Senr was thirsty, but there was fresh watei in plenty, with lumps of ice to grind between his teeth with pleasure in the slight effort required, or to suck with keen enjoyment of the effortless action. Senn had been sleepy, but thai was all gone now?the fact being thai they had worked over him for hours after his rescue, and that lie had gom from the danirerous condition in which he had been when they found him? dangerous alike from *his weakness the result of hunger and thirst, and from his near approach to death b> drowning?directly Into a refreshing and dreamless sleep. He had remained in that sleep for hours, carefullj watched and tended by Prior and Gullens, as well as by all the others whc could be spared from the management of the vessel. One and all, they were full of an emulation which spurred each to an attempt to do more for the rescued man than any other could do Senn opened his eyes. The last rays of the setting sun?setting clear in a bright sky and behind the rounded rirr of a smooth sea?fell across his bed He had been saved from death in the darkness; he awoke to a realization ol the fact in the light; counting together the unconsciousness of stupor and danger, with the blessed period ol saving sleep which had followed it, he had lost a day?a whole day?out ol his life, and had gained his life thereby. Prier's was the first face upon which his awakened glances rested. He pul aside the food which an anxious friend ?friend, albeit he had never seer Senn until last night?held ready foi him: he motioned to those who were chafing his hands and limbs to stand aside; he beckoned to Prler to come nearer. The detective bent over him "I?I can never thank you enough,' murmured the rescued man. "You have saved my life: you took me back from the gates of hopelessness wher I was in articulo mortis. I?I can never thank you enough." "Don't speak of thanks, Senn," said Prier, brushing the too-ready tear? from his eyes with the back of hif hand. "But I must. I can never make yov understand my thanks; I can never repay you. Fate seems to have made my life a strange one; this last evenl 1" the strangest of all; you are the second man?the second brave mar ?to save my life. I?I?if I could onl> dr. as much for you as I " "You would like to serve me?" in terrupted Prier, stooping still nearer and speaking earnestly. "I would: God knows I would," replied Senn. "Well, you can: do one thing for me and I will call your account more thar squared?I will call myself your debtor." "I " began Senn. Hut Prler raised his hand warningly "Make no rash promises," he said solemnly; "make no promise until yoi know what I would have you do. ] shall ask a hard thing of you?a verj hard thing. Listen to what it is hefon you pledge your word to do it." "Very well. I will listen. I am ready What is it?' "It is this. I^et me ask you one question. Your promise to answer it t( the best of your anility, ana in nwmi and truth. Will you do that?" "I do." "You believe in my honor?" "Certainly I do. Will you answei my question?" Senn lay in silence for many Ion* minutes. His face was very pale. Hi: eyes were closed, and the tears fount their way slowly from under their lids His weak .hands worked convulsive]) among the bedclothes. Prier waited long. He waited patiently. But at last he spoke again. "Will you answer my question?" h< asked. "Will you promise to answei my question?" Senn opened his eyes. He turnei upon his side. He faced the detective He raised himself upon his elbow, anc looked Prier squarely in the eyes. Suddenly he stretched out his hand and took that of the man who hat saved his life, and to whom he hac given the right to demand so much if return. "You have asked a hard thing, i very hard thing," he said; "quite tin hardest thing it was possible for yoi to have asked, but?I will do it." "You will answer my question?" queried Prier. "I will answer your question." "Fully?" "To the best of my ability, fully." "On your honor as a gentleman?" Senn scowled. A hitter smile crowded the scowl away. He searched tin detective's face earnestly, as thougl no feared some hidden taunt?som< j half-valled sarcasm. But he did not 5 find what he feared. His search satisHed him. He pressed Frier's hand r still more closely. 1 "Yes," he said; "and thank you for - the words. On my honor as a gentle1 man?so help me Ood!" ? Frier waited. Can you guess why? i Can you think how hard he found it - to frame his own question?how difficult it was to put it in words? After i more than ten years of weary waiting r and unavailing search he might have > the key to the whole terrible mystery i In his very hand. He believed he had. i But spppose he had not? Suppose he failed? Suppose the fruit of the vengeance he hoped to pluck?aided by t the answer given by Senn to the ques r tlon he was about tn ask?should be * but a fair-seeming Dead Sea apple? Suppose the revenge he hungered for i ?the justice whose sweetness he so i longed to taste?should turn to ashes 1 on his lips? I can imagine, knowing - his feelings, the emotions which must i have filled the hearts of those to whom the fairies or gnomes or giants granted the power to make one wish, with the assurance that it should be grant> ed?in those good old days before . Science slew Myth, or History over? threw Legend and Tradition. i Yes, Prier waited: I should have . waited. Would not you have.done so? He looked Senn in the eyes. He bei gan in a hesitating way. leaning down . until his voice, emphatic and emotion r filled though his words were, was too t low to reach any others ears, than , those of Gilbert Senn. t "Do you know who killed Constance Craig?" "Is that your question, Mr. Prier?" l asked Senn. i "Yes, Mr. Senn, that is my question. "* *- .?.La Ltll/vJ Ponofonno , 1S> yuu KI11M> Willi iviliru . Craig?" i The eyes of Senn never shrank nor faltered. His grasp on the hand of [ the great detective tightened a little, s perhaps; It surely did not loosen. He i lowered his voice, unril the detective . stooped nearer to catuh his words? t lowered it until Prier's thoughts went t back. Involuntarily, to the time he 11si tened to the dying words of Matildn , Webb. i "Yes, Mr. Frier, I do know who kill od Constance Craig," was his answer. "Ah!" cried the detective, his voice 1 almost the snarl of some hunted wild - beast whom the hunters have dared ; follow too closely and eagerly, and who Is at last at bay; "in Clod's name, who ' was it?" "Mr, Prier," said Senn, slowly, "you ? asked me to answer one question; I t promised, at what a cost of pain and > doubt and agony of soul I will not try I to tell you. that I would answer it. i You asked your question, and I have , answered it; I have answered it truly, i We are square, now, by your own l proposition. I shall tell no more." i "You shall," shouted the detective; . "you shall, by " > _ "No. sir; I will not." f "I say you shall; you shall, or I " "Mr. Prier," said Senn, quietly, "I 1 am in your power. I am weak. I am f scarcely more than alive. I am hun> dreds of miles from land. You are f surrounded by men who are in your employ, and who will, I presume, do whatever you may tell them to do. i But. I have answered your question? t and I am done. I shall not be coaxed I nor frightened into telling more." i "But I will know who killed Con stance Craig." > "Yes," sadly; "I presume you will. 1 But I will not tell you." i "You would have told me. would you . not. if that had been my question?" "Certainly, for I had promised." i "And you knew I might ask that?" ; "I did. I took that risk." i "And you will not tell me now?" "Never. I shall take no risks again. I have settled with you. on your own 1 terms. I shall do no more." i "Gilbert Senn, I am an honest man ! ?and not an ungenerous one. I admire you, and not least of all for your i action in this matter. It is true that you are in my power; but you are my > guest, and the laws of hospitality are t sacred. It is true that those about me ? are in my service, and that my call i wmiM till this room?emnty at this r moment except of us two?with men willing and anxious to do my bidding. But I shall not call them in to do oth, er toward you than kindly and friendly service, and " "1 thank you," said Senn, brokenly, extending his hand again; "I have no , doubt I wronged you in saying what i I did. I beg you will believe me when I say I never for a moment imagined you would do what my rash words seemed to indicate. Will you pardon , me?" , "Yes, I pardon you?fully and freely, i But is there no way in which to shake I your resolution? Is there no condir tion?" ? "Yes, there is one way: there is one condition. Bind yourself to grant one . demand of mine, and I will tell you who killed Constance Craig." "You will?" > "On that condition, I will." p "I bind myself; I promise." "Will you swear it?" "I will. I do. What is the condition?" r "That you will never, directly or indirectly, turn private vengeance, or r public justice, or even the suspicion , of any one towards any person bearing j the name of Senn?" The detective laughed. r "Your condition is easy, very easy," he said; "I don't know what the world . may say. though I fancy I know how almost universal the harsh and unjust ? judgment against you has been, and r Is. and will be. but I exonerated you from the time of your acquittal. Your t condition is easy." "You accept it. then?" j "I do." "And bind yourself to it and by it." '"I do." j "Very well. Then I will answer any j question you may ask." , "Will you? Who killed Constance Craig?" j "Elsie Barron-Senn," said her hus? band. , My dear leader, what do you think of that? To be Continued. The sultan of Turkey has overcome his objections to the telephone, and these instruments are now to be introduced in Constantinople. t'"Since the beginning of the year 1 five male immigrants have landed in 1 New York city to two female immi? grants. iHisccUaneous grading. ? 1 WHITMAN'S WILD RIDE. a it Was Worth Three Stars to the 11 American Flag. The ride of Marcus Whitman was c over snow capped mountains and 1 along dark ravines, traveled only by a savage men. It was a plunge through icy rivers and across trackless prai- F ries, a ride of 4,000 miles across a continent in the dead of winter to save a % mighty territory to the union. Compared with this what was the a feat of Paul Revere, who rode elgh- F teen miles on a calm night In April to 8 arouse a handful of sleeping patriots v and thereby save the powder at Con- * cord ? Whitman's ride saved three stars to ? the American flag. It was made in 1842. ; In 1792, during the first administration of Washington, Captain Robert ^ Gray, who had already carried the American flag around the globe, dis- ^ covered the mouth of the Columbia river. He sailed several miles up the great stream and landed and took possession in the name of the United States. J In 1805, under Jefferson's adminlsP tration, this vast territory was explored by Captains Lewis and Clark, ? whose reports were popular reading for our grandfathers, but the extent 1 and value of this distant possession ^ were very slightly understood, and no attempt at colonization was made save the establishment of the fur trading station of Astoria In 1811. Strangely enough, England, too, claimed this same territory by virtue 0 of rights ceded to It by Russia and ? also by the Vancouver surveys of 1792. The Hudson's Pay company x established a number of trading posts and filled the country with adventurous fur traders. So here was a vast g territory, as large as New England and the state of Indiana combined, r which seemed to be without any positive ownership. But for Marcus Whitman it would have been lost to the Union. It was in 1836 that Dr. Whitman and a man of the name of Spaulding, with their young wives, the first white women that ever crossed the Rocky ? mountains, entered the valley of the Columbia and founded a mission of " the American board. They had been sent out to Christianize the Indians, but Whitman was also to build a state. C Q He was at this time thirty-five years old. In his Journeys to and fro for the mission he soon saw the vast possibilities of the country, and he saw, too. that the English were already apDrised of this and were rapidly pour- ? ing into the territory. Under the ^ terms of the treaties of 1818 and 1828 it was the tacit belief that whlchevery nationality settled and organ- " Ized the splendid territory would hold it. If England and the English fur * traders had been successful in their $ plans, the three great states of Wash- * ington, Oregon and Idaho would now fl constitute a part of British Columbia. But it was not destined to be. In the fall of 1842 it looked as if v there would be a great inpouring of English into the territory, and Dr. 0 Whitman took the alarm. There was ^ no time to lose. The authorities at e Washington must be warned. Hastily ? bidding his wife adieu. Dr. Whitman a started on his hazardous journey. The 8 perils, hardships and delays he en- ^ countered on the way we can but * faintly conceive. His feet- were frozen, he nearly starved, and once he 1 came very near losing his life. He kept pushing right on, and at the end of five terrible months he reached e Washington. 8 He arrived there a worn, bearded, " strangely picturesque figure, clad entirely in buckskin and fur, a typical E man of the prairies. He asked audi- a ence of President Tyler and Secretary F of State Webster, and it was accorded 8 him. All clad as he was, with his fro- a zen limbs, just In from his 4,000 mile ' ride, Whitman appeared before the 8 two great men to plead for Oregon. 1 His statement was a revelation to ^ the administration. Previous to Whit- a man's visit it was the general idea in 8 congress that Oregon was a barren, worthless country, fit only for wild beasts and wild men. He opened the eyes of the government to the limitless wealth and splendid resources of that western territory. He told them of its great rivers and fertile valleys. Its ^ mountains covered with precious ^ treasures. He showed them that it was a country worth keeping and that it 1 must not fall into the hands of the " English. He spoke as a man inspired, '' and his words were heeded. n What followed?the organization of v companies of emigrants, the rapid set- c tlement of the territory and the treaty " made with Great Britain in 1 846 by which ihe fortv-ninth parallel was [ made the boundary line west of the e Rooky mountains?are matters of history. r The foresight and the heroism of v one man and his gallant ride had sav- 1 ed three great states to the Union.? ^ Omaha World-Herald. n GOLD FROM PLACER MINES. S Wealth of Dust Taken From the h Gulches of Montana. a Several years ago Montanans who P had the gold fever were rushing into e the virgin fields of the Klondike, un- " der the impression that the showing ti there was the greatest ever known. 1 For two years now this same class of s fortune hunters have been making ? their way into Nevada. They are indined to forget the magnitude of the discoveries in Montana in the early 1 days, says the Dillion Examiner, and s the immense quantities of gold taken 1 out of the bars and the gulches, in s comparison wi'h which anything that s has so far come from Alaska or Neva- d da is insignificant. There were more gulches in Monta- n na that actually yielded millions than a may ever be discovered again. There |j are many single claims that yielded ^ far greater returns than have beett u told by the letters of visitors to the gold fields of the north or around j? Goldfield and Bullfrog. v The first discovery of gold in Mon- n tana was made in 1861. On Gold f D Creek, five miles below the little vil- r lage of Pioneer, in Deer Lodge coun- v ty, Gold Tim found placer diggings 1 0 where there was gold in paying quan- ,, tities and in the most primitive man- / ler possible worked some of the I :round. No attempt to operate the ocality systematically was made until 1 i full year afterward, when Granville Stuart, afterward minister to Uruguay ind Paraguay, and his brother James s ought some necessary appliances and t; iperated the first placer mine in Mon- tl ana In 1862. Their tools and appil- h .nces they Imported Into the country I ?y pack train at infinite labor and extense. A Many millions were taken from the b lclnity in time. Pioneer, Ind?pen- c lent and Pike's Peak districts lay a .long Gold Creek. At the highest $ tolnt on Pilgrim Bar four men in two c easons took out $325,000. Down the a alley there was gold in large quitntl- h les, but It was so fine that miners a t'ould not be bothered with it. The tl ;old on the bars further up was oners r and there was plenty of it and nany men were made rich on that f, Ittle creek, which was subsequently w vershadowed so completely by the ^ llseoveries at other points that Inter e in ditches were put In and the ground v ras worked on a still larger scale. One p if the ditches cost $300,000 and had ^ . flowing capacity of 10.000 miner's t nches, an Inch being equal to a sup- t tly of 17.000 gallons In twenty-four f louts. Under these ditches the n Tound was worked out over an area 3 if 3,500 feet, of an average depth of t ifteen feet to bedrock and a total g leld of $13,000,000. t The next discovery of any Imporance was made by John White and t ras called Grasshopper Gulch, where j, he town of Bannack stood soon af- t erward. The ground was of wonder- e ul richness and before the year Mas r iut mining had been Inaugurated on j, . much larger scale than on Gold 8 Ireek. More than $20,000,000 In gold ^ ras taken from this vicinity. ^ The richest placers ever discovered v n the world were found In Montana t .t Alder Gulch, Vhere Virginia City tands. More than $50,000,000 in gold j lust formed the total output of that ^ Ich locality. Of that amount proba- a ily $25,000,000 was taken out within t hree or four years after the first g ear's work. t I^ist Chance Gulch, where Helena s iow stands, would cause a Klondike t r Goldfield rush all by Itself, 't Is be- g leved by some. If It were once more ^ tripped of the valuable house.! that ^ iow stand upon it and the Industry of e he miner were allowed a leld for :be ^ i'ork. The four original dlsovereis e ook out of their five cla'ms, one t laim for each man and the discovery n laim, nearly $200,000 each, the rich- ^ st of it being not far from where the t orner of Clore and Wall streets now j( 3, and there was another wonderfully c lch portion, a piece of ground 200 r eet square near where the Montana ,'entral depot now stands that yielded a ts owners, Taylor and Thompson, b 330,000. And in the estimation of t aany the lowest bedrock ought to 0 lave contained the richest dirt, and it c ^as not reached. The output of L?i*t ^ !hance Gulch has been estimated at ^ 2^,000,000, and some believe that gure Is not high enough. t, Confederate Gulch was discovered 0 ri 1865, east of the Missouri river, j . here Diamond City afterwards stood. n ?rom three of the bars aboue the bed a f the gulch about 53,000,000 was ta- ^ ;en. From Montana Bar the Wheel- a r party, consisting of four, took out n f the territory in a single season j, bout {600,000. or nearly half the ag- s regate product of the whole ground. ^ l single panful of dirt from a nook in t] he diggings at the junction of Mon- t ana and Confederate gulches, where 0 he deposit was the richest, contained n 1.585 of dust. f In Bear gulch placers were discov- ^ red in October, 1865. The yield of r :old in two years was not less than q 1,000,000. r Ophir Gulch, on a tributary of the a llackfoot river, has yielded as high j s {300,000 to the claim, and in some iarts of McClellan Gulch the same ravel has been worked over as many s five times and has each time paid ^ or the work. In one instance a fair ized fortune was taken out on a claim hat was found to have cracks In the d edrock which were filled with gold Q ml the miners made a stake by dig- r ing out the gold with a tablespoon. ^ SHEFFIELD PLATE. e n listory of This Now Very Rare and t) Valuable Ware. w Sheffield plate differs from all other a ilated ware in that the plating was one on the sheet metal before the aricle was shaped. Before snd since ^ hen plating of various sort* has been a pplied only to the finished piece, as ^ it our electroplating process. Morever, the plating was done on copper, s k'hlle modern base metal Is usually R omposed of sin amalgam of copper, j ickel and zinc. a Furthermore, it is possible for ^ he collector to secure examples of t| arly Georgian and so called Queen w inne work in Sheffield plate, while the M arity and high money value of silver- a rare of that period make its acquis!- g( ion extremely difficult. Sheffield plate ^ istorically and arlstically is as worthy n f a place beside old china and old nahogany as is old silverware. a In 174 2 one Thomas Bolsover of g heffleld, England, described in the e listories as an "ingenious mechanic," ^ ccidentally fused some silver and copier while repairing a knife. He began n xperimenting, seeking for a method jj f plating copper with silver for the 0 lanufacture of small articles. In h 743 together with Joseph Wilson, he G et up a factory for the manufacture J,1 f buckles, snuffboxes and knife han- j, les. i< Joseph Hancock soon got hold of e ^ovt'not \ ?i cr If tlomnn. lie SCU1CI rtiiu, ^viivvuiif, ?M V.V...V,,. trated that it was possible to imitate v he finest and most richly embossed tl ilverware. Settling in Sheffield, he ? tarted the manufacture of all sorts of omestic pieces. Beginning modestly b rith horsepower, he later added water ti mwer for the rolling process. Other v manufacturers followed his example, d nd Sheffield plate soon began to re- ii ilace pewter on the tables of the Engish middle classes. Altogether we g :now of twenty-three important man- c ifacturers of this ware. t The Industry flourished until the A middle of the nineteenth century, and o few pieces of copper rolled plate t t-ere made after that time that they z leed not concern the collector. Elec- s roplating was discovered or invented p iy a medical student of Rotherham, e iear Sheffield, and the new process u fas patented on March 25, 1840. By 850 the new ware was on the market p verywhere. and the Industry had been r evolutlonized.?-Country Life in I imerlca. o NDIAN AS A BARGAIN HUNTER. "rading to an Advantage Is one of His Strong Points. The reservation Indians In the outhwest have many quaint Ideas of rade, which often are amusing, hough childish. A contributor was itely among the Navajo and Moqui ndlans In Arizona. At Armljo's trading post at Orlabl, irlz., he writes, the customers are oth Navajos and Hopls. A Hopl ame In one day and after pricing an xe bought It for SI.25, giving Armljo 1.50. He received 25 cents In hange. After a while he came back, nd looking wise, asked Armljo what e had taken out of his $1.50 for the xe. On being told $1.25 he shoved he 25 cents toward Armljo and said: Now give me the 50 cents." An Indian bought a piece of mutton rom this same trader for $2.25 for hlch the trader had asked him $2.50. fter thinking a while the Indian askd for his money, saying he did not .'lsh the meat. When given $2.25 he rotested, and asked for $2.50 telling irmijo In no unmistaken language hat if It was worth that much to the rader It certainly was to him. When efused the extra 25 cents he took the natter up with the missionary, a peron often appealed to in matters of his kind, and who. as a general thing, ettles them so that the Indian and he trader are both satisfied. Buckskins were very scarce at one rading post and the trader was offe'rng extra inducements to get Indians o bring some in, having heard of sevral recently tanned in a certain leighborhood on the reservation. One ?avajo had told this trader where the kins were. The Navajo was told that le would be given two Navajo blan;ets worth as much as the skins rould sell for and he could trade hem for skins. Upon their receipt by the trader the ndian was promised a nice saddle lanket for his part in the deal. He .cquiesced, but insisted upon having he three blankets then, and they were Iven to him. Next morning when the rader> went to open his store there at the Navajo on the step. "Oh," hought Mr. Trader, "here is where I ;et my skins." The Indian unrolled lis bundle and produced the two blanLets, the post trader had given him in xehange for the buckskin. "Me no rade," said the Indian, having changd his mind. On being asked where he .saddle blanket was he tried to nake the trader understand that the lanket had been given to him and hat he was going to keep it. A proonged discussion was necessary to onvince the Indian that he had no lght to the blanket. A Navajo rode into a trading post t supper time, Just as the eggs and aeon were frying. His saddle was rimmed with Navajo hand harhmered rnaments and his bridle was almost overed with silver. The Navajo sat [own and remained dumb as an oyser. The trader offered to buy the brile, and the Navajo finally consented o take $23 for it. The trader counted ut twenty-three silver dollars to the ndian, expecting that he would spend lost of it at the store before he rode way. The trader was disappointed, ifter e&ting a hearty supper the Navjo departed, saying he would return ext morning to trade. "That Navao's mind is working; he is up to omething. I'll bet you a new hat he'll e back here before long," said the rader. Sure enough he appeared in he doorway even before supper was ver and said he had changed his lind about selling the bridle, and ofered the $23 to the trader. The traer laughed, accepted the money and eturned the bridle to the Indian, who uietly replaced it on his horse and ode away?his appetite for supper ppeased.?Chlloco Indian School ournal. PRAISES CANAL WORK. 1r. Boas Returns From Trip to the Isthmus. Among the passengers arriving toay by the steamship Eltel Friedrich f the Atlas service was Emll Boas, esident director of the HamburgAmerican line here. Mc. Boas and lis wife have been making an extendd tour of the West Indies and the caal zone. They spent a good deal of Ime on an inspection of the canal ;ork, and Mr. Boas Is most enthusistic over the progress being made nd conditions in the canal zone. "I must say the numerous descriplons I have read of the work so far ccompllshed and the illustrations I ave seen had In no way prepared me or the impression which personal inpection made," said Mr. Boas "It is imply overpowering, and after seeig what has been done, and getting cquainted with the men who are doig it, the conclusion is inevitable hat, whatever the difficulties, they .'ill be overcome and this stupendous rork brought to completion. There re people who doubt this, but a peronal inspection will convince any oubter that the wise forethought lanifesl: everywhere in the preparaory planning, and the energy and bility, backed by the means of a reat nation, which are shown in the xecutlon, are sure to bring about the eslred result. "If you read that in the last six lonths a million cubic yards of earth ave been removed in a certain place, : conveys very little meaning to the rdinary mind, but stand on the eight opposite the location of the latum dam and have Major Hardy, i charge there, point out the great ut In the hill which has been made ti the last half-year and you get an lea what a million cubic yards of arth represents. "Another way of appreciating hese quantities is to watch the excaator at work. There it stands at he side of the hill, scooping up earth r rubble or big stones and dumping hem into a waiting dirt train. It ips, fills, lifts and drops incessantly, ut how long It takes to fill a car?a rain! Everywhere are excavators of aried patterns, pneumatic drills and irt trains. It is a wonderful scene of ndustry and activity." Mr. Boas said that* the mosquito, a Teat disseminator of disease in the anal belt, was practically extinct hrough the systematic efforts of the Lmerlcan health authorities there. "Great praise is due Col. Gorgas. he chief sanitary officer of the canal one, for what he has accomplished," aid Mr. Boas. "He has cleansed and lurifled a land that was described in ncyclopaedias a year or two ago as inflt for a man to live in." Mr. Boas also praised Col. Goethals, resident of the Isthmian canal comnission, who resides at Culebra, and )r. Claude C. Pierce, the quarantine fficer at Colon.?New York Sun.