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ll IN THE SHADOW OF SHAME |
1 Copyright 1901 by Aolhor of ” Th. Di. .1
D.stiay." "An Excol
T. I itcg.ralg Malloy font Knaro." Etc.
"Quite true; It Is certainly strange,”
assented Galbraith. “But supposing
for the sake of argument, he had none
to make; that he went away before
anything occurred."
"Even so, he might volunteer the
statement that he was In the Hoxton
road on the night of the tragedy half
an hou;’ before it happened and saw
nothing that aroused Ills suspicions.
Ills absenting himself looks bad to my
mind."
"You are right; It certainly docs,”
said Valerius.
"Oh, mother!" exclaimed Veronica,
"If this turns out to be really a
clew-" and breaking off her sen
tence she looked at Quinton, who un
derstood what she would say.
"How grateful we shall feel," her
mother added.
“And 1 needn’t say how happy It
would make me to be of service to you,
Mrs. Dumbarton," Quinton answered.
“I wonder what Mackworth will think
of your statement,” said Valerius medi
tatively.
"That we shall soon know, for I will
call and see him early tomorrow."
"Do, Quinton," Olive Dumbarton
urged, her Imagination magnifying the
Importance of his statement, “and per
haps you will And time to come and tell
me what he says.”
"I shall certainly call and let you
know," the young man replied, us he
rose and said good night.
"1 will take my leave also," said Va
lerius. "And now, Olive, keep up a
brave heart.”
"I have striven to be brave all
through.”
The pathetic expression of her hag
gard face smote him, and he left the
house freighted by depression.
As the two men passed through the
garden the younger said:
“Our way lies together but a short
distance.”
"Ah, yes; you live next door; but If
you arc not In a hurry, perhaps you
will show me where you saw the for
eigner stand that night.”
"Certainly,” responded Quinton.
Then, as they came on to the road, he
added—"There Is the place. You see,
It’s exactly between two lamp posts,
each of which Is distant, and throws
little light upon the spot.”
"Then how did you manage to see
him so well?"
"I didn't see him very well, I’m sorry
to say. but for such glimpses as I got
of him I was Indebted for the flare
thrown on him by passing carriage
lamps.”
"Oh, I sec. Now, will you stand
where the fellow stood and let me
Judge of the effects of the lights of this
brougham coming up will have?"
"Yes. but you must remember I saw
from a height."
“I will make allowances for that. Be
quick.”
With a few quick strides Quinton
gained the spot and stood there quietly
as the laps of a passing carriage flung
their strong but brief reflection upon
him. Then, rejoining his companion, he
said:
“Well.”
"If I didn’t know who It was stood
there, I don’t think I should be able to
rec ognize you,’’ said Valerius, after
some consideration. “A strong light
struck your breast and flung sharp
shadows upward toward the face."
But an outline was cleurly visible?"
■Quinton persisted.
"True,” he assented, and then after a
second’s silence he added wearily—CTf
you had distinctly seen, and were now
able to Identify the man who stood
there. It might simplify this melan
choly business and forever rid an In
nocent woman of all blame."
"Then you believe the man I saw to
fee the; murderer?"
"I shouldn't be surprised to hear he
•WllS.”
"We may know one day.”
"We may. Good night,” said Valeri
us In a grave tone.
"Good night," said Quinton Quave as
they shook hands and parted.
may not prove fatal until the blade
is withdrawn.
The theory that Dumbarton had
rushed into the house was furthermore
supported by the fact that no sounds
of altercation or movement had been
heard coming from the room previous
to the cry of fright or pain mentioned
at the Inquest. That cry had evidently
been given on the accused seeing her
husband and noticing his condition; in
other words, the instant he had entered
the room already stabbed, and but a
couple of seconds before his fall.
Maekworth argued that the man had
been stabbed outside the gate, when,
already probably aware from observa
tion that his wife was within reach, he
had darted Into her presence for pro
tection, while his murderer absconded.
A fact which had not been explained
was the appearance in the house of the
knife by which death hud been caused.
Tlie servants’ evidence proved they had
seen it for the first time after the trag
edy had taken place. A rough-handled
clasp knife, such as sailors carry, it
was not the kind a woman would pur
chase, need or employ. The supposi
tion arose that it had belonged to the
deceased, from whom It had been
snatched in a moment of excitement
and used against his life by the ac
cused but that theory wore no sem
blance of probability to Maekworth,
who believed the weapon was In Dum
barton's breast when he made his vi
olent entrance to the house.
He therefore regarded Mrs. Dumbar
ton as the victim of circumstances, an
opinion In which he was strengthened
by her appearance and manner, such
things having weight with one who
scrutinized Ills kind severely. Coming
Into continual contact with men and
women, while stained with crime,
sought to hide their guilt by a sem
blance of innocence, he was quick to
perceive, in a thousand petty ways, the
difference in the bearing of one who
was blameless. And seeing and ac
knowledging the dangerous closeness
with which a damning evidence sur
rounded and shadowed her, his interest
in her behalf was more fully aroused
than they had been for years In any
case which had employed his talents.
And she being Innocent, the murder
must have been committed by some one
at present unknown and unsuspected.
The crime had been perpetrated with a
motive, the most probable being that
of revenge. In the statement of George
Corls regarding the possible wrongs the
deceased had Inflicted, and of the ven
geance which had probably been taken
by some outraged husband, lover, or
father, Maekworth fully agreed. No
circumstance, however, that he had
been able to discover regarding the de
ceased. had favored this supposition.
Within a few hours of his finding in
David Dumbarton's pocket a directed
;nvelope, the inspector had called at the
address given, a quiet lodging in Es
sex street, Strand. This establishment
was kept by a retired cook, an ample
breasted, high-colored lady dressed in
frayed black satin. Concerning her late
lodger she had little to tell. Now that
he was dead her curiosity regarding
him became far greater than where he
had lived, his sensational ending en
dowing him with new Interest to her
mind. What she knew she readily told.
About a fortnight previously he had
taken a back room on the second floor.
Breakfast had been served him daily
In this apartment, which he seldom left
before dusk, when he went out. He had
apparently come from abroad, but he
had not proved communicative, and had
said little of himself. He received no
visitors, nor had visitors called. The
landlady was under the impression that
he was poor. He had paid his first
week’s rent, but not the second. She
had never noticed a knife of any kind
In his possession.
Permission was readily given to
Maekworth to visit the room, yet unlet,
which had been occupied by the de
ceased, ull of whose belongings were
stored In a leather portmanteau, much
battered by wear and plentifully sprink
led with colored labels bearing the
names of foreign hotels and towns.
With some expectation Maekworth
opened It, thinking that here might lie
tome clew to the owner’s terrible death.
With this idea uppermost In his mind
the Inspector examined its contents;
a suit of clothes with empty pockets,
some torn covered shilling novels of
sporting interest, and pass books con
taining dates of races and columns of
figures. But there was neither letter,
photograph, paper, nor aught else
which might serve to throw light on
the mystery Maekworth sought to solve.
Only one thing which the portman
teau held possessed the slightest In
terest for him, this being an old pair
of kid gloves, well worn, stained and
wearing the Impress of the wearer’s
bands. Neither were they the shape
nor size of the glove found upon the
path fronting Mrs. Dumbarton’s house
the glove Maekworth had already com
pared with the hands of the deceased
the glove which might or might not
have belonged to the man who caused
David Dumbarton's death.
The Inspector’s disappointment
served to strengthen, if possible, his de
termination to discover some of the de
tails regarding the life of this man
details by which his actions might be
traced, his associates known, his mur
derer revealed. But at present Mack
worth had absolutely no guide to direct
his search; no clew which afforded him
CHAPTER IX.
Detective Inspector Mackworth was
tui undersized man Inclined to stout
ness, which It became the desire of his
life to subdue. His face was broad,
dark-complexioned, mobile; hts feat
ures'regular, so that his countenance
wouB have been commonplace but for
the eyes, which were grave In expres
sion and absent looking, as from the
habit of Inward reflection, but bright,
swift moving and, searching when his
attention was roused or his curiosity
excited.
Naturally desiring to acquire all
kinds of knowledge, he had, by con
tinual application and by the sacrifice
of pleasures dear to others of his age,
succeeded in educating himself after
he had reached man's estate and such
instruction as he had received from the
hard school of the world, as well as
from the books he read and the minds
he studied, he placed at the disposal
of the calling he followed.
Prom his earliest days human nature
had been to him a source of tnjyUiaus
tible Interest. Its errors, eccentricities
and subtleties possessed for him a fas
cination greater than any art for Its
votary, than any science for Its stu
dent. And as he knew there could be
no deeds without thoughts. It was hts
Invariable habit to ascertain, or. if fail
ing that, to presuppose the motive and
Interest likely to actuate the crime
whose perpetrator he sought to discov
er. From such premises, as from a
starting point, he proceeded to work.
Now, after a careful consideration of
the case before him he came to the con
clusion Mrs. Dumbarton was Innocent
of the crime laid to her charge, being
chiefly brought to this decision by facts
to which the coroner's Jury had fulled
to give reflection and weight. George
fV»-ts stated In defense that had the de
ceased desired to see his wife, he would,
like any other visitor, have gone to the
hall door and Inquired for her.
Mackworth, on the contrary, believed
that David Dumbarton would on en
tering the garden and seeing his wife
In a room whose window stood open,
would strive to steal Into her presence
rather than risk being refused admit
tance to her house.
But in that case he would walk
steMthlly, silently, slowly, that he
' might not alarm and therefore set to
flight the woman h^ wishes to see.
whereas, evidence showed he had, from
the diagonal route taken, from the dis
tance between the marks of his feet,
from the manner In which these marks
were Impressed, and from the facts of
the flower beds being trampled and the
grassy slope of the terrace torn, fled
from pursuit.
It was true Mackworth had failed to
find marks of a struggle outside the
gate, but this he scarcely expected to
see. for the side path, being flagged
In the center, could retain no trace of
t scuffle. Nor haw he discovered signs
of blood either «ttslde the gate or In
the garden. But he was well aware
that a knife on being thrust firmly
home into the breast, not only may
nut. cause blood to flow externally, but
gtr
Fearful.
Football Captain—Hurrah'. We
came out on top of the heap.
Manager—Judging from your appear
ance, I should say you came out at
the bottom of the heap.
the slightest aid toward Indicating
where that search should begin.
Nothing daunted by this, he and
those he employed began a system ol
inquiry and investigation, so stringent
In itself, so widespread in its raml
tlcations, that the intelligence sought
must be found, always provided that
th" deceased had not, during his short
stay in London, purposely secluded
himself from friends and companions
and strangers alike. He had probably
visited England for the purpose of so
liciting or demanding help from his
wife; it was possible he had intended
his stay to be short. Had it been his
policy while in town to lead a perfectly
solitary life, as it seemed feasible to
suppose, from the fact that he seldom
left his lodgings during the day, the in
vestigation of the detectives might end
in failure.
Then came the supposition that the
deceased would not voluntarily Isolate
himself If without a motive. Was that
motive fear? And if so, did not fear
argue the existence of an enemy?
While inquiries were being made re
garding David Dumbarton throughout
the length and breadth of London,
Mackworth placed himself in communi
cation with the foreign police, whose
perfect system of espionage enables
them to track with ease and give with
readiness the information required re
garding those who have lived abroad.
It was with considerable eargerness he
waited for information, which came in
the llrst place from the Parisian police.
The deceased, whose nume, age,
height and appearance were perfectly
given, together with the date on which
he had arrived in and subsequently
left the French capital, had said the re
port, lived in an apartment in the Rue
Petit Maitre, on the left bank of the
Seine, during the first five months. He
had habitually frequented race courses,
and was well know to sporting men and
jockeys, who with the singers of the
cafes chantants and the chorus of the
opera house were his chief associates.
No charge had ever been made against
him. He was not, so far as known,
a member of any political society, nor
the spy of any government, nor had it
been discovered that his domestic re
lations caused the jealously or enmity
of friend or acquaintance. He appeared
to he popular.
On his arrival in the city he had
seemed prosperous. The source of his
income was not known. Of late he had
been impecunious. He had arrived in
Paris from Monte Carlo, where he was
well remembered by the police, who
were unable to throw any light unon his
private life, or to produce any accusa
tion against him. Further Investiga
tion would be made concerning him.
With tills report and the promise
with which It concluded, Mackworth
was obliged to content himself for the
present. The former contained no
statement of social communications, no
hint at domestic wrongs; nothing, in
deed, that served to forshadow or ac
count for the tragedy which had be
fallen David Dumbarton. But the de
tails given were of the surface rather
than of the private life of the deceased,
and it might well be that beneath the
jovial exterior of this frequenter of race
courses and cafes chantants, this popu
lar English gentleman of convivial
tastes, that interests, intrigues and pas
sions, all the stirring elements of a
stormy drama, played an important
part in an existence unsuspected by
ills companions, unknown to his friends.
But though Mackworth considered
that revenge was the most probable
motive that brought about Dumbar
ton's death, he assured himself it was
not the only one which could be made
to account for the tragedy. Another
had, indeed, presented itself to the in
spector’s mind; a motive at which
through silent hours he looked from ev
ery reasonable point of view, deliber
ating on its possibilities, which grew
stronger from being constantly consid
ered, and dwelling on its feasibilities
with something like fascination binding
him to his mental pursuit.
This motive was the love of a man
for a woman whose husband stood be
tween the slayer and his happiness.
And the man whom Mackworth sus
pected was George BostoCk.
CHAPTER X.
Now, as a man of the world whose
experience was extensive, Mackworth
believed that of all motives which actu
ate humanity, love remains the most
powerful. As a force for good or evil
its strength was incalculable. It had
proved the mainspring of nine-tenths
of the cases he had been called on to
investigate. He had known it before
now to teach deceit, to instigate
treachery, to betray honor, to pervert
honesty, to cause bloodshed.
Rove was in itself a sufficient motive
for this tragedy, but with love, or from
it, sprang another incentive to the deed.
The man who was killed had for years
been the bitterest enemy of the woman
who bore his name. Deserting her when
poor, he had returned when fortune
favored her, to claim her earnings and
ills persecution had ceased only when
she had purchased a peace, a perse
cution which he would probably have
renewed had life been spared him.
The man was degraded in spirit; he
had fallen to sordid depths; he had
used his power to harm and humiliate
the woman he should have loved and
respected.
To rid her of such a man might read
ily seem to one who loved her the
greatest service he could render her;
a consideration which would be
strengthened by the hope that it would
secure his own happiness. That was
the nucleus of the case as Mackworth
saw it, regarding this second motive for
the murder. He next proceeded to ap
ply this general reasoning to a par
ticular case.
From the first moment he saw them
together he became aware of Rostock’s
love for Mrs. Dumbarton, this being
traceable in the tone of his voice, in the
light of his eyes, in the expression of
his face as he spoke to and looked at
her. On the evening of the tragedy
Eostock had called on her and re
mained with her until past 9 o’clock
Two hours and a half later and Dum
barton had been fatally stabbed.
Such were the facts of the case. Sup
position led Mackworth to suppose
Bostock had learned from Mrs. Dum
barton of her husband’s return, and of
the letter he had written her; on which
Mackworth supposed, the publisher had
waited in Hoxton road, reluctant, like
the true lover, to quit her neighbor
hood, or with some chivalrous intention
of guarding her, and there met the man
who threatened her peace, when with
settled intent, or from the result of a
sudden quarrel. Bostock had stabbed
David Dumbarton, who had tied for
protection to his wife's house; this ac
tion, which brought suspicion on her,
being unforeseen by the murderer.
(Continued Next Week.)
Why Not?
“Now, with this little device,” said
the agent, ’’you can save half your coal
bill."
“My!” exclaimed the sarcastic wom
an. "If 1 take two then I can save all
my coal bill.”
Sizing Him Up.
Philadelphia Press: “Pardon me,”
said the seedy-looking man, who was
laboring over a letter in the hotel writ
ing room, “but can you tell me how to
spell ’temporarily?’ "
“Certainly,” replied his shrewd neigh
bor; giving the desired information,
“and the other word is ’e-in-b-a-r
, r-a-s-s-e-ed.’ ”
I
POWER OF NATION
SAPPED BY DRINK
France Suffering From Con
sumption Brought On by
Over Indulgence.
EFFORT TO SAVE PEOPLE
Wives of Most Artisans Have to Work
Because Their Husbands SperfU
Too Much Time and Money
Drinking Their Liquors.
Pane Eanday in Chicago Tribune:
Every Monday nowadays French po
lice and boaids of health renew the
cards of warning telling in big letters
that 57 per cent, of all consumptives
acquire the disease through misuse of
alcohol, and from every street corner
the ghastly legend stares one in the
face, yet tuberculosis is killing oft the
unskilled laborer of Paris at a more
rapid rate than ever, and if the pace
continues for ten years no one will be
left to remove to an early grave. All
who visited the City of Eight know the
lusty "travailleut,” a colossal figure—
for France—head attached to a stocky
neck, proudly thrown back; Cyclopean
! hands, resting on swayiVig hips; the
blue blouse and overwide grayish
brown velvetine trousers, blown out
baloon shape—the descendant of sans
culottes, who played ninepins with the
heads of kings and aristocrats, delights
in using five times as much stuff for
his trousers (culottes) as the ordinary
run of men.
The unskilled laborer of Paris is a
mixture of French-Italian, French
German (Alsatian), or French-Belgian
blood. Muscles are his strong point,
and since Zola's “Germinal” made him
famous he is no small factor in poli
tics. He votes socialistic, but is an
evolutionist rather than a revolution
ist. "Socialism has to come," he says;
“we can wait.”
No socialistic meeting is without a
travailleur of two decorating the plat
form. and a hundred or thousand in
the audience, but as to legislation on its
behalf, he despises it. May the factory
hand, the Journeyman carpenter, mason,
smith, bricklayer, and artisan in gener
al enjoy the eight hour day, the “heavy”
worked hard to obtuln It for him, but
as for his own sweet self .he must be
free to labor as he pleases. He rises
with the first cock’s crow and rides to
the street, building in course of con
struction, or shop which has been lucky
enough to secure the services of his
mighty muscles. When it gets dark
down goes spade or hammer, and the
“heavy” enters upon his career of un
restrained enjoyment, or what he calls
enjoyment.
Falls Before Green Fairy.
The “heavy” seldom reports later
than 6 a. m. Then follows three hours
of steady work at so many centimes,
for the travailleur is paid by the hour.
At 9 sharp, first breakfast—the "dish
water and rolls" he had at home do
not count. This meal Is invariably
taken at a liquor dealer's or cafe and
consists of an omelette, chgese and
bread, coffee with cognac, and a few
“green fairies” lovingly called “mo
minette.”
The “green fairy" Is undoubtedly the
worst poison ever sold without a pre
scription; the gin that fifty years after
Us discovery (in 1648) nearly wrecked
the manhood and womanhood of old
England, would appear to be harmless
in comparison. True, Paris taphouse
keepers do not invite the public “to
get drunk for a penny," they do not say
on their signboards “for 2 pence you
may get dead drunk, no charge for
straw,” but the quality of absinthe
sold to the poorer classes is pregnant
with alcohol and creosote; the "heavy”
knows It, yet swears that he cannot
find his equilibrium until he has at
least two or three glasses on board.
He returns to work at 9:30 or 9:45, but
usually only half an hour is deducted,
as the foreman, who may have political
aspirations and besides is as much ad
dicted to the poison as his men, in
clines to shut his eyes.
urunxen Sleep at Noon.
The second pause Is at 12. Paris
knows not the processions of women
and children bringing father his din
ner; the dinner pall itself is unknown
here, and the workman who carries
sandwiches with a bottle of wine to
his place of employment is ridiculed
and shunned as a “sneak.” The aver
age "heavy" spends the noon hour at
the alcoholic restaurant, sitting on the
sidewalk if the weather is fine, at other
times in the liquor-pregnant basement
or cellar. The good natured braggart
squats at one of the low tables, mak
ing as much noise as a hall full of
American socialists. Boisterous talk
and laughter, singing, fellow workmen
railing at each other, joking with the
waitresses—no harm in that. The
menu is good and cheap, offering a
Sreat variety and plenty of everything.
ut the quart of wine that goes with
the meal, added to the cognac and two
or three absinthes of the morning, suf
fices to unfit our giant for work. He
must needs throw himself on a stoop
or sand hill for half an hour or more
to sleep off the effects of the liquor.
In New York or Chicago, Berlin or
London, Madrid or Liverpool, the 1
o’clock whistle is the signal for taking
up work. Not so with the "heavy” of
Paris. He knows that the foreman
will credit him for sixty minutes after
noon, and experience a fiendish delight
in prolonging his siesta. Why not, see
ing that the overseer does the same”
Work seldom begins before 1:25 or
1:35, and at 3 o’clock the “heavy" is
so fatigued again that he must have
another drink—absinthe or cognac, or
both. After that more or less steady
work until sundown.
Always Reaches Home Drunk.
“How many absinthes does the aver
age ‘heavy’ consume during a day’s
work?” I asked a number of foremen.
"Six to eight, likewise considerable cog
nac, besides a liter or two of wine,
from sunrise to sundown,” was the an
swer.
“That sends him home drunk, of
course?”
“Oh, he goes home drunk all right,
never fear,” replied the knowing ones,”
not from what he consumes during
working hours. Remember, the aver
age ‘heavy’ can accommodate ten 'mo
! mlnettes’ and two liters of wine com
fortably, but when he takes more It is
' liable to go to his head. Among a
hundred unskilled laborers in Paris,
sixty at least, indulge In more every
day in the year, the ‘heavy’ drawing the
largest wage, 8 francs, thinks nothing
of drinking fifteen ‘mominettes’ and
| three quarts before he turns in.”
Kills Slowly, if Surely.
I asked a chemical expert how much
‘‘pure’’ alcohol was contained in the
quantity mentioned. "A liter at the
least,” he said, “and it kills a man as
surely, though not as quickly, as the
wood variety that nearly depopulated a
block of tipplers in New York some
weeks a- The statistical! of the
| health c mt can tell you a story
anent which will make your half stand
on ends.”
He did, but as the case does not at
all apply to American conditions, I will
cut out the details of the harrowing
tale. “Among the ‘heavies,’ ” said Ufa
official, "delirium tremens is almost
epidemic. Few above 25 have suffered
from it, many are attacked three oi
four times before they end their miser
able existence. Look at the travail
leurs of middle age. Their noses are
red and swollen, their eyes bloodshot.
Those who are strongest at 20 are
surest to die of consumption before
they reach twice that number of years.
Why? Because they can earn the most
money and because their prowess is an
incentive to alcoholic excesses. The
broad chest of which they were so
proud flattens and becomes hollow,
quick consumption sets In and the
odor of death precedes and follows the
absinthe wreck. It is awful.”
Wives Forced to Work.
The city of Paris proudly publishes
the fact that it employs no unskilled
labor below the daily wage of $1. Six
francs 50, however, is the average paid
by industrial concerns all the year
around. With that amount, even with
5 francs a day, it is possible in Paris
to bring up a small family honestly
and decently, for outside the big ho
tels and the Elysee quarter, where
Americans and other foreigners dwell,
life in the city of light is decidedly
cheaper than in the small towns of the
American west. Yet ninety-live out of
every 100 travailleurs’ wives are obliged
to go out to work to keep themselves
and children, for the husband uses
more than one-half of his earnings for
himself.
Saturday being pay day, the number
of hours the “heavy’ spent outside the
gin mill are figured up and he is given
his wage. To celebrate he doubles his
usual allowance of liquor during the
f'est of the day, the evenings, and Sun
day as weil, the debauch incapacitating
him for work on Monday. Hence the
“heavy’s” wage never amounts to more
than 40 francs a week under the most
favorable circumstances—$8, Of which
amount the head of the family absorbs
$2.60 for drink and from $1.40 to $1.75
for meals.
Out of the remaining $4 or there
abouts the wife has to clothe him and
her, pay rent, buy food for the house
hold, pay the doctor, druggist, coal
merchant. She has to pay for bringing
children into the world and schooling
them, for In France education is any
thing but free.
Effect Seon in Work, Too.
But the effect of alcohol is not only
felt by the consumer and his family,
it tells on the work, too. Nowhere in
the world do public works progress so
slowly as In Paris. The son of Italy,
whom we employ In the United States,
though a dwarf compared with the
average Paris “heavy”’ moves In eight
hours’ work 35 per cent, more earth
or other materials than his French
colleague does In ten or twelve hours.
The "heavy" knows that the wages
of alcohol is earthly death, but does
not worry as long as he keeps out of
the hospital ere he reaches his fortieth
year. “After 40,” he argues, ” a man's
muscles begin to relax and decay, and
if my muscles are playing out, who will
pay me the wages? I know that the
'green fairy’ Is the bride of death. I-Iave
I not seen hundreds of my colleagues
go that way? What- matters it? A
short life and a merry one.”
Home Conditions Deniorable.
Statisticans point to the average
under-sized French soldiery of today.
They argue that there will be no Paris
"heavies" left In a decade or two. And
It looks, Indeed, us If they were right.
Only a return to the old fashioned life,
once the backbone of prosperity among
the French working classes, can fore
stall or prevent such a calamity. At
present the average Paris workman
finds no home deserving of the name
anywhere near his place of business.
He is obliged to repair to the dirty and,
consequently, unhealthy suburbs; to
chambers devoid of sanitary arrange
ments or gny comforts whatever,
"Home is nothing but an ill smelling
stable to sleep in,” is the usual excuse.
"What shall vve do there. betwreen cry- ;
ing babies, dirt, slovenliness, and fight
ing women? Better delay going home
as long as possible.
There is a faint glimmer of hope in
a new undertaking of the Rothschilds,
who have decided to invest $20,000,000
or $50,000,000 in hygienic workmen’s
homes within easy reach of Paris, i
These homes are to combine sanitari- j
ness with comfort—a splendid prospect. ;
promising heavy financial returns if
carried out well.
The American workman in the most1
squalid American town is a hundred
times better off than his most favored j
colleague In the City if Light.
-• « -
VJ -_
Too Bad.
Hix—Hunteru has postponed his Arc
tic expedition.
Dix—Why?
Hix—He’s suffering: from chills and
fevers.
\
He Knew.
Colonel Tthunovitch—General. the
Japanese have captured our right wing.
What must we do?
General Beatmallaky—Fly with the
other.
REVOLUTION NIGH
IN CZAR’S EMPIRE
Russia Is Said to Be Honey
combed Now With Radi
cal Societies.
NO MAN’S FREEDOM’S SAFE
Many of Those Now in the Army a>
the Front Would Ee Glad of an
Opportunity to Use the Army
to Secure Freedom.
Nineteenth Century: Today th*
forces of revolution in Russia are or
ganized—not all into one body, it is
true, for there are societies of moder
ates and societies of extremists. There
are those who would proceed by “con
stitutional” methods and there are
those who desire to resort to anarchy.
Some demand merely a curtailment of
the autocratic power of the czar, oth
ers still cry out for the overthrow of
all existing institutions and the whole
fabric of society.
Then, again, there is a large body of
the population belonging to the raer
| chant guilds, which for its safety dare
not belong to any revolutionary so
ciety, but which nevertheless desires
revolution and only awaits a lead. But
all these varying shades of opinion as
represented by their numerous leagues
and societies are controlled by one ex
] ecutive committee and brought into the
great revolutionary party In Russia.
This revolutionary organization has
branches all over the world and is in
ternational in its character. Included
in Its membership are men of all ranks
and of every degree. The professional
element and the universities are large
ly represented. The majority of the
Russian students at foreign universi
ties are to be counted among the num
bers of the revolutionary party.
In All Walks of Life.
In Russia itself the members are le
gion. They are to be found in eVery
walk of life—officers and men of the
army and navy, officials of the cus
toms, police, or censor’s office, who
draw a meager pittance from the czar's
coffers. They are to be found in the
palace of the czar himself and among
the advisers, too. Men with great
names iri Russia will be found among
the leaders of the revolution—men of
science, doctors and chemists, and stu
dents without number. As for the
peasants, they are waiting to do what .
they are told, as they have always
done. At present they are taking their
orders from the czar and the popes of
the orthodox church, but they will take
them from anybody else when their
minds are Inflamed.
The revolutionary party has its hand
upon the army, and therein lies the es
sence of success. There are soldiers in
Manchuria at this moment who are
pledged to make no Japanese widows.
It is astonishing how badly the Rus
sian naval gunner lays his gun. I have
lately seen two letters, written by sol
diers at the front, which go far to ac
count for the total lack of success of
the Russian arms. One speaks of men
voluntarily surrendering to the Japa
nese, so that they may not be called
upon to fight for the czar. The other
tells a tale of sudden retreat on the
part of a company of Russian soldiers
at the moment when victory was in
their grasp and of the officer in com
mand, unable to stop the stampede of
his men, blowing out his brains.
Twelve Men Rule Empire.
The revolutionary party in Russia is
ruled by an executive committee of
twelve men. The head of the commit
tee is a doctor, who, to this day, holds a
prominent post at one of the univer
sities. He is a very taciturn man of
great abilities and brain power, but he
seldom speaks. Other members of the
committee are professors of universities
in Germany, near the Russian border.
There are no appointed times or places
for the meetings of the committee, cir
cumstances alone ruling the frequency
and locality of their deliberations. In
the hands of the executive committee
rest the lives of the ministers and gov
ernors of the empire.
The removal of M. von Plehwe was
due to their deliberations. Each gov
ernment in Russia has its revolutionary
organization complete in detail under
the executive committee. Thus all tlio
elements of revolution are to hand and
organized.
Czar Gets Secret Letter.
Some idea of the Influence of the rev
olutionary party may be obtained from
the fact that on the day of the assas
sination of M. Von Plehve the czar
found on the table of his private room
a sealed letter addressed to him by the
executive committee, which he handed
to the minister of justice for investi
gation. How was the letter delivered?
Whose hand placed it on the czar's ta
ble? The secret police can avail noth
ing against the dreaded committee.
Thus throughout all Russia the revo
lutionists are awaiting the signal from
the executive committee to strike. The
opportunity is not far to seek. The
pressure on an already overstrained
nation caused by a devastating war,
the misery entailed; the same of de
feat; the restlessness of despair; the
exhaustion of the treasury; the dis
credit of the bureaucracy—surely all
these things are working for the forces
of discontent. And that discontent Is
showing Itself in Russia is abundantly
proved by decent events. Restlessness
is manifesting Itself in many centers;
premature riots, organized by irre
sponsible, hot-headed students, break
out and are suppressed by the Cos
sacks. But the great revolutionary
party in Russia is waiting the word
from the executive committee.
The Value of Saying “No.”
Philadelphia Public Ledger: “No,”
is characterized as "a monosyllable the
easiest learned by a child, but the most
difficult to practice by the man."
Dr. Johnson displays a world of wis
dom In these few simple lines, and the
saying Is no less true in regard to
women than it is to men.
It seems cold and heartless to a. man
to refuse to lend a friend a little money
to tide over some anxious time, and
yet it Is a great question as to whether
he is justified In doing so If he himself
is forced to make some of his own
creditors wait while his money is ful
filling a friend’s need.
In domestic life a woman has alsu
much call for the little monosyllabic
“No.” She may dislike to disappoint
her children in some matters, but
knows in her heart of hearts that ths
granted favor would be bad for their
health or future happiness.
Yet how few mothers do say “No"
under such circumstances! And they
! excuse themselves by saying that it Is
bad for children to be twarted! So it
Is, but if the said children were
| brought up to know that their mother
I had always a good reason tor her de
cision and was not to bfe cajoled out
of that decision, the mother would save
a great deal of annoyance both to her
self and to others thrown in contact
with her offspring.
I