The Crime of ^IP"
tKe Boulevard
While she was going toward the
door Bernardet slowly mounted the
two flights of stairs, followed by Mon
lche and the tall young man who had
arrived in his coupe at a gallop in
order to get the first news of the
murder and make a ■•scoop” for his
paper.
The news had traveled fast and his
paper had sent him in haste to get all
the details of the affair which could
be obtained.
The three men reached M. Rovere’s
door. Moniche unlocked it and stepped
back. Bernardet. with the reporter
at his heels, notebook in hand, entered
the room.
CHAPTER HI.
Nothing in the ante-chamber indi
cated that a tragedy had taken place
there. There were pictures on the
walls, pieces of faience, some arms of
rare kinds, Japanese swords and a
Malay creese. Bernardet glanced at
them as he passed by.
“He is in the salon,” said the con
cierge in a low tone.
One of the folding doors stood open,
and, stopping on the threshold in or
der to take in the entire aspect of the
place, Bernardet saw in the center of
the room, lying on the floor in a pool
of blood, the body of M. Rovere,
clothed in a long, blue dressing gown,
bound at the waist with a heavy cord,
which lay in coils on the floor, like a
serpent. The corpse was extended be
tween the two windows which opened
on the Boulevard de Clichy, and Ber
Wrdet's first thought was that it was
a miracle that the victim could have
met his death in such a horrible man
ner two steps from the passersby on
the street.
vvnoever struca tne diow am u
quickly,” thought the police officer.
He advanced softly toward the body,
casting his eye upon the inert mass and
taking in at a glance the smallest ob
jects near it and the most minute de
tails. He bent over and studied it thor
oughly.
M. Rovere seemed living in his tragic
pose. The pale face, with its pointed
and well trimmed gray beard, expressed
in its fierce immobility a sort of men
acing anger. This man of about 60
years had evidently died cursing some
one in his supreme agony. The fright
ful wound seemed like a large red cra
vat, which harmonized strangely with
the half whitened beard, the end of
which was wet with blood.
But what struck Bernardet above ev
erything else, arrested his attention and
glued him to the spot was the look, the
extraordinary expression in the eyes.
The mouth was open as if to cry out;
the eyes seemed to menace some one,
and the lips about to speak.
They were frightful. Those tragic
eyes were wide open, as if transfixed by
fear or fury.
They seemed fathomless, staring,
ready to start from their sockets. The
eyebrows above them were black and
bristling. They seemed living eyes in
that dead face. They told of a final
struggle, of some atrocious duel of looks
and of words. They appeared, in their
ferocious immobility, as when they
gazed upon the murderer, eye to eye,
face to face.
Bernardet looked at the hands»
They were contracted and seemed, in
some obstinate resistance, to have clung
to the neck or the clothing of the as
sassin.
“There ought to be blood under the
nails, since he made a struggle,” said
Sernardet, thinking aloud.
a uuuici, me rcpunrr, iiur
rledly wrote, "There was blood under
the nails.”
Bernardet returned again and again
to the eyes—those wide open eyes,
frightful, terrible eyes, which, in their
fierce depths, retained without doubt
the image or phantom of some night
mare of death.
He touched the dead man’s hand. The
flesh had become cold, and rigor mortis
was beginning to set in.
The reporter saw the little man take
from his pocket a sort of rusty silver
ribbon and unroll it and heard him ask
Moniche to take hold of one end of it.
This ribbon or thread looked to Paul
Rodier like brass wire. Bernardet pre
pared his kodak.
“Above everything else,” murmured
Bernardet, “let us preserve the expres
scion of those eyes.”
“Close the shutters. The darkness
will be more complete.”
The reporter assisted Moniche in or
der to hasten the work. The shutters
closed, the room was quite dark, Bern
ardet began his task. Counting off a
few stens, he selected the best place
from which to take the picture.
“Be kind enough to light the end of
the magnesium wire,” he said to the
concierge. “Have you any matches?”
“No, M. Bernardet.”
The police officer Indicated by a sign
of the head a match safe which he had
noticed on entering the room.
“There are some there."
Bernardet had with one sweeping
glance of tl*e eye taken in everything
In the room—the fauteuils, scarcely
moved from their places; the pictures
hanging on the walls, the mirrors, the
bookcases, the cabinets, etc.
Moniche went to the mantlepiece and
took a match from the box. It was M
Rovere himself who furnished the light
by which a picture of his own body
was taken.
c i-uun, vumm jio picture in tms
room without the magnesium wire,”
said the agent, as calm while taking ’s
photograph of the murdered man as he
had been a short time ago in his gar
den. "The light Is insufficient. When
I say, ‘Go!’ Monlche, you must light
the wire, and I will take three or four
negatives. Do you understand? Stand
there to my left. Now. Attention!”
Bernardet took his position, and the
porter stood ready, match and wire in
hand like a gunner who awaits the or
der to fire.
"Go!” said the agent.
A rapid, clear light shot up and sud
denly lighted the room. The pale face
seemed livid, the various objects In the
room took on a fantastic appearance in
this sort of tempestuous apotheosis and
Paul Rodler hastily inscribed on his
writing pad, "picturesque, bizarre mar
velous, devilish, suggestive.”
"Let us try it again,” said M Ber
nardet.
For the third time in this weird
light the visage of the dead man ap
peared whiter, more sinister, frightful
the wound deeper, the gash redder, and
the eyes, those wide open, fixed, tragic,
menacing, speaking eyes—eyes filled
with scorn, with hate, with terror,
with the ferocious resistance of a last
struggle for life, immovable, eloquent
—seemed under the fantastic light to
glitter, to be alive, to menace some
one.
"That is all,” said Bernardet very
softly. "If with these three nega
tives”—
He stopped to.look around toward the
door, which was closed. Some one was
raining ringing blows On the door, loud
and imperative.
"It is the commissary. Open the
door, Monlche."
The reporter was busy taking notes.
describing the salon, sketching It, draw
ing a plan for his journal.
It was, in fact, the commissary, who
was followed by Mme. Moniche and a
number of curious persons who had
forced their way in when the front door
was opened.
The commissary, before entering, took
a comprehensive survey of the room
and said in a short tone: "Every one
must go out. Madame, make all these
people go out. No one must enter.”
There arose an uproar. Each one tried j
to explain his right to be there. They
were all possessed with an irresistible
desire to assist at this sinister investi
gation.
"But we belong to the press.”
"The reporters may enter when they
have shown their cards," the commis
sary replied. “The others—no.” There
was a murmur from the crowd.
"The others—no," repeated the com
missary. He made a sign to two offi
cers who accompanied him, and they
demanded the reporters’ cards of iden
tification. The concourse of curious
ones rebelled, protested, growled and
declaimed against the representatives j
of the press, who took precedence
everywhere.
"The Fourth Estate!” shouted an old
man from the foot of the staircase.
He lived in the house and passed for
a correspondent of the institute. He
shouted furiously, “When a crime is
committed under my own roof, I am
not even allowed to write an account
of it, and strangers, because they are
reporters, can have the exclusive privi
lege of writing it up.”
The commissary did not listen to
him, but those -who were his fellow suf
ferers applauded him to the echo. The
commissary shrugged his shoulders at
the hand clappings.
it is uui rigm, ne saia 10 me re
porter, "that the agents of the press
should be admitted In preference to
any one else. Do you think that It Is
easy to discover a criminal? I have
been a Journalist, too—yes, at times.
In the Quartier occasionally. I have
even written a piece for the theater.
But we will not talk of that. Enter,
enter, I beg of you, and we shall see."
And elegant, amiable, polished, he
looked toward M. Bernardet, and his
eyes asked the question, Where is it?
"Here! M. le Commissalre."
Bernardet stood respectfully In front
of his superior officer as a soldier car
rying arms, and the commissary in his
turn approached the body, while the
curious ones, quietly kept back by Mo
niche, formed a half circle around the
pale and bloody corpse. The commis
sary, like Bernardet, was struck by the
haughty expression of that livid face.
"Poor man,” he said, shaking his
head. "He is superb, superb. He re
minds me of the dead Duke of Guise in
Paul Delaroche’s picture. I have seen
it also at Chantilly, in Gerome's cele
brated picture of ‘The Duel du
Pierot.’"
Possibly in speaking aloud his
thoughts the commissary was talking
so that the reporters might hear him.
They stood, notebooks in hand, taking
notes, and Paul Rodier, catching the
names, wrote rapidly in his book: “M.
Desbriere, the learned commissary, so
artistic, so well disposed toward the
press, was at one time a Journalist. He
noticed that the victim’s pale face, with
its strong personal characteristics, re
sembled the dead Duke de Guise In
Geroine’s celebrated picture, which
hangs in the galleries at Chantilly.”
CHAPTER IV.
M. Desbrlere now began the Investi
gation. He questioned the porter and
portress, while he studied the salon in
detail. Bernardet roamed about, exam
ining at very close range each and
every object in the room as a dog
sniffs and scents about for a trail.
“What kind of a man was your
lodger?" was the first question.
Monlche replied in a tone which
showed that he felt that his tenant
had been accused of something.
"Oh, M. le Commissalre, a very
worthy man, I swear It.”
"The best man In the world,” added
his wife, wiping her eyes.
“I am not Inquiring about his moral
qualities,” M. Desbrlere said. "What
I want to know is, how did he live and
whom did he receive?”
"Few people. Very few," the porter
answered. "The poor man liked soli
tude. He lived here eight years. He
received a few friends; but, I repeat,
a very small number."
Mr. Rovere had rented the apartment
In 1888. He installed himself in his
rooms, with his pictures and books.
The porter was much astonished at the
number of pictures and volumes which
the new lodger brought. It took a long
time to settle, as M. Rovere was very
fastidious and personally superintend
ed the hanging of his canvasses and
the placing of his books. He thought
that he must have been an artist, al
though he said that he was a retired
merchant. He had heard him say one
day that he had been consul to some
foreign country—Spain or South Amer
ica.
X1C HU. 1.1 OIIIIJ/I.V, aiiuuu^u UlCJf
thought that he must be rich. Was he
a miser? Not at all; very generous, on
the contrary, but plainly he shunned
the world. He had chosen their apart
ment because it was in a retired spot,
far from the Parisian boulevards. Four
or five years before a woman, clothed
in black, had come there—a woman
who seemed still young. He had not
seen her face, which was covered with
a heavy black veil. She had visited
>1. Rovere quite often. He always ac
companied her respectfully to the door
when she went away. Once or twice
he had gone out with her In a car
riage. No, he did not know her name.
M. Rovere’s life was regulated with
military precision. He usually held
himself upright. Of late sickness had
bowed him somewhat. He went out
whenever he was able, going as far as
the Bols and back. Then, after break
fasting, he shut himself up in his li
brary and read and wrote. He passed
nearly all of his evenings at home.
“He never made us Walt up for him,
as he never went to the theater,” said
Moniche.
The malady from which he suffered
and which puzzled the physicians had
seized him on his return from a sum
mer sojourn at Alx-les-Balns for his
health. The neighbors had at once
noticed the effect produced by the cure.
When he went away he had been
somewhat troubled with rheumatism,
but when he returned he was a con
firmed sufferer. Since the beginning
of September he had not been out,
receiving no visits, exfcept from his
doctor, and spending whole days in
his easy chair or upon his lounge,
while Mme. Moniche read the dally
papers to him.
"When X say that he saw no one,”
said the porter, “I make a mistake.
There was that gentleman—”
And he looked at his wife.
"What gentlemaCn?”
Mme. Moniche shook her head, as if
he ought not to answer.
“Of whom do you speak?” repeated
the commissary, looking at both of
them.
■i
At this moment Bernardet, standing I
on the threshold of tho library adjoin
ing the salon, looked searchlngly about ;
the room in which M. Rovere ordln- |
arily spent hts time, and which ho had
probably left to meet his fate. His
ear was as quick to hear as his eye
to see and os he heard the question
he softly approached and listened for
the answer.
"What gentleman and what did he
do?” asked the commissary a little
brusquely, for he noticed a hesitation
to reply In both Moniche and his wife.
"Well, and what does this mean?”
“Oh, well, M. le Commlssalre, It Is
this—perhaps It means nothing!” And
the concierge went on to tell how, one
evening, a very fine gentleman, and
very polished, moreover, had come to
the house and asked to see M. Rovere.
He had gone to his apartment and had
remained a long time. It was, he
thought, about the middle of October,
and Mine. Moniche, who had gone up
stairs to light the gas, met the man as
he was coming out of M. Rovere’s
rooms and had noticed at the first
glance the troubled air of the Individ
ual—Moniche already called the
gentleman the “Individual”—who was
very pale nnd whose eyes were red.
Then, at some time or other, the
individual had made another visit to
M. Rovere. More than once the por
tress had tried to learn his name. Up
to this moment she had not succeeded.
One day she asked M. Rovere who It
was, and he very shortly asked her
what business It was of hors. She did
not insist, but she watched tho indi
vidual with a vague doubt.
"Instinct, monsieur: my Instinct told
me—"
"Enough." Interrupted M. Desbriere.
"If we had only Instinct to guide us,
we should make some famous
blunders."
“Oh, It was not only by Instinct,
monsieur."
An, ah! Ret us hear It—
Bernardet, with his eyes fastened
upon Mme. Monlche, did not lose a
syllable of her story, which her hus
band occasionally interrupted to cor
rect or to complete a statement or to
add some detail. The corpse, with
mouth open and fiery, ferocious eyes,
seemed also to listen.
Mme. Monlche, as we already know,
entered M. Rove re's apartment when
ever she wished. She was his land
lady, his reader, his friend. Rovere
was brusque, but he was good. So it
was nothing strange when the woman,
urged by curiosity, suddenly appeared
in his rooms, for him to say: "Ah, you
here? Is that you? I did not call you.”
An electric bell connected the rooms
with the concierge lodge. Usually she
would reply, "I thought I heard the
bell.” And she would profit by the oc
casion to fix up the fire, which M. Ro
vere, busy with his reading or writ
ing, had forgotten to attend to. She
was much attached to him. She did not
wish to have him suffer from the cold
and recently had entered as often as
possible, under one pretext or another,
knowing that he was ill, and desiring
to be at hand in case of need. When
one evening about eight days before
she had entered the room, while the
visitor, whom Moniche called the in
dividual. was there, the portress had
been astonished to see the two men
standing before Rovere’s iron safe,
the door wide open and both looking
at some papers spread out on the
desk.
Rovere. with his sallow, thin face,
was holding some papers in his hand,
and the other was bent over, looking
I with eager eyes at—Mme. Moniche
had seen them well—some rent rolls,
bills and deeds. Perceiving Mme.
Moniche, who stood hesitating on the
threshold M. Rovere frowned and me
chanically made a move as if to gather
up the scattered papers. But the por
tress said, "Pardon," and quickly with
drew. Only—ah, only—she had time
to see, to see plainly the iron safe,
the heavy doors standing open, tho
keys hanging from the lock, and M.
Rovere in his dressing gown, the of
ficial papers, yellow and blue, others
bearing seals and a ribbon, lying there
before him. He seemed in a bad humor,
but said nothing. Not a word.
"And the other one?”
The other man was as pale as M.
Rovere. He resembled him, moreover.
He was, perhaps, a relative. Mme.
Moniche had noticed the expression
with which he contemplated Ihose pa
pers and the fierce glance which he
cast at her when she pushed open the
door without knowing what sight
awaited her. She had gone down stairs,
but she did not at once tell her hus
band about what she had seen. It was
some time afterward. The individual
had come again. He remained closeted
with M. Rovere for some hours. The
sick man was lying on the lounge.
The portress had heard them through
the door talking in low tones. She
did not know what they said. She
could hear only a murmur, and she
had very good ears, too, but she
heard only confused sounds, not one
plain word. When, however, the visi
tor was going away she heard Rovere
say to him: "I must tell all sooner or
later.”
(Continued Next Week.)
Mr. Howells as Pagasus.
From Putnam's and The Reader for July.
He has the poet's unconscious trick, out
of a world of universale and of unlmper
sonals, suddenly to descend Into the world
of the Individualized and warmly human.
The English child “selling permits" to
visit a chapel of the neighborhood has for
him, on the moment's seeing, “that sunny
hair which has always had to make up
for the want of other sunniness in that
dim clime.” A little stroke, but it is done
as a poet decs such things—and !o! in
finite riches of ancestral association are
crowded into a little room. It is the poet
in our traveller—nought else—that at
Herculaneum bears well all he sees there
of cruel memorabilia, but will not bear
seeing the cruelty of this summer's un
remembering flowers gaily overflowing the
vestiges of tragic scath in antiquity! And
it is the poet who, in Exeter cathedral
musing upon the “civic edifice," actual
and ideal, built by the English, can look
up suddenly, and see "something in the
passing regard of the choir boys less sug
gestive of young eyed cherubim than of
evil provisionally repressed." We may be
pardoned our feeling, at many a beauti
ful moment of rapport, that here—here
again—have we found Pegasus, not, in
deed. harnessed to a dray, but etill doing
service as a gallant roadster harnessed
to the triumphal car of fiction, or, it may
be, to the dashing tally-ho of travel. We
know him for Pegasus, all the same.
Faith in Hope.
Oh, don’t tie sorrowful, darling.
Oh, don't be sorrowful, urav;
For. taking the year together,'my dear,
There Isn't more night than day
It's rainy weather, my loved one,
Times wheels they heavily run:
But. taking the year together, my dear
There isn't more cloud than sun.
We’re old folks, now. companion:
Our heads they are growing gray:
But. taking the year all round, my dear
You always will find the May.
We've had our May, my darling,
And our roses long ago:
And the time of the year is come, my dear
For the long, dark nights and the snow,’
But God is God, my faithful,
Of night as well as of day.
And we feel and know that we can go
Wherever He leads the way.
Ay. God of night, my darling,
Of the night of death so grim:
.And the gate that from life leads out.
good wife.
Is the gate that leads to Him.
—Rembrandt Peal*.
A letter written by a woman decided a
contest for the office of president of a
men's club In New York a few days ago.
There were two candidates for the place;,
one a clerk In a New York financial In
stitution, whose young wife had been a
working girl, the other a wealthy manu
facturer, with a reputation among his
neighbors for ''closeness.'' The day be
fore the election each member of the lit
tle club received a typewritten letter,
signed by a woman whom all knew, which
began with these words: "It what 1
write you Is not true. It Is libel." Then
she said that the club should not honor
Its "meanest man.” and related some
amusing Incidents to demonstrate that she
was not mistaken In her estimate of the
man. In closing she wrote. "What do
you think of a man who has his bam
painted and says to his wife: ‘That’s
your birthday present.’ If you can afford
to elect that kind of man for your presi
dent, go ahead!” The alleged "meanest
man’’ was defeated,
A French physician, believing that any
one wishing to summon a medical man
to an urgent case may pass several doc
tors In the street while he Is hurrying
from house to house and ringing bellB In
vain, suggests that every doctor should
wear a badge in his button hole as a dis
tinguishing sign. "The plan, no doubt.’’
says the Dundee Advertiser, "would be
welcomed by the man who Is struggling
to build up a practice, hut If It were com
pulsory It would add another care to that
profession In which a man can hardly
fall to be useful, and has more than the
usual chances of being unhappy. Is It not.
enough that a doctor should be practically
obliged to live and die in a top hat with
out his being required also to label him
self like a physic bottle?”
Lablche, the French dramatist, wns
once asked to support a candi
date for the academy a certain
literary mendicant, but hesitated for a
long time, and yielded only when he
was told that If the ambitious author
should fall to be elected he would die.
of it. Failure, nevertheless, did conie,
and the following year, when a second
vacancy occurred, Lablche’s vote was
once more solicited In the man’s behalf.
"No,” “I will not vote for a man who
does not keep his word. He did not
die.”
HOT A MIRACLE
Juat Plain Canas and Effect.
There are some quite remarkable
things happening erery day, which
seem almost miraculous.
Some persons would not believe that
a man could suffer from coffee drink*
lug so severely as to cause spells of un
consciousness. And to find complete
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tum Is well worth recording.
“I used to be a great coffee drinker,
so much so that It was killing me bjr
Inches. My heart became so weak t
would fall and lie unconscious for an
hour at a time. The spells caught me
sometimes two or three times a day.
"My friends, and even the doctor,
told me It was drinking coffee that
caused the trouble. I would not be
lieve It, and still drank coffee until 1
could not leave my room.
“Then my doctor, who drinks Postnn*
himself, persuaded me to stop coffee
and try Postum. After much hesitation
I concluded to try It. That was eight
months ago. Since then I have had but
few of those spells, none for more than
four months.
“I feel better, sleep better and am
better every way. I now drink nothing
but Postum and touch no coffee, and
as I a in seventy years of age all mjr
friends think the Improvement quite re
markable.”
"There's a Reason.”
Name given by Postum Co., Battle
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Bvtr read the above letter? A new
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They are genuine, true, and fall at
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Just 3,962,660 cords of wood were
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facture of paper pulp last year, twice
as much as was used in 1899.
Jennie—-What makes George such a
pessimist?
Jack—Well, he’s been married three
times—once for love, once for money
and the last time for a home.
Sara. Wlnalows oocrctruro F-hUi ror ChlMrem
teaching; softens the sums, reduces inliemmAoou. »*
leys pain-cures wind —ll- cent .t bottle
Frank About it.
Dolly—Did Jack propose to you of his
own accord?
string, all right.
Polly—A cord? Well, I had him on a
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WITH "HEALTH AND BEAUTY” BOOK BENT PBEC
THE PAXTON TOILET CO., Boston, Mass.
6I0UX CITY P'T'G CO., 1,265—43, 1908
Why Debs Runs to Los*.
Lincoln Steffens in Everybody’s.
The trouble with Debs Is that he puts
the happiness of the race above every
thing else; business, prosperity, prop
erty. Remarking this to him, I said
lightly that he was therefore unfit to
bo president.
“Yes," he answered seriously, “I am
not fitted either by temperament or by ,
taste for the office, and if there were
any chance of my election I wouldn't
run. The party wouldn’t let me. We
socialists don’t consider individuals, |
you know; only the good of all. But 1
we aren’t playing to win; not yet. We
want a majority of socialists, not of
votes.
"I am running for president to serve '
a very humble purpose; to teach social
consciousness and to ask men to sacri
fice the present for the future, to throw
away their votes, to mark the rising
tide of protest and build up a party i
that will represent them. When social- ]
ism is on the verge of success the ,
party will nominate jjn able executive |
and a clear headed administrator not i
—Debs."
CUBE AT CITY MISSION.
ATrfnl Cane of Scabies—Body a Mass
of Sores from Scratching—Her
Tortures Yield to Cutlcura.
- “A young woman came to our city
mission In a most awful condition phys
ically. Our doctor examined her and
told us that she had scabies (the itch),
Incipient paresis, rheumatism, etc.,
brought on from exposure. Iler poor
body was n mass of sores from scratch
ing and she was not able to retain solid
food. We worked hard over her for
seven weeks, but we could see little
improvement. One day I bought a cake
of Cutlcura Soap and a bottle of Cutl
cura Resolvent, and we bathed our pa
tient well and gave her a full dose of
the Resolvent. She slept better that
night and the next day I got a box of
Cutlcura Ointment. In five weeks this
young woman was able to look for a
position, aud she is now strong and
well. Laura Jane Bates, 85 Fifth Ave„
New York, N. Y„ Mar. 11, 100".’’
Among recent wonderful surgical opera
tions Is or.e of a most daring and un
usual nature. An idiot, 6 years old, the
daughter of a resident of Berlin, has
been converted into an intelligent being
by the process of grafting part of the
mother's thyroid gland upon the child's
pancreas. In more popular language, this
means that part of the mother's throat
has been transferred by the grafting pro- i
cess to a gland, or tissue, lying directly at
the back of the stomach. The operation
was carried out by Dr. Carl Garre, a Ger
man surgeon, whose success in the trans
planting of organs from one animal to
another and even from the lower animals
to human beings, has attracted wide at
tention.
Trees in Town.
From the London Times.
Since we love nature more, perhaps,
than any of the great city builders of
the past, our aim should be to give our
cities a natural beauty which theirs
did not possess, so that we need not
pine for green fields in them, and may
have foreign whispers in the streets
and the market place. There are few
things more beautiful in nature than
well grown trees, and none more com
fortable to the souls and bodies of men;
and we can have trees wherever we
choose.
THREE WEEKS
Broncht About a Remarkable
Chance,
Mrs. A. J. Davis of Murray, Ky.,
says: “When I began using Doan’s Kid
ney Pills, kidney disease was slowly
_ nnlennlnn mn l'/7*
spells almost made me
fall, sharp pains like
knife thrusts would
catch me In the back,
, and finally an attack
of grip left me with a
constant agonizing
backache. Doan’s Kid
ney Pills helped me quickly ana in
three weeks’ time there was not a
symptom of kidney trouble remaining.”
Sold by all dealers. 50 cents a box.
Foster-Mllburn Co., Buffalo, N. Y.
Prof. Karl von Noorden, In an open
letter published In a Berlin paper, defends
his position on the alcoholic question,
which was not clear to some of the physi
cians who heard his lectures on the prin
ciples of nutrition. He says that he has
called attention repeatedly to the injury
wrought by alcohol. “Especially did I
warn gouty subjects against the use of
the smallest quantity,” he adds. He does
not share, however, the opinion of those
people who believe that alcohol Bhould
be banished from the sick chamber.
Greece—Everything that King Midas
touched turned to gold. What do you
think of that?
Nise—I’ve often heard it—but I have
always thought that the story was In
vented by his press agent.
PATENTS BKS
■ "■■■■■■ w ence. Rcf'»r to
any bank in Sioux City. H, G. GARDINER,
| Patent Attorney, 4th and Pierce. S.oux City. 1e.
DYSPEPSIA
"Haring taken your wonderful "Caaearets” for
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due to‘*Casearots'rfor their wonderful composition. 1
1 have taken numerous other so-called remedies
but without avail and T find that Casoarets relieve
more in a day than all the others 1 have taken
would in a year."
James McOune, 168 Mercer St., Jsrsey City, H. J.
Best For
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SOLD BY ALL LEADING DRUGGISTS*,
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I -n.rnii’c <‘Re»i»dy” *n« .th.r limMli
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W-Al.t fi> HARZ 4 DAVIS, 1004 Br44dw4y. O.kl.Dd, Oti
The Groat Rivalry.
Candidate, he come along,
Talkin' night an’ noon.
Glee club sing a purty song;
We Jines In de tune.
Hab a mos’ convincin’ way:
Specks dey mus’ speak true,
"Mlstah Candidate,’’ I say,
.‘‘I gwlnter vote for you!”
’Nuther candidate draws nigh;
Has a band dat’s great.
Say dat opposition try
To swamp de ship o’ state!
An' now de question dat I note
A risin’ th’oo de land.
Is dls: "Which wins de people’s vota^
De glee club or de band?"
—Washington Star.
No Horns Necessary.
Wlckson—I -wonder why nature de
veloped the Bense of smell so much
stronger In animals than In man?
Suppose a man had the scent of A.
deer?
Dickson—It would be great. Then*
he could jump when he detected th*
scent of gasoline two miles away.
W1 SELL GUNS AND TRAPS CHEAP
& buy Furs & Hides. Write for catalog lOfc
N. W. Hide & Fur Co.. Minneapolis, Mimu