_y mi i
CHAPTER XII—(Continued).
“But, you know they nil prophesy a
Worse ending for me,” he said gloom
ily, without realising that his secret
thoughts were crowding to the sur
face.
"Pooh!” she cried. "I know what you
mean. Mary has told me all the things
they’ve said to you. But that can't
happen. You—why, Eric, dear, you
Just couldn’t kill anybody. You are
too tender and sweet hearted. Oh, 1
know you!" She kissed the brown fing
ers that were convulsively carried to
her lips.
The fingers of the very hand that
•ent Chetwynd against the treacherous
railing!
A low. mocking laugh came from
the wood behind them, a laugh that
brought a rush of Icy prcsplratlon
through every pore in Eric’s body. He
Whirled and peered into the shadows,
his lips parted in a sort of stupefying
horror.
It was the mean, never-to-be-forgot
ten laugh of Chetwynd Blagden!
The girl drew back in amazement.
“What Is it, Eric?” she cried.
“Didn't you hear it?” he gasped.
“Hear what?”
“The laugh. Oood heavens, Joan,
didn’t you hear it?”
“No, you silly boy. You must be
dreaming,” she cried merrily.
He could see no one among the trees.
They were absolutely alone. He
•ank back against the tree, limp
•nd weak. Passing his hand over his
wet forehead, he muttered:
”1—I thought I heard—but I must
have been mistaken. There Is no one,
la there?”
“There are some men repairing the
bridge at Bud’s Rock,” she said. “I
•aw them this morning. But that Is
half a mile away. They are putting up
hew railings.”
He arose abruptly. “Come,” he said
nervously, "let’s go home, Joan. It's
later than I thought.”
They hurried off across the smooth,
green meadow, into the hot sunshine.
Re led her directly away from the cool,
Inviting shade of the wood, ignoring
her protests.
“It’s shorter this way,” be argued
lamely, but that afforded slight content
to her. He was clasping her hand in
his and he was saying over and over
•gain, as much to himself as to her:
*Ve will be sweethearts always. Noth
ing can ever come between us now,
Joan.”
“As if there could be any danger of
that,” she said simply.
The third day after this meeting at
■the edge of the wood, Eric departed for
•Cambridge, firm in his decision to let
nothing stand in the way of his happi
ness with Joan Bright.
But he was not soon to get over the
•hock of tho imaginary laugh that
came from nowhere, from no one in
this world.
CHAPTER XIII.
HORACE WRITES A LETTER.
At the end of four years, Eric Mld
Ihorne came out of Harvard. Ho pre
pared at once for the examinations of
the Beaux Arts In Paris and passed
them successfully, standing high
■among the Americans who went
through.
During the summer of his 21st year,
and while he was still an undergradu
ate at Cambridge, his uncle, after'di
vulging the nature of the legacy which
Was to fall to him. spent hours out of
each day In counselling the young man
as to the wisest and best way to make
the most of his grandfather's bequest.
There would be more than $100,000
coming to him. A solid nest egg, Mr.
Blagden was wont to remark, notwith
standing the fact that the funds were
so diversely Invested that Eric was
once Inclined to observe, with 111 timed
facetiousness, that It might bo better to
■ci.il it a scrambled egg. Hts Uncle
Horace repaid the effort with a pained,
yet tolerant frown, ns If to say: "Har
vard Is not what he was In my day.”
■He ulwnys spoke of his alma mater In
the masculine sense, because, he ar
gued, the college was named for and
after a man, not a woman. Merely a
little stitch In the character of Horace
Blagden.
On his 31st birthday, Eric found
tilmself not only a man, but a free
agent Insofar as his inheritance was
concerned. There were bonds and
mortgages, bank stocks and building
lots, to say nothing or holdings in
nearly every public utility concern In
the city of Corinth.
"You will have an Income of nearly
»10,000,” announced Horace, after filing
his final report as guardian. In other
words, the best New England rates.
That is what It came to.
"Uncle Horace.” said Eric, as they
left the court house together, "I feel
that I owe you a great deal that cannot
be repaid in thanks. You have spent
a great deal of money In caring for
Mary and m.e-”
Horace checked him with a gesture.
"Pray do not labor under the delusion,
Eric, that you and Mary have been—
er. ahem—subsisting on charity. You
did not pay strict attention to the read
ing of my final report, I fear. It is a
very bad habit to get Into. Always pay
attention to such things. My report, as
Usual, sets forth all the expenditures
for the year. You will find, If you ex
amine It even casually, that you owe
nothing to me—er—ahem!—I mean In
a substantial way. I shall be fully re
paid by an expression of gratitude.”
He was unconsciously Ironic. Not for
the world would he have had It appear
•o. It was his way of Informing Erlo
that he had charged up his “board and
keep,” through all those years, to run
“You mean,” said Eric, a trifle dazed,
“that Mary and I have paid for—for
what we’ve had from you?"
“Precisely.”
“I—1 wish T had known that long
ego," muttered the young man, staring
ttralght before him, his Jaws set.
"I want to set you straight as to one
thing, Eric," said his uncle steadily. He
took the young man’s arm in his hand,
an unprecedented hit of informality on
his part. “I fear that you may con
ceive the Idea that I am niggardly In
this matter. Believe me, I am the one
who pays. I am the one who filed the
reports, mind you—showing that 1
children the cost of their food, their
clothes, their bringing up. The whole
of Corinth knows that I have done this
thing. So. you see. I get my pay In
the r.neers that pass behind my back—
yes. sometimes in these later days, be
fore my eyes. But I had an under
«ta. ding with myself when 1 took you
into my home years ago, In face of the
opposition of your shiftless relatives
»i the south. I did not intend you to
tome as charity wards, so to speak. 1
did not love you sufficiently well to
bestow charity upon you. To be frank,
l resented you both bitterly. But. I am
t fair man. Your southern relatives
w ere proud. They would not have had
you become objects of charltv. I told
II U!l \_/
a
them that a Blagden was never an ob
ject of charity. A Blagden would pay
for his own out of his own. You are
Blagdens, both of you. Today you can
look me In the face and say that you
do not owe me a dollar. You are Inde
pendent, Eric. I have seen to It that
you who came to me against your will,
who remained In my house all these
years because you could not help your
self—I say I’ve seen to It that you are
under no pecuniary obligation to me.
You have paid me, out of your Inheri
tance, for everything you have re
ceived, and so has Mary.”
' Uncle Horace, I-”
"Just a moment, please. I am not so
penurious as you think. My will has
been made, Eric, these many years. In
It there Is a special clause re
storing to you every penny of
the money I used In the payment of
these—er, ahem!—fixed charges, you
might say. I say It is a special clause,
because during the last year I altered
my will In one other and somewhat vi
tal particular. I will not go Into that,
however."
His lean grey face hardened as he
uttered the last sentence; a far away
look came Into his eyes.
“But I can’t think of taking back”—
began Eric all at sea over the strange
turn of affairs.
"You can't help yourself, my boy,”
said Horace Blagden, kindly. “Sit
down here with me on this bench. It’s
cool here, and of late the sun appears
to be affecting me qddly. Erie, your
aunt and I are proud of you. In spite
of ourselves we have always liked ydu
and Mary. If we were harsh with you,
It was because we were envious—even
Jealous. It Isn’t so hard to say that,
either. And, believe me, there was a
time when we honestly feared for your
future. That Is why—” here a thin
smile broke on his lips—"we set Mr.
Presbrey on you. I hope you will for
give us that. And yet, don’t misunder
stand me, I believe he did you more
good than you will admit. Well, you
are 21. You are going to be a credit to
all of us—living and dead. Your mid
dle name Is Blagden, don’t forget that.
I say we are proud of you. My boy,
It Is more than that with me. I am
fond of you. I will not say that your
aunt is not quite as much so—er,
ahem!—as I am. I want you to know
that I love you for your fairness, your
gentleness, your honesty. You are a
good boy, Eric. I would to God you
were my son.”
Eric was dumbfounded. An older
and keener Judge of human nature
would not have been deceived Into be
lieving that a generous Impulse moved
Horace to that unhappy lament. It was
an exposition of the quintessence of
selfishness. He was thinking only of a
personal gain that had been denied him
in nature's distribution. But Eric did
not know this. He was touched by the
unhappy cry from tho great man’s soul.
A sudden desire came over him to lift
the dreadful suspense that was hang
ing over his uncle’s head.
"Uncle Horace, I want to tell you
something that will make It easier for
you about—Chetwynd. It has been a—”
Mr. Blagden turned on him coldly.
“Stop right there!” he said without
raising his voice, but with a leok in his
eyes that served better than a shout of
command. "You are not to mention
his name. sir. I have told you so be
fore. There Is nothing you can say
that will make—But there! I am for
getting myself. We will resume our
talk concerning your Investments. They
are safe and sound, and I sincerely hope
you will condescend to manage them
ss carefully as I have done, as your
guardian, and as your grandfather did
before me. Do not put your fortune
into the hands of the Jews. It Is safe
enough In Corinth. By the Jews I mean
the tendrils of New York. They suck
up gold as the plants suck In the dew.
I hdte a Jew. Have you noticed there
are no Jews In Corinth?”
"A Jew couldn't live In Corinth, '
uncle,” said Eric, who hated the town.
“He’d starve to death.”
His uncle closed one eye and a grim
smile showed Itself faintly at the cor
ners of his mouth.
“I fancy he would," said he. "It Is a ;
far cry from Corinth to New York."
“Why shouldn’t I leave my affairs In
your hands, uncle, Just as they have
been?" Eric observed after a moment's
reflection. “I’d only ask for a certain
portion of the Income—enough to live
on. you see. Is It asking too much ot
you. sir?”
Horace laid his hand on the young
man’s knee. "I think they would he
safer In my hands than In yours, my ,
boy. At least, for a few years. I will
continue to look after them for you on
the condition that you agree in writing ,
to—er—ahem!—to allow me absolute
control over them."
"For a certain length of time, sir,”
said Eric steadily. “I believe I can .
manage for myself when I am a little
older."
“Quite right. We’ll say five years.
You will be married by that time, 1 •
dare say."
r-ric uiusnea. iie naa been with Joan
Bright that very morning,
"Who knows?" he mused evasively.
And so it was agreed between them
that Horace Blagden was to have con- .
trol of Eric’s fortune for a term of
years. A business transaction, pure
and simple, said Mr. Bladgen, in which
he proposed tb serve as agent at a
much lower rate of compensation than
Eric could hope to obtain from the
Jews. It was quite a satisfactory ar
rangement all uround, for Eric would
not have had him act without compen- ■
satiori. Eric was past 22 when he pre
have charged up to my own sister’s .
pared for the Beaux Arts. He was to
be abroad for at least two years. I.ong
before he completed his work at Har
vard, he was promised a commission—
his first real work as an architect and
builder.
Judge Bright was to be his first cli
ent. The young man was to design
and build for him a new and magnifi
cent home in Upper Corinth, a struc
ture that would cost no less than $150,
000.
‘T’d sooner entrust the Job to you,
Eric, than to any of those chaps in
Boston, with all their training and
prestige," said the Judge to the sur
prised and overwhelmed undergradu
ate. “You’ve got ideas, and that’s
what I want. Think over the plans
while you’re in Paris, and, in case you
w'rlte to Joan, who is the one you’ll
have to please after all, discuss them
with her. She’s got ideas, too.”
Of course, when the news got abroad
in Corinth that a boy of 24 was to build
Judge Bright’s palatial residence, the
like of w'hlch Corinth had never seen
except as a trespasser, there was a
general sniff of amazement. More than
one of the selectmen and practically the
entire congregation of the First Con
gregational church remonstrated with
the Judge, admitting that it was none
of their business, of course, and declar
ing that they Uked Eric, and all that.
and that he would be a great architect
some day, but for heaven's sake, et
cetera, et cetera.
Joan was not so pessimistic.
“I’ll help you with the plans, Eric,”
she announced blissfully. “W.e must
make no mistake. It must be perfect
In every respect. Because, don’t you
see. you I will live in it some day.”
Eric held up his hands in horror.
"Joan, Joan! Do you really think I’ll
live in Corinth after I’ve got a good
start in the world? Do you think I’d
bury myself and you here?”
"It’s a nice old place,” she protested.
"So is the world a nice old place.
We’ll go out and live in it somewhere.”
"But papa’s building this house for
me," she lamented. He looked glum.
“It’s a deuce of a dilemma, I
can’t give you up and I won’t give up
the commission."
"Well, why should we borrow trou
ble?” she cried gaily. “Father will live
in it for years and years. We can
spend some of our time with him,
Eric. We must. And, listen! 1 have
it. When we’re quite old we can close
it in the winter and let It in the sum
mer!”
W’e must not forget Adam Carr. It
would not be fair to him, if we pause
but for a moment to consider his own
capacity for not forgetting. There were
months during which Eric heard noth
ing of the man, then suddenly he
would nppear, as if from nowhere,
calmly to resume relations as if they
had separated no longer ago than the
night before. He would drop in on
the young man at his rooms in Cam
bridge, always without warning, but
never by any chance when he waS
away or when he had company there.
Or he would be sitting in the shade
of the trees that surrounded old Jabez
uarr 3 -watch house above Todville,
quite as if he always had been sitting
there, smoking a pipe with his father
and staring intently at the Bquirrels
that never quite got over being afraid
to approach him. Or, again, he would
come upon Eric in a New York thor
oughfare, never saying ‘‘how-do-you
30," but always beginning a conver
sation with some remark which fitted
In precisely with the thoughts that
were in the young man’s mind at the
moment. It was uncanny, and yet
Eric never experienced a single sen
sation of uneasiness or repulsion.
Somehow, it seemed to him that Adam
Carr was so much a part of his own
existence that he was with him in
spirit at all times, no matter how
?reat the distance that separated their
bodies.
Once, Just before commencement
lay, Adam appeared on the campus. He
came up from behind an spoke to Eric,
who turned without surprise, as
though he had been aware of his
presence all the time. You would
have thought he was continuing a
conversation that had not been divert
ed for a moment, much less by a lapse
of five months or more.
‘.‘I guess Horace has about given up
hope of Chetwynd ever turning up to
be forgiven.” he remarked, in the most
casual manner.
Again, one night in the Champs
Elysees, he came upon the young
American unexpectedly.
“What’s the news from Corinth?” he
isked, without preamble, speaking as
if from the darkness. Eric turned to
find his queer friend standing at his
elbow, idly gazing at the gaudy retinue
nf King Sasowlth of Cambodia, who
was returning, with all his wives and
concubines, from Pre Catalin, where
he had been the unit of attraction
since the sun went down.
This time, Eric confided to the de
tective that the situation was “getting
on his nerves.”
“I'm so sorry for them that I’ve half
a mind to tell ‘the truth, Mr. Adam,”
he said, in the course of conversation.
"Why, they’re simply grieving their
hearts out. It would be the greatest
blessing in the world if they knew
that he could never come back.”
Adam chuckled. ”1 suppose you think
old Horace would fall on your neck
And say thank you kindly, eh? Well,
fie wouldn’t my boy. He’d see to it
that you fell on your own neck, after
v drop of five or six feet. Be patient.
Before long I’ll report to him that
Chetwynd is no more. It may interest
you to know that I drop Horace a line
occasionally to let him know that I’m
still on the lookout for his erring off
spring. It’s getting to be somewhat of
x tax on me, writing these letters. I've
tlways hated to write letters. One of
hese days—soon, perhaps—I’ll get so
fired of it that I'll put an end to our
sne-slded correspondence by announc
ng that Chetwynd is dead. Jumped
overboard Just as I was about to nab
lim on a ship somewhere in the At
antlc. Body not recovered. See?
rhat will end it all. and Horace can
sleep in peace.”
"For heaven’s sake, do it soon,’ Mr.
Adam.”
“I'll think it over.”
“But not so hard as Horace Blag
len."
"He is changed.”
“Umph!”
(CONTINUED NEXT WEEK).
Vitae Lampada.
fhere's a breathless hush in the Close
tonight—
Ten to make and the match to win—
A bumping pit and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man In.
And it’s not for the sake of a ribboned
coat,
Or a selfish hope of a season's fame,
Jut the captain's hand on his Bhouider
smote—
“Play up! play up! and play the game!”
rhe sand of the desert is sodden red—
Red with the wreck of a square that
broke—
rhe gatling’s Jammed and the colonel
dead.
And the regiment blind with dust and
smoke.
rhe river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England’s far. and honor a name.
Jut the voice of a schoolboy callles the
ranks,
"Play up! play up! and play the game!”
rhls is the word that year by year,
While in her place the School Is set,
Svery one of her sons must hear.
And none that hears it dare forget,
rhls they all with a joyful mind
Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling, fling up the host behind—
“Play up! play up! and play the game!”
—Henry Newbolt.
Now that ocean liners and vessels of
whatever type of flag approaching the
Brlt'sh or French coasts are liable to
je sank without warning, the question
5f instructing passengers in the art of
rdjustlng life belts is to the fore. Lord
Brassey and Colonel Timson, veteran
travelers, have pointed out that only
rarely is a man or a woman traveling
by sea able to put on a life belt quickly
md properly. Fifteen years ago Col
onel Timson called attention to this de
ficiency, and urged that Great Britain
follow the example of America in mak
ing the requisite instructions compul
sory on the owners of ships flying the
union Jack. Nothing was done; noth
ing has been dono even in these days
md nights of special and extreme peril.
It is possible that the matter will b«
taken up by the government with a
flew to suitable legislation.
Umlke the brand burned into the
hides of cattle, sheep brands are paint
ed on the wool with tar or a like sub
stance. Western ranches are experi
encing great difficulty because so many
brand marks are effaced by rain. The
average sheep doesn't care enough
about who does the killing to be much
interested
PEACE AFTER STORM
Song of Lark Followed Thunder
of Heavy Guns.
Morning Hymn Came as Delightful
Contrast to Man’s Ferocious En
ergy of Destructiveness on
European Battlefield.
There had been much booming of
distant cannon during the day. It
came from seven miles away. We
were well accustomed tc the sound.
We had closed up night work at the
hospital; several patients were al
ready sleeping peacefully, spite of
wounds, when I went to my quarters.
The usual monotonous thud, thud,
thudding of artillery fire at regular In
tervals had turned instantaneously to
something quite peculiarly virile. A
quick, nervous, excitable quality of
sound from the big guns filled and rent
the air.
m iwu uugs, auer grownng discon
tentedly for a whoie morning, some
times fly at each other, and quite un
expectedly madly come to death grips,
so did the two opposing forces appear
to burst into the same wild, frenzied
wrath and go for one another with all
the strength at their disposal. So
quickly did their deadly thunder pour
itself forth, one could not count the
cracks. It was one mighty roll—one
gigantic, appalling roar, grim, unre
lenting, unearthly. The very room I
sat in seemed to partake of the vio
lence; the earth shook and the walls
trembled.
One felt spellbound for a little while,
fascinated by the awful clanging and
booming and crashing in the distance.
The fighting seemed to develop in in
tensity as the night wore on. To com
plete the horror a high wind was
blowing, which added considerably to
the wild effect of the man-made storm.
For about half an hour I sat and lis
tened. Then, although common sense
declared it was futile, I gave way to
a longing to go cut. Surely with all
this noise there must be something
to see as well!
Instinct was right. Over the plain,
toward the Belgian lines, there was a
stupendous scene. The whole horizon
pictured the temper of those frantic
guns. There was one great moving ex
panse of crimson fire.
I went in again and settled down
IT"'.... ■—
for the night. The guns never ceased;
in fact the sound increased rather than
moderated in violence as the night
progressed. Quite suddenly a strange
thing happened. The whole conflict
appeared to cease. As quickly as it
began, the fire of artillery was abso
lutely, stopped. The first great silence
was even more impressive in its way
than the preceding storm of tempes
tuous energy.
It was getting gradually lighter. One
began to feel that the coming of dawn
was very near at hand. Out of the
silence—the deathlike silence—a sound
now burst forth that made one’s heart
stand still.
“I heard a voice.” A tender little
warbling prelude suddenly fell on my
ear. Then a pause. Then a soft note.
Another pause. Then a bolder note
still. I.ouder and bolder the note
sounded and finally turned into a
trill.
The lark had awaked with the dawn.
With perfect trust and gentle adora
tion she let her voice ring gayly
forth, her delight in living, her ec
stasy and praise finding expression in
the most exquisite morning hymn it
has ever my lot to hear.—Thedosia
Lady Bagot in the London Telegraph.
Sandstorm Smith Was Reassured.
“Say, loeky yur!” snarled Sand
storm Smith, the widely-known Okla»
homan, emerging from the elevator
in a Kansas City hotel five minutes
after he had apparently retired to his
room for the night. “Who in the
blazes is that cuss in the next room
to mine?”
“A guest who was in an automobile
accident this afternoon,” replied the
clerk. “The gasoline caught fire and
burned him pretty badly. I am sorry
his groans disturbed you, but—”
“Aw, that’s all right! I thought it
was one of them infernal cabaret per
formers practicing on an accordion.”
—Kansas City Star.
Was Making Signs.
While Jane, the new maid, was tak
ing her first lesson in arranging the
dining table, someone in the basement
kitchen put something upon the dumb
waiter below.
“What’s that noise?” asked Jane
quickly.
"Why, that’s the dumbwaiter,” re
sponded the mistress.
“Well,” said Jane, “he's a-scratchin’
to get out.”—Collier’s.
Love is a malady of the mind that
swells the head but makes $10 look
like 30 cents.
-
SUPPLIES ALWAYS ON HAND
British Claim to Have Made Transport
System at the Front as Perfect
as Is Possible.
When it is mentioned that 2,000 tons
of goods—food and other necessities—
are sent every day from the base de
pots to the firing line of the British
army, some idea of the gigantic task
of the army service will be gathered.
This enormous weight of goods, says
Harold Begbie, comes almost entirely
from England, for we are not buying
in France even so perishable a neces
sity as milk. Vast stores are brought
from England and loaded into sheds
at the base depots.
All day by motor dory and railway
truck supplies for the troops are sen!
out from these base depots to stores
as near as possible to the firing lines
And just as reserves are accumulated
in the docks, so reserves are accumu
lated near the front, since an accidenl
to the railways might cut off the fight
ing soldiers’ supplies.
On one occasion there was a delay
on the railways of 36 hours, but nol
only did the soldier at the front gel
all his food and ammunition, but he
did not even have to draw on the re
serves I have mentioned; regimental
stores were sufficient for his need.
Everything goes by clockwork. There
is nb room for an accident.—Londoj
Tit-Bits.
It Didn’t Work.
The crowded car was overflowing.
“Get off the step,” the conductoi
cried. “I’ve got to shut the door.”
“Don't mind me,” replied the man
on the step. “Close it if you like. It’i
true that I have a couple of sample
packages of dynamite in my overcoal
pockets and the windows might b«
broken and the roof blown off, bul
don’t hesitate on my account. 1
haven’t many friends, anyway, and
I don’t think many would sorrow ovei
my early demise. Go ahead and close
your door.”
Then the conductor closed it. ^
The Ohe Exception.
“Everyone seems to be here foi
his health,” remarked the new arrival
at the summer resort.
“Yes, everyone but the hotel pro
prietor,” replied the guest who had
been there three days.”—Judge.
Won’t Do.
Tom—Rather pretty girl, isn’t she!
Penelope—Pretty enough, yes, bul
absolutely no style.—Life.
. -
Builders of the
“Big Ditch”
There has just been issued by the Historical Publishing Company
of Washington, D. C., a magnificent illustrated history of the construc
tion and builders of the Panama Canal. The editor of this great history
is Mr. Ira E. Bennett, with associate editors, John Hays Hammond, cele
brated mining engineer; Capt. Philip Andrews, U. S. N.; Rupert Blue,
Surg. Gen. U. S. Public Health Service; J. Hampton Moore, Pres. At
lantic Deeper Waterways Ass’n; Patrick J. Lennox, B. A., and William
J. Showalter.
One of the most interesting portions of the book is that dealing with
the feeding of the immense army of laborers. A few paragraphs con
cerning one of the foods chosen and supplied by the Commissary
Department, are quoted (beginning page 428) as follows:
“Visitors to the canal who were privi
leged to get a glimpse of the routine
inner life will recall a familiar picture of
workmen going to their places of labor
carrying round yellow tins.
“Often, as they went, they munched a v
food poured from the tin into the hand.
This food, which played no inconsider
able part in ‘building’ the canal, was the
well-known article of diet, ‘GRAPE
NUTS.’
.
“The mention of Grape-Nuts in this
connection is peculiarly pertinent. Not
merely because Grape-Nuts is a food—
for of course proper food was an integral
part of the big enterprise—but because
it is a cereal food which successfully
withstood the effects of a tropical climate.
This characteristic of Grape-Nuts was
pretty well known and constituted a
cogent reason for its selection for use in
the Canal Zone.
“This food is so thoroughly baked
that it keeps almost indefinitely in any
climate, as has been demonstrated again
and again.
“One finds Grape-Nuts on transoceanic
steamships, in the islands of the seas, in
Alaska, South America, Japan, along the
China coast, in Manila, Australia, South
Africa, and on highways of travel and
the byways of the jungle—in short,
wherever minimum of bulk and maxi
mum of nourishment are requisite in
food which has to be transported long
distances, and often under extreme diffi
culties.
“The very enviable reputation which
Grape-Nuts has attained in these respects
caused it to be chosen as one of the |
foods for the Canal Zone.”
Graioe-Nuts
FOOD
—scientihcaily made of prime wheat and malted barley, contains the
entire goodness of the grain, including those priceless mineral elements
so essential for active bodies and keen brains, but which are lacking in
white flour products and the usual dietary.
There’s a reason why Grape-Nuts food was chosen by the Canai
Commissariat. There’s a reason why Grape-Nuts is a favorite food of
hustling people eveiywhere!
Sold by Grocers
__* J
