It is cruel to force nauseating, harsh physic into a sick child. Loo!; back at your childhood days. ., tho "done*’ mother insisted on—castor oil, calomel, cathartics. ' How you hated them, how you fought against taking them. With our ciilldren it's different. Moth! is who cling to tho old form of physic simply don't realize what they lo. The children's revolt is well-found ed Tlielr tender little "insides'’ are Injured by them. If your child's stomach, liver and bowels need cleansing, give only doli ■ Mous "California Syrup of Figs.” Its action is positive, but gentle. Millions of mothers keep this harmless “fruit laxative” handy; they know children love to take it; that it never/ails to clean the liver and bowels and sweet en tho stomach, and that a teaspoonful given today saves a sick child tomor fOW. Ask at the store for a 50-cent bottle of "OaJffornia Syrup of Figs,” which has full directions for babies, children of all ;iges and for grown-ups plainly on each bottle. Adv. Rats More Learned In Ohio. KnUi fh'Stroy on an average of $.'100 worlfi'bf. Catalogues each year at Ohio state university, according to lister E. Wolfvi. secretary of the entrance board. The rodents, which infest the luiHeBinnt of University halt, where the enlgjlQgTjCK are kept, nibble the binding of tf#' Iwtoks In order to get the paste which Jinlds tho leaves together. The eommgjt methods used to get rid of rats, Bticb us poison and traps, have Jong sWe been given up ns useless, for Hif! nils, probably because of their envirotaoent, are too wise to be tempt ed by fjrhor. YBS* LIFT A CORN OFF WITHOUT PAIN! Cincinnati man tells how to dry up a corn or callus so It lifts off with fingers. You corn-pestered men nn., says: *‘I suf fered from a con stant. dull ach© In my back and after awhile I began to have other kidney disorders. 1 lost strength a n d at times the kidney se cretions were too frequent in passage and then again re tarded. I ran’! de iKTibe th© misery I endured. Doan’s Kidney 7’tH* brought rne wonderful re lief, making me feel better and strong er in ©very way." G«t,Uoar.*a at Any Store. 80c a Box DOAN’S VJK.V FOSTliR-MILB URN CO.. BUFFAJXh N. V. I __ The Man Who Forgot A NOVEL By JAMES HAY, JR. GARDEN CITY NEW YORK DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 1915 CHAPTER FOUR,—(Continued). “The height of absurdity!” flared the agitator. “To say that prohibition doesn’t prohibit is just as sensible as to say that the man who lias to ride 40 miles on horseback to got a drink will do it as often as the man who can get one by str iping around the corner to a saloon. And the pat ent medicine argument! There may be, I admit, here and there a drunkard who seeks such a sub stitute, but he is entirely a neg ligible factor compared to the young men who through the ab sence of the saloon will never learn to drink. Prohibition, Wal ler, is essentially the blessing and the salvation of the rising genera tion—and of women. Prohibit liquor today and you do away with drunkenness among all the youth of this country.” Passing through Dupont Circle, they had followed Massachusetts avenue to Scott Circle. As they turned the corner that brought them into Sixteenth street and set them face to face with the White House, Wall or began a new line of inquiry. «y tne way, ne sam casually, “who are you, anyway?” “What?” Smith’s tone was explosive. The question made his brain whirl. There crashed through his mind the different way in which Edith Mallon had asked him that only a few minutes before. The picture of her, swaying in the doorway, floated before his eyes. For a moment he doubted his ability to carry on any conversation at all with the man at his sid6. That this inquiry should come on the heels of the first, seemed to him more than, ho could stand. Why, he asked himself, should this curi osity about him accumulate so rapidly? “Who are you?” Waller re peated, lifting his hat to a sena tor driving by. Smith forced himself to answer smilingly: “John Smith—John Smith of Illinois, agitator by profession.” “And who were y.ou?” Wal ler’s slow words had in them the ring of inevitable pursuit. They represented to Smith what he might expect from the rest of the world. “Oh,” he said, his smile not bright enough to make Waller ob livious to the weariness in his voice, “what difference does it make?” oumr uti.y. nip? irirnci ex plained, exercising elaborate eare in the selection of his words, “the whisky lobby is going to attack you on your past. It's as certain as that, I’m a foot high. You can’t duck it. Heretofore, there have been allusions to it. They've sneered at you as a nobody, an un known, an unimportant person without connections or any spe cial identity. Rut, in the last, few weeks you've earned your reward. You’ve roused the country. You have the public on the trail of these whisky people. And you've got to face what’s coming.'’ Smith waved his hand widely. “Oh,” he said forcefully, “they can’t hurt me.” “You mean there’s nothing in your past that you fear?” “Just that.” “And you think this air of mys tery can’t do any harm?" “Why should it?” “My rooms are just a block over, on M. street,” Waller replied after a moment's thought. “Come over there with me, and 1 ’ll tell you.” CHAPTER FIVE. Waller’s study faced the after noon sunlight. "This room," he said, wheeling a big lounging chair near one of the windows for Smith, “is like ray life—full of everybody rise’s business, none of my own." There was about it an air of comfort and coziness produced in some extraordinary way by the. mixture of incongruous and unex pected things—Mexican pottery he bad picked up on a brief in spection of Villa’s army; auto graphed photographs of a presi dent, a famous divine, and a i woman socialist; nuggets he had . 6 accumulated in his visit to the Coeur d’Alene mining strikes; a rich Persian rug presented to him by an importer in New York; a revolver used by a murderess; curiously embroidered hangings, a gift from an appreciative friend at the Chinese legation; books and magazines everywhere; a photograph of St. Caudens’ “Nir vana;” paper knives, pipes, eiga ret cases, quaint Japanese jars of tobacco- ail in apparent disarray. “The people I’ve had to know and cultivate,” ho added, as if he regretted the fact, “reach round the world. They’re so many that I got tired long ago. There are so few that T like.” lie lit a cigar and sank into the chair near smith. “But you’re different,” he ex cepted. “And it’s because you’re real. You’re a disturbance—a dis turbance that really disturbs. You know, Washington is waked up every morning by the cry that a real reformer is in its midst. And it, goes to bed every night, with the knowledge that, it has been fooled again. You are the exception to the rule.” He smiled broadly. “I’m a son of a gun if I don’t believe you’re going to last,” he said, affection in his voice. Smith's impatience broke forth. “But tell me,” he said, striking the arm of his chair lightly, “what difference can be made in this fight, by what I divulge or do not divulge concerning myself?’ Waller puffed his cigar twice before he answered: “I know you pretty well. It’s my business to size up men as far as I can. And I know there never has been anything particularly bad about your past—but not ev erybody is as charitable as I am. Remember that. Furthermore, the whisky lobby goes on the theory that, when it hurts you, it hurts what you stand for.” “If they can produce anything to my discredit, Waller, they’re welcome to it.” There was in the emphatic de livery of this sentence utter final ity. Waller returned to the attack. “ftoncstly,” he said, a puzzled look on his face, “why don’t you end all this infernal gossip about your mysterious past? You've gotten by in society thus far sim ply because anybody with brains can get by that way in Washing ton. A man who can entertain a dinner crowd need never pay for a meal in this town—even if lie’s an escaped convict. But there’s too much speculation and whis pering about you even there. And, ms tor the political end of it, it just won’t do—that’s all." Smith leaned back in his chair, the late, sunlight full on his face. It was the only time Waller had ever seen him look tired. “Let them gossip if they wish,” he answered the other’s protest. Waller got up and put his hand on Smith’s shoulder. “Old man,” he said with quiet forcefulness, “yon can’t ignore them. The moment they convince t1ie public that there really is something in your past life of which you arc afraid and ashamed that moment you will begin to slip. And the public is a fool. It will believe anything if you print it in the newspapers often enough.” Smith made no reply. The memory of the woman swaying in the doorway, for the moment con trolled tiis thoughts. “You’re all wrong on this,” Waller persisted. “Take my word For it. This isn’t because I want a j story. Strange to say, I’m inter-i ested in this movement of yours— the first time I’ve been interested in anything of the kind for 1 don’t1 know when. I want to see you get away with it. Rut you can’t do it in this way. I know the fellows who write the stuff the people read, and they can’t get their hearts into stuff about a man who; has hung a mystery about his neck —particularly when his enemies claim the mystery covers some thing criminal or shameful." Smith felt the convincing sin cerity back of what he said. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing for me to tell—nothing at all.” “Then,” Waller said sharply, “if you won’t, they will. You can bet your last silver buck on that. And, if they don’t get the goods on you, the real goods, they’ll manufacture something. They’ll put out something, and it will be rotten, and it will hit you at the worst time. You can count on it.” “Lies don't get anywhere these days,” Smith objected warmly. “Don't they?” countered Wal ler. “Print one, and then see how long it takes the truth to catch up with it.” “Oh, well,” he dismissed the subject. “J stand on my work and the cause for which I am fighting. It’s all I can do.” The newspaper man smoked in silence. He could not understand how Smith, so clear-headed in all other things, should insist on a policy which, in the end, must be his ruin. “ You might as well know it now,” he said, the drawd pro nounced in his voice. “You’ll know it soon enough anyway. There’s somebody in this town who knows something about this precious past of yours.” “Impossible!” exclaimed Smith jerking himself upright. “If there isn’t I miss my guess a million miles.” Smith's whole body bent to ward him, as if to project with greater force the question: “What makes you say that? What do you know?” “I don’t know anything yet,” Waller replied. “Bo far, it's just in the air. But hints, intimations, are coming from the lobbyists, from Mitchell particularly. They say, if you don’t give up the ab surd attempt to lead this thing to victory, they’ll show you up. They’re insisting they have the man who knows the story.” “Just a threat, an empty ••threat,” Smith dismissed the idea, idea. f < T t ‘ a * a n t* J. gut, iiUlU Zivcy ui LlltJ XiCU* ord,” Waller said, showing more plainly than ever his belief in the story. Smith, gazing toward the setting sun, pursed up hrs lips as if to whistle, but no sound came from them. “Well, what is it to be?” Wal ler asked after watching him for several minutes and failing to get an inkling of what was in his mind. “I)o you talk, or not?” “Not!” was the answer. He sprang from the chair, his alertness full upon him again. Waller followed him to the door, waving aside the thanks for his interest in the matter. “You’re making a grave mis take,” the newspaper man said earnestly. “And there’s one other thing: If you expect to get action on this amendment in the House in December, as you have said, you’ve got to hit these represent atives of the people in the face with something big, a new idea. Light a fire under them. Force the fighting. This isn’t a fight that can be won by the ordinary meth ods. Make them sit up and take notice. Compel them to act. And,” he added persuasive!}', “get to it before the whisky crowd tries to get to you. Have things fixed by December.” Smith, leaving Waller, went to his rooms on I street. As lie walked, the last drawling advice he had gotten from Waller re volved in his mind. "Light a fire under them,” he repeated to himself. “That's the thing. Get the best of the com mittee on amendments. Do that, and I’ve got the fight Von.” In his apartment, a modest little affair, he paced up and down a long time, permitting himself to go over in detail the things Edith Mallon had said to him. She loved him. That was his dominant thought. It seemed to him a mir acle that a woman like Edith should not only care for him but should actually come to meet him, should show him so unmistakably, that, she loved him, and should ask for his confidence. The most sought after woman in Washing ton—and lie an impossibility. He remembered her again swaying in the doorway, heard the little cry with which she had turned and left him. She even had asked him if he thought it a fair thing to keep her in ignorance. Was it. fair? lie put the question to him self. Then, clenching and un clenching his hands until the fin ger nails rasped against the palms, breathing like a strong man who tries to support too great a weight, he struggled for the powmr to make himself think of something else. Waller’s idea! “Light a fire un der them ! Compell them to act!” He said these two short sentences] over again and again while he I paced the narrow space between his walls. Gradually he got down to something like connected thought. What could he do that he already had not done? What new thing could be injected into the fight? He worked over the problem, exercising his brain as if it had been an arm with great muscles in it. Could the new im petus come from the people? Could lie furnish it ? What would “light a fire?” He had done all within bis pow er to boat the whisky people. How could he fashion new weapons, map out a fresh campaign? Was there a path hitherto untrod? How could he show the crying demand of the masses for relief from the one thing that brought upon them more harm than all tlicir other e vil s ? Wh at He stopped, dead still, in the middle of the room, a slow smile driving away the anxiety that had been dragging at his features, lie began to laugh, but checked his mirth when it was only half done. He walked |to the window slowly, carefully, the motions of his body reflecting the intensity with which he thought, and studied, and calculated. At last he threw his arms wide, raised himself on his toes, and breathed a long sigh of relief. “Ah!” he said, like one who yields to the charm of luxurious surroundings. “Ah-li! It will do ! It will do!” And immediately he turned on the lights and began to throw a few necessary articles into a grip, lie was going out of town for a day to get the material for the “fire.” In 40 minutes he was on a train bound for New York. CHAPTER SIX. Mr. John Smith folded up the papers he had spread out on the great man's desk. The great, man, his face _ a moving picture of thought, left his chair and went to the window overlooking the swirl of the deep, narrow New York street. He was one of those who have done all things by striking adversity in the face and seizing fortune by the throat. He turned and faced Smith. “Imagination,” he said, “is the key to all things. Thoughts, bril liant ideas, are the foundation of business no less than of art. You have brought me a big idea.” “I come to you,” said the agi tator, “because I know that help must be given by those who have felt the force of the enemy. You, in your family, have suffered. That alone has taught you what the real philanthropy is—to save others from the thing that hurt you.” The great man, who handled dollars much as his visitor played with words, sighed. The sigh was almost a groan. “My only son," he said heavily. “And,” Smith reminded him, “there are so many other sons— sons who cannot be saved by the endowment, of churches or the building of hospitals or the erec tion of libraries—sons for whom there is only the one eliance, the destruction of the worst foe youth ever encountered.” The great man returned to his desk and sat down. “Let me see your estimate again,” he requested. Smith handed him one of the folded papers. “It is a great sum, a lot of money,” the New Yorker com mented, running his eye over the column of figures. “And this esti mate? "Where did you get it?” “As soon as I reached here this morning, I went to the president of a big railroad. lie had the cal culations made. They are cor rect.” the cost is very high," the man of money said smingly. And then: “You know, here we' look first always at the cost. But the idea is great, the plan tremendous. He sighed, and, letting the paper fall from his fingers to the desk, gazed out at the smoky sky. “And my own disappointment, my own heartache,” he went oil, quite simply, “is your advocate.” Smith watched him in silence. “The churches, the hospitals, the libraries”—the big man’s lip curled a little—“some of them are merely advertisements of their donors. But this—this would go into theTowliost hut. into the most luxurious palace. It would reach men and women everywhere. And I need not be known in it.” He handed the paper back to Smith. “I agree," hi* said quietly, as suming his real business do meanor. “1 stand back of it—for the amount you mention.” A few minutes later Smith. | swinging down Broadway, caught the observation of those whom he passed. A woman with cheeks too bright and eyes too dull turned and watched him out of sight. As she resumed her walk, nicking her way on the ridiculously high heels of her shoes, she murmured to her self: _ (Continued Next Week.) WHAT A JEWELRY FIRM DU they Invested Seme of Their Spare Money in Canadian Lands, S. Joseph & Sons, of Des Moines, Iowa, are looked upon as being shrewd careful business men. Having soukj spare money on hand, and looking foi ti suitable investment, they decided tg purchase Canadian lands, and farm it, With tiie assistance of the Canadian Government Agent, at Des Moines,' Iowa, they made selection near Ghamj pion, Alberta. They put 240 acres ofi land In wheat, and in writing to Mr; Hewitt, the Canadian Government Agent at Des Moines, one of the mem bers of tiie firm says: ‘‘I have much pleasure in advising you that on our farm five miles east of Champion, in tiie Province of Al berta, Canada, this year (1916 we har vested and threshed 10,600 bushels of wheat from 240 acres, this being an average of 44 bushels aud 10 pounds to tiie acre. A considerable portion of tiie wheat was No. 1 Northern, 1 worth at Champion approximately $1.85 per bushel, making a total return lif $19,010, or an average of $81.70 per Acre gross yields. Needless to say, wa me extremely" well pleased with our | lands.” It might not be uninteresting to read tiie report of C. A. Wright of Milo, Iowa, who bought 1G0 acres at Cham pion, Alberta, for $8,300 in December, ! 3915. He stubbled in the whole lot of ft, and threshed 4,487 bushels Grade Mo. 2 Northern. Mr. Wright, being a thorough busi ness man, gives the cost of work, and tiie amount realized. These figures show that after paying for his Jantb and cost of operation lie had $2,472.87 left. 4,487 bushels, worth $1.55 at Champion ..$0,954.85 \ Threshing bill, 11c ( per bushel.$ 493.57 Seed at 95c. 144.00 Drilling . 160.00 Cutting . 160.00 Twine . 50.00 Shocking . 40.00 Hauling to town, 3e. 134.61 Total cost .$1,182.18 Cost of land. 3,300.00 $4,482.18 $4,482.18 Net profit after paying for farm amt all eost of opera tion .$2.4T2.*tt —Advertisemftit. Lived in One Room 82 Years. Croydon. England, hits lost liy death "roydon, England, lias lost by death (i trader who, in an interesting way. : carried on the trading traditions of j ‘he past. He was Robert Brain, who > ed at eighty-five years old in a room liver the little old-fashioned shop in Which In' had lived for 82 years. Mr. (’■rain was reputed to be the largest individual ratepayer in (lie borough, haying I lie corporation about £8f)0 3 (ear. London Chronicle. ACTRESS TELLS SECRET. , A well know 11 actress gives the follow, . fig re- ipe for gray hair: To half pint of Later add 1 03. Bay Rum, a small box of 1 arbo Compound, and ',1 oz. of glycerine. f\ny rimesist van put tills up or you vari jmx it at home at very little cost. Full , tirections for making and use come in ttoh box of Bnrbo Compound. It will jradually darken streaked, farted', grav lair, and make it. soft and glossy. It. wlil lot color the scalp, is not. stick/ or freasy, and does not rub off. Actv. innocent Recreation. Kill her imd demanded n tieart-to ► ■ irl talk with Ids only son. V "1 nm toM that you are given to tumbling," lie said sternly. "I admit it,” the son acknowledged, •tint only for small stakes. "Oli. as long as it is for something , l > eat I don't mind," the father sniit aenily cleanse your liver and sluggish bowels while you sleep. Get a 10-cent box. Sick headache, biliousness, dirat* tess, coated tongue, foul taste and foul jroath—always trace them to .torpid iver; delayed, fermenting food in the lowols or sour, gassy stomach. Poisonous matter dogged in the in testines, instead of being cast out >f the system is re-absorbed into the third. When this poison rtru'hes tha ielicate brain tis.-vo k < arses con gestion and that dull, throbbing, slc.k i nlng headache. Cascarets in,media*ole cleanse the itoamch. remove the poor. undigested . rood stud foul gases, take the excess oilo from the liver and tarry out all :he constipated waste matter and * poisons in the t'xjw cls. A Cascaret to-: light win surely •trafghtm you out by morning. They work while you sleep—a 10-cent box Vorn your druggist means your head bar. stomach sweet and vour liver’ and bowels regular for ninths Adv. Prance makes elemental;. i.isii uc cin ntilig;. :or.y for nil -TuM.c., l.t 1 vet i; six and thirteen ye:;; \ .As xve grow more sensible. v;e refuse drug cathartics and take instead Nature's herb cure, Grxfipld Ten. Adv. taive may In ugh ill leekstuHlts, ne.tr giggh*s a; plumbt r*.