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About The frontier. (O'Neill City, Holt County, Neb.) 1880-1965 | View Entire Issue (Dec. 23, 1920)
( THE MARK OF CAIN ) ( Copyright. 1*17, by J. B. Upplncott Co. J 'S- -'_ - i “And then, Miss Wilkinswa, after this mysterious message, did Mr. Trowbridge leave the office at oncel” “Yes sir. Grabbed his hat and scooted right off. Said he wouldn’t be back all afternoon. “And you did not recognize the voice as any that you had ever heard?” “No, sir.” “And you gathered nothing from the conversation that gave you any hint of who the speaker might be?" Whether it was the sharp eye of Mr. Berg compelling her, or a latent regard for the truth, the yellow-haired girl, for some rea son, stammered out, “Well, sir, whoever it was, called Mr. Trow bridge ‘uncle’.” Again one of those silences that seemed to shriek aloud in denunciation of the only man present who would be supposed to call Mr. Trowbridge “uncle.” Berg turned toward Kane Lan don. For a moment the two looked at each other, and then the younger man’s eyes fell. He seemed for an instant on the verge of collapse, and then, with an evident effort, drew himself up and faced the assembly. “You are all convinced that I am the slayer of my uncle,” he said almost musingly; “well, ar rest me, then. It is your duty.” His hearers were amazed. Such brazen effrontery could ex pect no leniency. And too, what loop-hole of escape did the sus pect have? Motive, opportunity, circumstantial evidence, all went to prove his guilt. True, no one bad seen him do the deed; true, he had not himself confessed the crime; but bow could bis guilt be doubted in view of all the incrimination as testified by wit nesses ? The coroner hesitated, lie was afraid of this strange young man who seemed so daring and yet had an effect of bravado rather than guilt. “Was it you, Mr. Landon who telephoned to Mr. Trowbridge the message we have heard re ported?” Jt was not. "Did you telephone your uncle at all yesterday?” "In the morning, yes. In the afternoon, no.” "Do you know of any one else who could call him uncle?” "No man, that I know of.” "This was a man speaking, Miss Wilkinson?” "Yes, sir, I’m sure it was a man. And Mr. Trowbridge called him nephew.” "That means, then, Mr. Lan don, that it was you speaking, or some other nephew of Mr. Trowbridge.” "Might not the stenographer have misunderstood the words? The young lady reports a strange conversation. I would never have dreamed of offering my uncle Htephanotis.” "I cannot think any man would. Therefore, I think Miss Wilkinson must have misunder stood that part of the talk.” A diversion was created just here by the arrival of a messen ger from headquarters, who brought a possible clue. It was a lead pencil which had been found near the scene of the crime. "Who found it?” asked the * coroner. "One of the police detectives. He’s been scouring ground by i daylight, but this is all he found. ’ ’ "Ah, doubtless from Mr. Trowbridge’s pocket. Do you think it was his, Miss Trow bridge ? ’ ’ Avice looked a the pencil. "I can’t say positively,” she replied. "It very likely was his. I think it is the make ho used.” "Not much of a clue,” ob served Groot, glancing at the pencil. ! "Kin I see itt” asked Fibsy, jeagerly. And scarce waiting for permission, he stepped to the ; coroner's table, and looked care fully at the new exhibit. “Yep,” he said, "it’s the make and number Mr. Trowbridge al ways has in the office. Keep it eareful, Mr. Berg, maybe there’s finger marks on it and they’ll get pabbed off.” '‘That’ll do, McGuire. If you S&ust see everything that’s going «n, at least keep quiet.” t "No, it’s no clue,” grumbled Detective Groot. "There is no imi a* jngr 7 may say. And you have to have that, to get at a mystery. This crime shows no brains, no plan ning. It isn’t the work of an educated mind. That’s why it’s most likely an Italian thug.” Kane Landon’s deep gray eyes turned to the speaker. “Who ever planned that weird tele phone message showed some in genuity,” he said. “And you did it!” cried the detective, “I meant you to fail into that trap, and you did. My speech brought it to your mind and you spoke before you thought. Now, what did you mean by it? What about the Caribbean Sea? Were you going to take your uncle there? Was the trap laid for that?” “One question at a time,” said Landon, with a look that he per mitted to be insolent. “Does it seem to you the sender of that message was getting my uncle into a trap, or saving him from one? I believe the young woman ‘lie set a trap for you.’ Then reported that the message ran was it not a rescuer telling ot “Don’t be too fresh, young man! You can’t pull the wool over my eyes! And that tele phone message isn’t needed to settle your case. When a man is found dead, and with his dying breath tells who killed him, I don’t need any further evi dence.” “Keep still, Groot,” said the coroner. “We’ve all agreed that those words about Cain, might mean any murderer.” “They might, but they didn't” answered Groot, angrily. “As Mr. Landon says,” spoke up Judge Hoyt, “it may be mere ly a coincidence that his name is Kane, when his uncle had so re cently stigmatized his assailant as Cain. Surely such question able evidence must be backed up by some incontrovertible facts.” Landon looked at this man curiously. He knew him but slightly. He remembered him as a friend of his uncle’s, but he knew nothing of his attachment for Avice Trowbridge. Kane noted the fine face, the grave and scholarly brow, and he breathed a sigh of relief to think that, the lawyer had said a kindly word for him. Landon’s was a peculiar nature. Keproof or re buke always antagonized him, but a sympathetic word softened him at once. Had Landon but known it, he had another friend present. Harry Pinckney, his college mate, recognized him the mom ent he entered the room. Then, obeying a sudden impulse, Pinck ney drew back behind a pillar that divided the two drawing rooms, as is the fashion of old houses, and had remained un seen by Landon all the morning. Pinckney himself could scarcely have told why he did this, but it was due to a feeling that he could not write his story for his paper with the same freedom of speech if Landon knew his pres ence. For though he refused to himself call it by so strong a term as suspicion, Pinckney felt that the coincidence of Cain and Kane l wTas too unlikely to be true. Regretting his friend’s downfall, Pinckney thought, so far as he had yet discovered, that Landon was the most likely sus pect. And so he did not want to meet him just yet. Later, per haps, he could help him in some way or other, but the “story” came first. ouArruiw vii. The Milk Bottle. “Nothing but an old milk bot tle!” exclaimed Berg, disgust edly, as the exhibit was placed before him on the table. That's all it was, and yet some how the common-place thing looked uncanny when considered as evidence in a murder case. But was it evidence? Or was it merely the remnant of a last week's picnic in fhe woods? A search of the Swede’s house had brought the thing to light, and now the big fellow told again of his finding it. Buried, he declared it was, not. 50 feet from where he had seen the dying man. He had not thought at first, that it had any connection with the murder, and had taken it merely on an im pulse of thrifty acquisition of anything portable. He told his wife to wash out the ill-smelliDg uod shs. su, k_ “If you’d only let it alone!” wailed Groot. “What did the stuff smell like! Sour milk?” “No, no,” and Sandstrom shook his head vigorously. “It bane like a droog.” “A droog?” “Drugs, I suppose you mean,” said Berg. “What sort of a drug? Camphor! Peppermint! Or, say, did it smell like prussic acid? Peach pits? Bitter al monds? Hey?” “Ay tank Ay don’t know those names. But it smell bad. And it had molasses.” “You stick to that molasses! Well, then I say it’s an old mo lasses bottle long since discard ed, and time and the weather had sunk it in the mud.” “Na, not weathers. It bane buried by somebody. Ay tank the murderer.” “The witness’s thinks would be of more value,” said the po liceman who had brought the bottle, “if we hadn’t found this bit of property also, in his shanty.” And then, before the eyes of all present, he undid a parcel containing a blood-stained hand kerchief! Blood-soaked, rather, for its original white was as in carnadined as the hypothetical seas. “Hid in between their mat tresses, ” he added; “looks like that settles it!” It did look that way, but had there been a question as to the import of this mute testimony, it was answered by the effect on the two Swedes. The woman sank back in her chair, almost faint ing, and the man turned ashy white, while his face took on the expression of despair that signi fies the death of the last flicker of hope. “Yours?” asked the coroner, pointing to the telltale thing and looking at Sandstrom. “Na!” and the blue eyes looked hunted and afraid. “Ay bane found it near the body,—” “Yes, you did! Quit lying now, and own up! You’re caught with the goods on. The jig is up, so you may as well confess de cently. You hid this in your mattress!” “Yes, Ay hid it, but it is not mine. Ay found it near the i/uii t iupt'ut txiut truiupcu* up yarn! You killed that man! What did you do with the knife?” “Ay got na knife—” ‘ ‘ Y es, you have! Lots of knives. Come, Mrs. Sandstrom, what have you to say?” But the Swede woman could only incoherently repeat that her husband had brought home the handkerchief, and declared he had found it, as he had found 11lie bottle, near the dead body of a strange man. They had hid den it quickly, lest some of the police come to their house; and the bottle they had washed to get rid of the foul odor.” “She’s in earnest,” said the coroner, looking sharply at her, “he told her this tale and she believes it, even yet. Or if she doesn’t, she’ll stick to it that she does. You see, it all hangs to gether. Sandstrom killed Mr. Trowbridge, and probably the dying man did call him Cain, and cry out ‘ Wilful murder!’ for this fellow wouldn’t be likely to make up such a speech. But it referred to himself and he tried to place it on another. The bottle story is a made-up yarn, by which he clumsily tried to imply a poison ing. The lead pencil found there, is Mr. Trowbridge’s own; the queer telephone call had noth ing to do with the affair, and there you are!” The case was certainly plain enough. The stained handker chief showed clearly that it had been used to wipe a bloody blade. The long red marks were unmis takable. There was no chance that it might have been used as a bandage or aid to an injured per son. The stains spoke for them selves, and prodfltmed the hprrid deed they mutely witnessed. A few flirt her quest ions brought only unintelligible replies from the Swede ,and the verdict was speedy and unanimous. Sandstrom was taken off to jail, but his wife was allowed to return to her home. Avice felt sorry for the poor woman, and stepping to her side offered some words of sympathy. “My man didn’t do it, Miss,” j and the light blue eyes looked J hopelessly sad. “lie ba’n’t that kind. He wouldn’t harm any body. He-•” But foreseeing- an imminent scene, Judge ll'oyt took Avice gently by the arm and drew her away. “Don’t talk to her,” he whis pered, “you can do the poor thing no good, and she may be eunu jatja stable, Let her i ' ' if one.” Avice let herself be persuaded, and she followed the judge to the library. On the way, how ever, she was stopped by Stry ker, who said the boy wanted to speak to her. * “What boy?” asked Avice. “That office boy, Miss Avice. He says just a minute, please.” ‘ ‘ Certainly, ’' she returned, kindly, and went back a few steps to find Fibsy, bashfully twisting his cap in his hands as he waited for her. “ ’Scuse me, Miss, but—are you boss now?” “Boss? of whatf” “Of the—the diggin’s—the whole layout—” More by the boy’s gestures than his words, Avice concluded he meant her uncle’s business rather than the home. “Why, no, I don’t suppose I am, child.” “Who is, then? The lawyer guy?” “Judge Hoyt? No,—what do you want to know for?” “Well, Miss, I want a day off —off me job, you know.” “Oh, is that all? You are— were my uncle’s office boy, wem’t you?” “Yes’m.” Ana your name is bibsyi “Well, flat name goes.” “Then I’ll take the responsi bility of saying you may have your day off. Indeed, I’m sure you ought to. Go ahead, child, and if anybody inquires about it, refer him to me. But you must be back in your place tomorrow. They may need you in—in set tling up matters, you know-” “Oh, gee, yes! I’ll be on deck tomorrow, Miss. But I want to day somepin’ fierce,-—fer very special reasons.” “Very well, run along, Fibsy.” Avice stood looking after the red-headed boy, who seemed for the moment so closely connected with her uncle’s memory. But he darted out of the open front door and up the street, as one on most important business bent. The girl went on to the library, and found there Kane Landon and the reporter Pinckney busily engaged in the staccato chatter of reunion. Meeting for the first time in five years, they reverted to their college days, even before referring to the awfulness of the present situation. “But I must beat it now,” Pinckney was saying, as Avice appeared. “Look me up, old scout, as soon as you can get around to it. A reporter’s life is not a leisure one, and I’ve got to cover this story in short order. Mighty un pleasant bit for you, that Cain speech. No harm done, but it will drag your name into the pa per. So long. Goodby, Miss Trowbridge. I may see you again sometime,—yes?” “I hope so,” said Avice, a lit tle absently. “Good-by.” Then she turned to Landon. For a moment they took each other’s two hands and said no word. Then, “It’s great to see you again,” he began; “I’d scarcely recognize the little pig-tailed girl I played with five years ago.” “You teased me more than you played with me,” she re turned. “You were 20 then, but you put on all the airs of a grown man.” “I was, too. I felt old enough to be you father. That’s why I used to lecture you so much, don’t you remember?” “Indeed I do! You could make me mad by half a dozen words. ’ ’ 1 knew it, and I loved to do it! I expect I was an awful tor ment.” “Yes, you were. But tell me all about yourself. Why are you in New York and not staying here? Oh, Kane, what does it all mean? I’ye been in such mis erable uncertainty all tlie morn ing. Not that 1 thought for a minute you’d done anything— anything wrong, but it’s all so horrible. Did you quarrel with Uncle Rowdy yesterday?” ‘•‘Yes, Avice, just as the little chap said. But don’t talk about awful things now. It’s all over, the harrowing part, I mean. Now, I just want to look at you, and get acquainted all over again. Let’s put off anything unpleas ant until another day.” ‘‘I remember that trait in you of old. Always put off every thing disagreeable, and hurry on anything nice,” and Avice smiled at the recollection. (To be continued next week.) A conflict arising from the discus sion of the official language of the League of Nations last Friday re sulted in a resolution demanding that Esperanto be taught in the pubUc : schools. The movement was spon j sored by representatives from Bra j sil. Columbia. Belgium. Chile. Italy. ^CsecUo-Siovulq^ MUt -4 THE VACANT CHAIR. <4 4 4 4 Leon Bourgeois. 4 4 There Is an empty chair. It re- 4 4- mains there empty. Never has it 4 4- been removed. We have sat. 4 4 eight of us. In the council meet- 4 4 lngs of the League of Nations. 4 4 There has always been this ninth 4 4- chair waiting for Its occupant. 4 4 That chair is America, and I 4 4 would not allow it to be placed 4 4 against the wall. The chair Is si- 4 4- lent, but it is there. One day we 4 4- trust it will speak. We are like 4 4- a family which has lest a son. But 4 4 the chair is ready against his re- 4 4- turn, and we listen for the lift- 4 4 lng of the latch, and his entry into ♦ 4 fold. 4 ■4 4 4 4 4 4 44444444444444 4 A NEW WORLD. By Edmund Vance Cooke. A New World for the New Year! Lay the dead Past on its diemal bier. The hideous monster of the triple head, Menace, Malignancy and Might, is dead, And they who died to slay it hold it fast Within a deppening grave. The Past is past. Let us, the living, see that no new seed Of despotism rears a later breed. We are as all men are, and should we go The Prussian Path shaal meet the Prussian woe, "Whoso shall take the sword dies by the sword!” So spake a Man whom men call Lord, And Truth Is even as true for you and me As spoken by the shores of Galiloe. Wherefore the Past being past, shall we not rear A New World for the New Year? Our Friend, the Elephant. Carl Akeley, American Museum of Natural History, describes an ele phant’s trunk as follows In The World's Work. "In other ways besides Its smelling ability, the elephant’s trunk is the most extraordinary part of this most extraordinary animal. A man’s arm has a more or less universal joint at the shoulder. The elephant’s trunk is absolutely flexible every joint. It can turn in any direction and In whatever position It is, and has tre mendous strength. There is no bone in it, of course, but It Is constructed of interwoven muscle and sinew so tough that one can hardly cut It with a knife. An elephant can shoot a stream of water out of it that would put out a fire; life a tree trunk weighing a ton and throw it easily; or it is delicate enough to pull a blade of grass with. He drinks with it, feeds himself with It, smells with it, works with it, and at times fights with it. Incidentally a mouse that endeavored to frighten an elephone by the traditional nursery rhyme method of running up his trunk could be blown into the next county. There Is nothing else like an elephant's trunk on earth.” A Stampede of Elephants. From Asia for December. Driving elephants at night is a slow, trying, dangerous job. It means fighting every foot of the way through dense jungle and keeping up a con tinual hubbub of tom-toms and shouts. The elephants wish to avoid the noise and they move slowly away from it. crashing through the trees and vines. The men who are directly behind hsve have the easiest time, for they can follcw the trails broken by the elephants; those on the side must cut trails with their parangs. No lights can be used, and care must be taken to avoid the little elephants, which roam about, Investigating the noise. If they see a man and give the danger signal, the entire herd stem pedes. The stampede hit us early one morning, without warning. A small elephant, straying from the herd, saw some of the men on the right; he ran back, trumpeting danger. Then the bellowing herd came down upon us. All, my man, shoved my rifle into my hands and I Jumped behind a tree. The Siamese priest stumbled and fell. Before I could shoot, a big bull elephant stepped on him and tore him in two, throwing the upper por tion of his body over my head. I was spattered with blood. Elephants, bellowing furiously, rushed past us; men screamed and scrambled for places of safety. The immense ani mals loomed up in the darkness for a second and then disappeared. In their excitement some collided with trees. There was no need to shoot; it would have been like shooting up a fan to fend off a cyclone. I hugged my tree, keeping my gun in position. I was discouraged; our efforts had been wasted and the herd was scat tered. That would be a fine story to take back to the Sultan. When the elephants had passed, I called to the men. We lighted torches and searched for Injured. Three had been killed and 12 hurt, and I was thankful there weren't more casualt ies. What Are You Doing Now! It matters not if you lost the fight and were badly beaten, teo; It matters not if you failed outright in the things you tried to do; It matters not if you toppled down from the azure heights of blue— But what are you doing now? It matters not if your plans were foiled and your hopes have fallen through; It matters not if your chance was spoiled for the gain almost in view; It matters not if you missed the goal, though you struggled brave and true— , , But what are you doing now? It matters not if your fortune's gone and your fame has withered, too, It matters not if a cruel world's scorn b» directed straight at you; It matters not if the worst has come and your dreams have not come true— But what are you doing now? —R Rhodes Stabley. Stutters. From the Cincinnati Enquirer. •When you are angry you should count 100 before you attempt to speak,” ad vised the thin man. _ “Shucks,” replied the fat man. "When 1 get mad 1 get so mad that l i count." _ , I 'Seeing/ Hearing Your Heart. -- L Can a person feel his heart beat or hear it «r see It or, speaking more prop erly. can he feel, hear, or 3ee evidence of his -heartbeat? The answer to this question is yes. Any one who cares to take the trouble can be certain that iiia is beating. He can tuiti on his side as he lies in bed and hear the beat of his heart as it is transmitted to the vessels of his ear. All those who are thin and some others besides can undress and lie on the back with abdominal frails relaxed and note the pounding of the heart as an impulse shown in the front of the abdomen above the navel. Persons who are not very stout can sometimes s6e and feel the heart beat in the left chest wall Just below the nip ple. In many people the beat of the heart can be seen in the carotid artery and Jugular vein in the back. And, finally, most people know how to feeti the pulse. In fact, the regular normal heartbeat is almost as manifest as the regular normal breathing. Hearing the heart In the ear or see ing It in the stomach or neck should ex cite no more alarm thaif does the breath ing. At that, the worry does the heart no harm, however, much unhappiness it brings to the individual. A neurasthenic who counts his pulse frequently and worries a lot about his heart can get up a certain degree of intermittency, but what harm does that do? I have known neurasthenics wrho could kick up an in termitting pulse on demand and who kept it up for without ever harm ing their hearts in the least so far as 1 could see. Likewise those people who become agitated over their hearts’ beating in their stomachs, or their necks, or their ears, do their hearts no harm uvrn though they add to the sum total or hu man misery over bridges to be, but never ciossed. — ..v. vwuui gci ycupm iu waicn me way their hearts act more than they now do we would doubtless increase the men tal misery of many neurasthenics, hut. on the other hand, fewer cases of seri ous heart disease would slip up on us. In time men would acquire an ability to Judge these phenomena intelligently. There is an understanding among medical men that 90 per cent, of the vague pains in the left side of the chest and behind the breast bone which the patients ascribe to heart conditions are not so caused. There is a saying that practically none of the paln3 which wom en ascribe to their hearts are really so caused. While both of these statements are true of pains which rise up while a per son is quiet, the better informed of the medical profession wish that people would pay more attention to the stitches to the side and other chest pains whieb come on while they are excited. A pain in or near the heart or a difficulty in ; breathing under similar circumstances means heart overstrain almost invaria | bly. Bishop says it is impossible for a child to injure his normal heart by violent play, so much excess strength has it. Therefore, children’s hearts are only in jured by congenital lesions or by bac terial invasion. And yet some children get stitches in their sides when they play too hard, and such stitches are heart pains. Those children had had rheumatism or other forms of contagion or St. Vitus dance, and their hearts are not organically sound in consequence. In adults a pain which starts in the chest and runs to the little finger of the left hand is almost certainly a heart pain. A few of the heart pains which de velop during repose are worth noting. Those which develop during exertion are always significant. They mean that the man is throwing too much strain on his blood pump a»d he will do well to gov | ern himself accordingly. A Dictionary Proposal. Some time ago an English resident in Calcutta, a retired army officer and the ^4 proud possessor of two good looking daughters, was surprised to receive the following communication, says the Eos Angeles Times: ‘‘Dear and Respected Sir—It is with faltering penmanship that I write to have communication with you about the prospective condition of your damsel offspring. I have navigated every channel in the magnitude of my exclusive Jurisdiction to cruelly smother the growing love knot that has been constructed in my witliin side, but the timid lamp of affection, trimmed by Cupid’s productive hands, of the bronchial tubes.” Thus, with characteristically Prussian directness, still nourishes my love-stricken heart. My educational capabilities have abandoned me, and here I now cling to the tresses of your much coveted daugh ter like a shipwrecked mariner on the rnnlr r\f lnvo UOROajTIJ iqSjIS ft JO PIOO *0 UIOJJ JSutjj -jns uooq 0ABq I uaqM. ©otajos monaoxa press. “I have much pleasure,” writes the Masuriana strategist, “in testifying that the cough lozenges have rendered vertlsement columns of the Swedish As to my scholastic caliber, I have re cently been ejected from the Calcutta university. Hoping that having de bated this proposition in- your pregnant mind, you will concordantly corroborate in espousing your female progeny to my tender bosom, and thereby acquire me into your family circle as your dutiful soninlaw. I remain, “Yours with great faithfulness, ” RANGHAT SINGH ABULDGRA." Always the Scoffers. From the Dayton News, There is a human instinct possessing a good many of us, a most natural char acteristic, withal, which compels us to view every new thing in the spirit of ridicule and suspicion. Old Noah was one of the first of the human family to encounter this type of fellow citizen. Noah used to work from morning until night building the Ark, with the drri ive taunts of the lazy people of his village haunting him with every hammer's stroke. The folks who didn’t 4ja.Ue mi - h stock in Noah’s venture must have spbt their sides laughing at his effort. To them the builder was a dreamer and a crank. If there had been insane a y lurns in those primitive days mgre than likely Noah’s mental balance would se riously have been questioned. They laughed, too. at Robert Fulton when his “Clermont.” the first boat pro pelled by steam, moved awkwardly along the Hudson. The neighbors cf Fulton sal on the banks of the river waiting for the vessel to blow up, or sink, or else refuse to move. Orville and Wilbur Wright must have thought a good many times, when some of their friends dropped in at the old bi cycle shop in Dayton to have a good time at their expense, that there wasn’t any use to keep on trying to demonstrate their theory of a practical heavier-than alr flying machine. And so on through the years, from the very dawn of history up to the present moment there have been plenty of people who lay on their backs and watch some body else trying to do something worth while, poking fun at the workman and ridiculing the effort. In a little room in Brooklyn, with ^ the gas turned on, were found last week the dead bodies of John Guest and his wife. Guest, although th* owner of more than 100 patents, wm S2 years old, a helpless Invalid. For the last IS or 19 years he h»J be** 1 dest’tnU* 1 i