Cattle ALAM
ICjngglOH "'g”r y
SYNOPSIS
Billy Wheeler, wealthy young cattle
man. arrives at the 94 ranch, summoned
by his friend Horse Dunn, its elderly
and quick-tempered owner, because of a
mysterious murder. Billy is In love with
Dunn's niece Marian, whom he has not
seen for two years. She had rejected his
suit and is still aloof. Dunn's ranch is
surrounded by enemies, including Link
Bender, Pinto Halliday and Sam Cald
well, whom he has defeated in his efforts
to build a cattle kingdom. Dunn directs
his cow hands, Val Douglas, Tulare Cal
lahan and others to search for the killer’s
horse. He explains to Billy that the morn
ing before he had come upon bloodstained
ground at Short Creek and found the trail
of a shod and unshod horse. The shod
horse’s rider had been killed. The body
had disappeared. Link Bender had ar
rived at the scene and read the signs the
way he had. Dunn reveals that because
of a financial crisis the ranch may be in
Jeopardy; his enemies may make trouble
since Sheriff Walt Amos is friendly with
them. He says he has asked Old Man
Coffee, the country's best trailer, to join
them. Dunn and Billy meet Amos, Link
Bender, his son "the Kid" and Cayuse
Cayetano, an Indian trailer, at Short
Creek. Bender has found the slain man's
horse, but the saddle is missing. Almost
supernaturally, cattle attracted to the
scene by the blood-stained ground, stamp
out all the traces. Dunn is angered
when Amos tells him not to leave the
county. Following an argument. Bender
draws his gun, but Dunn wounds him
In the arm. Back at the ranch Old Man
Coffee arrives, with a pack of hounds.
Coffee goes in search of the dead man's
saddle. Dunn tells Billy that Marian is
Incensed at him for trying to settle
disputes by bloodshed. He reveals that
the ranch is really hers.
CHAPTER II—Continued
—4—
& Wheeler was silent. He could not
altogether agree with Horse Dunn.
He had seen range quarrels settled
by gunfire—but never to the ad
vantage of either winner or loser.
However, he wasn’t going to argue
with the Old Man.
“What if she ties my hands?”
Dunn demanded. “I’ve got to fight
this thing my own way. For myself
I wouldn’t so much mind. But ain’t
the outfit hers, to begin with?”
“Hers?” Wheeler repeated.
“Sure, it’s uers. Didn’t you know
that?”
Wheeler had not known it. "But
look here! You’ve run this brand
ever since I can remember. You
must at least have some part in-*
terest here.”
“Not a penny or a head of stock,”
Dunn told him.
“But I happen to know,” Wheeler
declared, “that you’ve always had
an outfit, another outfit, down in Ari
zona. Yet your Arizona outfit hasn’t
seen you four times in a dozen
years.”
“I’ve had my hands full here,”
Dunn said.
“You mean,” Billy Wheeler said,
“you spent the last twelve-thirteen
years neglecting your own outfit to
build up a brand that don’t belong
to you?”
Dunn shrugged. “Somebody had
to take holt. My brother died—sud
den. He didn’t leave the 94 in very
good shape. For two years it was
run by different bosses I hired. But
this same Link Bender—he had a
big outfit then—he was stealing the
94 blind. Pretty soon there wouldn't
, have been any 94. And it was all
the kid and her mother had.”
Billy Wheeler stared at Horse
Dunn. Once he had heard it ru
mored that Horse Dunn had loved
Marian’s mother, long ago.
“Marian’s mother always hated
and feared this country. She
brought up Marian to feel some sim
ilar. That’s why the kid can’t stand
, gunsmoke, or anything done by
I force. You see—my brother died
with a gun in his hand.’’
Wheeler, unable to endorse the
Old Man’s leaning toward violence,
expressed a belief that there ought
to be some way to avoid smoking up
the range. "If we can hold the 94
steady on the finance side,” he said,
“what can Link Bender's crowd
do?”
“God knows I’ve took all the steps
I know to steady the finance side,”
Korse Dunn said. “A minute ago
you spoke of my having an outfit
in Arizona. Well, I had an outfit
in Arizona. Six weeks ago I sent
word to Bob Flagg, my partner
there, to sell her out. She’s sold.
For the last ten days I’ve been look
ing for Bob Flagg. He’s supposed
to show here with $50,000, as good as
in cash; another $50,000 in different
obligations and notes. Everything
I’ve got goes to the’ bracing of the
94.” t
Horse stared out the open door
way toward the corrals; and now
Billy Wheeler saw Horse Dunn’s
rocky face slowly relax, and soften.
Out at the far corral Marian had
caught the quiet old pony that Horse
had given her, and was preparing
to saddle. Horse Dunn watched her,
his eyes gentle. There was always
a shy humility about that strapping
big old man when he looked at this
girl, this daughter of his dead broth
er. It was almost as if he might
have been looking at his own daugh
ter, who had grown up away from
him. After all, she might have been
his daughter, if things had broken
differently once.
“You go ride with her,” Dunn
said with a certain awkwardness.
"You talk to her. Try to make her
see that—that this is a—a different
country, kind of.”
“She doesn’t take any stock in
me. Horse.”
“You go, anyway,” Dunn insist
ed. “I don’t like to have her riding
this big range alone.”
With a curious reluctance Wheeler
picked up his hat and walked out
to the stable where his saddle was.
CHAPTER III
A rise of dust was going up on the
Inspiration road as Wheeler sad
dled; he knew the approaching car
must be driven by Steve Hurley.
For a moment he hesitated, for he
would have liked to hear the latest
word from the camp of Horse
Dunn’s enemies. Marian Dunn, how
ever, was loping eastward along an
old trail not far off the Inspiration
road. Steve Hurley would be able
to signal to him from road to trail
if any new word concerned him. He
let his pony lope out and caught up
with Marian within the mile.
“Do you mind if I ride your
way?”
“Maybe,” Marian said, “you’U
show me where Short Creek is.”
Wheeler was startled. "Short
Creek?”
“Sometimes,” the girl said, “it’s
easier to look at a thing than to
imagine it.”
“I was thinking some of riding
over that way,” he conceded. “Only
—I wish you’d let somebody know
when you set off to ride a distance
like that, so somebody could go
with you.”
She looked at him sidelong for a
minute. “Sometimes it seems to
me you people do everything you
can to make this into an unfriendly
country.”
“I don’t know what you mean."
“These Red Hills, with the sun
on them, are the background of the
IrfgsL
“Wait Oere.” Wheeler Said to
the Girl.
very earliest memories I have.
When I came here again it was as
if I were coming home. I felt free
and natural, here—at first. And
Horse Dunn is almost exactly like
my father, what little I can remem
ber of him—so nearly like my fa
ther that 1 can’t remember my
father’s face any more; because my
uncle’s face comes in between.”
“He worships the ground you
walk on,” Wheeler said.
“I know.” A little shiver ran
across her shoulders, anomalous in
the blaze of the sun. "Then he turns
and does some wild, awful thing—
like yesterday; and it gives me the
strangest feeling of being complete
ly lost in a country I don’t under
stand.”
“Yesterday? What awful thing?”
“He—he shot Link Bender.”
“It was kind of unfortunate, sure.
But I don t know what else he could
do. Link drew on him. And all
your uncle did was to nick him in
the arm, so that he dropped the
gun.”
Marian’s tone was curiously de
tached, unforgiving. “He admitted
he set out to goad Link Bender into
fighting.”
That was not exactly what Horse
Dunn had said, but essentially the
girl was right. It was like Horse
Dunn too that he could in no part
lie to this girl, but would put him
self conscientiously into the worst
possible light.
“He said more,” Marian added.
“He said that if it hadn’t been for
me he would have killed Link
Bender there at Chuck Box Wash.”
Billy Wheeler started to say, “Oh,
I don’t think—” It was no use. It
was futile to try to hide from this
girl certain things which she was in
no way equipped to understand, yet
was sure to see clearly. “This is a
different country than you're used
to, Marian. Dry country men
learned long ago to depend on them
selves; they’ve lived that way for
a long time."
The car that had been an ap
proaching funnel of dust upon the
Inspiration road now came careen
ing around a rutty bend 200 yards
below them. Steve Hurley leaned
from behind his dusty windshield to
wave at them, then brought his car
to a long-rolling stop. He signaled
Wheeler to ride to him.
“Wait here,” Wheeler said to the
girl. He wheeled his horse, then
hesitated to say over his shoulder,
“Don’t worry; we’ll work every
thing out all right.”
He put his horse down to the
road, jumping it through the red
rocks. From behind the wheel Steve
Hurley thrust a big square hand at
him, and Steve’s big beefy face
flashed a quick grin. “Glad to see
you, Billy; the Old Man said he
figured you’d sit in. As soon as I
see who it was, I pulled up.”
Wheeler glanced at the boiling
radiator. “What's broke in Inspira
tion, Steve?”
“The Old Man may be wanting to
call his riders in. Thought I’d stop
and tell you what it was, so’s you
could signal in any of the boys you
might see while you're out.”
"I’m listening.”
“It’s all over Inspiration that
Sheriff Walt Amos will make an ar
rest within three days. They’re say
ing the sheriff knows who’s dead;
that it’s a man Dunn swore to kill
if ever he found him on 94 range.”
Steve Hurley's sun-squinted eyes
rested steadily and keenly on Billy
Wheeler.
"Steve,” said Wheeler, “will
Horse Dunn submit to arrest?”
Steve Hurley looked away a mo
ment before he answered. “I don't
know,” he said at last. “But I
guess maybe. Am I right he’ll want
his riders in?”
"I’d sure think so. This thing is
coming faster than I figured it
would, Steve.”
The girl’s eyes were questioning
as Billy Wheeler returned to her
side. “Don’t worry,” he said; “it’s
all going to work out.”
They turned off, no longer paral
leling the Inspiration road; and for
a long while as the miles slowly un
rolled under the fox-trotting hoofs
of the ponies neither had anything
to say.
they were near bnort UreeK wnen
the girl spoke unexpectedly. “I’m
glad you came. You make things
seem straighter and smoother, just
the way you pace your horse along,
without any worry or fret.”
"There isn’t anything to worry
about.”
“You’ve changed since two years
ago,” the girl told him. "Some
how you’re nicer to ride with—
quieter, more restful.”
He glanced at her but didn’t an
swer.
“You used to be a stampedey
sort of person,” she explained, “al
ways rushing your horse at things.
Whatever you went at, you always
went at it by the same way—thun
der of hoofs, taking all obstacles by
storm. 1 think I used to be afraid
of you.”
For a moment he wondered if
things would have gone differently
between them if he had been less
eager, less turbulent. When you
wanted a thing too much you over
played your hand and lost out alto
gether. Maybe you could love a
girl too much, too soon, and de
feat yourself the same way. Per
haps if—
A quarter of a mile away within
the sharp-cut bed of Short Creek
something moved, held steady a
moment, then disappeared. It was
a rider there, who was watching
them; but it was not a rider who
meant to rise in his stirrups and
hail.
“Well,” he said briskly, “this is
Short Crick.
“You see,” he said, pulling up his
horse at the spot the cattle had
trampled, “this is nothing but a
place where it just happened that
somebody took a shot at somebody.
What is there to see? Nothing. I
want you to think of this place as
just a crick where horses come to
drink.”
Marian Dunn sat very quiet, star
ing at the shallow water. He won
dered what things, terrible to her,
she might be picturing.
“I’m glad I came,” Marian said.
“But especially I’m glad you came.
You—”
“Listen,” he said.
A horse as yet unseen was com
ing fast down the cut Its unshod
hoofs padded quietly in the sand at
the margin of the water, so that its
thudding lope was sensed less by
sound than by shock—the faint dis
tant tremor of the ground.
“What is it?" the girl asked.
"Don't you hear? A horse is com*
ing up.”
"I don’t—" She started to say
that she didn't hear anything; but
just then the unseen rider cut
through the shallows with a sud
den sharp sound of thrown water
and the ring of hoofs on stone.
“Who is it?"
"Quien sabe? Turn and ride back
the way we've come,” he told her
without emphasis. "I’ll be along in
a minute.”
Without a word Marian ti med her
horse; she was at the two hundred
yards as a hard-run horse surged
up over the lip of the cut. The rider
was Kid Bender.
The Kid half wheeled his pony,
drove close to Billy Wheeler's
horse; his lean figure swayed back
wards as he brought his pony to a
sliding stop, very close. Across the
back of his right hand showed the
heavy purple welt that Wheeler’s
quirt had laid there; and in his face
was the joyous anger of a man
who takes payment for a past hu
miliation.
"What you doing here?”
Wheeler ignored the question.
"You’re a little oif your range,
Kid," he said. “This range comes
under the head of the 94. Maybe
I’ll be ordering you off it pretty
quick. I haven’t decided yet.”
“No,” said Kid Bender. "I don’t
think you will. You’re dealing with
a peace officer—patroling the scene
of a crime.”
“Peace officer?”
Kid Bender flipped over the tail
end of his neckerchief to reveal a
nickel-plated shield. It was cheap
and it was new; but as it flashed in
the sun. Wheeler felt his scalp stir
oddly, as if he had glimpsed fire
behind smoke. Horse Dunn's view
of the situation was shaping up fast
er than Horse himself had imag
ined.
"Yesterday,” said the Kid, “you
knocked a gun out of my hand.”
Billy Wheeler said distinctly,
“With a quirt. I whipped it out of
your hand with a quirt.”
Kid Bender’s face darkened for
an instant but the hard gleam of a
joyous anticipation immediately re
turned to his eye. "I have orders,”
he said, “to see that the hired men
of the 94 don’t trample over the
scene of this crime any more. I’m
starting with you; I’ll give you fel
lers something to remember orders
by. I’m taking your horse and your
gun. Maybe your girl there will
give you a lift after you’re afoot.
Or maybe I’ll send her on home-—I
haven’t decided that yet.”
.“No,” said Wheeler, “you're not
taking either horse or gun.”
“You're against an officer of the
law. You know what that means?”
“I know,” Billy Wheeler said,
"what I hope it means.”
For a moment Kid Bender hesi
tated; they sat watching each other,
two men in a situation from which
neither could withdraw. One of
them had sought this meeting—the
other welcomed it. Both knew that
something peculiarly personal had
to be settled here, now, between the
two of them alone.
“I see your girl has stopped a
little way up here,” the Kid said;
“seems like she sets watching from
the hill.”
Wheeler suppressed in time an
impulse to glance over his shoul
der. Instead his eyes never left
Kid Bender as he jerked his chin
sharply toward his shoulder as if he
glanced away.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
Fish, Not Monkey, Man’s Ancestor, Is
Claim of Professor of Neuro-Anatomy
This may come as something of
a disappointment to monkeys, but
it now appears that the human race
did not descend from an ape, but
from a fish, writes a New York
United Press correspondent.
And if all goes well, man’s own
descendants will not be man as he
is today, but gnome-like creatures
with undershot jaws, probably
spindiy legs and an enormous dome
like head.
This information was conveyed to
a gathering of 150 learned men
at Columbia university, by Dr.
Frederick Tilney, professor of
neuro-anatomy and an expert on
the evolution of the shape of a
man’s head.
It all goes back to a “crossopteri
gian”—a kind of fish that did its
thinking with its feet. If the cross
opterigian had not come along, man
might still be a fish, according to
the professor.
’’Fish,” he explained, ‘‘possess a
limited power to withhold their re
actions. They are highly impulsive.”
One day millions of years ago an
impulsive fish—the crossopetcrigiao
—‘‘managed to crawl out of the
water.” and that was the beginning
of brain structure, and ultimately
of the human race.
Dr. Tilney advised evolutionary
students to study the brain as the
real organ of evolution, and he said
this would lead back to the “walk
ing fish.”
“No scientist today believes that
any living monkeys or apes are
ancestral to man,” he said. “These
animals belong to families totally
divergent from the human family.
Whatever interest there is in evolu
tion therefore should not center in
the ape.
“The true line of our ancestry
reaches millions of years farther
back. Evolution of the human race
leads from fish to man.”
Advertising's Value.
VERNALIS, CALIF. —On
the train a charming
young woman said: ‘‘I al
ways read the advertise
ments whether I want to buy
anything or not. Do you think
I’m crazy?”
I told her she was the smartest
young woman I knew. If I were
asked to descnoe
the race in any by
gone period since
printer’s ink came
into common use,
I’d turn to the ad
vertising in the pa
pers and periodicals
of that particular
age. For then I’d
know what people
wore and what they
ate and what their
sports were and
their follies and
Irvin S. Cobb
their tastes and their habits; Know
what they did when they were
healthy and what they took when
they were sick and of what they
died and how they were buried and
where they expected to go after they
left here—in short. I'd get a pic
ture of humanity as it was and not
as some prejudiced historian, writ
ing then or later, would have me
believe it conceivably might have
been.
I’d rather be able to decipher the
want ad on the back side of a Chal
dean brick than the king's edict on
the front—that is, if I craved to get
an authentic glimpse at ancient
Chaldea.
• * •
Running a Hotel.
I'VE just been a guest at one of the
best small-town hotels in Amer
ica. I should know about good ho
tels because, in bygone days, I
stopped at all the bad ones.
The worst was one back Easi
built over a jungle of side tracks
I wrote a piece about that hotel
It had hot and cold running cock
roaches on every floor and all-night
switch-engine service; the room
towels only needed buttons on them
to be peekaboo waists, but the roller
towel in the public washroom had.
through the years, so solidified that
if the house burned down it surely
would have been left standing. The
cook labored under the delusion that
a fly was something to cook with.
Everybody who’d ever registered
there recognized the establishment.
So the citizens raised funds and
tore down their old hotel, thereby
making homeless wanderers of half
a million resident bedbugs; and
they put up a fine new hotel which
paid a profit, whereas the old one
had been losing money ever since
the fall of Richmond.
A good hotel is the best adver
tisement any town can have, but a
bad one is just the same as an extra
pesthouse where the patients have
to pay.
• • •
Poor Lo’s Knowledge.
SOMETIMES I wonder whether
we, the perfected flower of civ
ilization—and if you don’t believe
we are, just ask us—can really be
as smart as we let on.
Lately, out on the high seas, I
met an educated Hopi, who said to
me:
“White people get wrong and stay
wrong when right before their eyes
is proof to show how wrong they
are. For instance, take your de
lusion that there are only four
direction points—an error which
you’ve persisted in ever since you
invented the compass, a thing our
people never needed. Every Indian
knows better than that.”
“Well then,” I said, "how many
are there, since you know so
much?”
“Seven,” he said, “seven in all.”
“Name ’em,” I demanded.
“With pleasure," he said. "Here
they are: north, east, south, west,
up, down and here.”
Of course, there’s a catch in it
somewhere, but, to date, I haven’t
figured it out.
• • •
The Russian Puzzle.
UNDER the present beneficent
regime, no prominent figure in
Russia's government, whether mil
itary or civil, is pestered by the
cankering fear which besets an offi
cial in some less favored land,
namely, that he’ll wear out in har
ness and wither in obscurity.
All General So-and-Soski or Com
missar Whatyoumayeallovitch has
to do is let suspicion get about that
he’s not in entire accord with ad
ministration policies and promptly
he commits suicide—by request; or
is invited out to be shot at sunrise.
To be sure, the notion isn't new.
The late Emperor Nero had numer
ous well-wishers, including family
relatives, that he felt he could spare
and he just up and spared them.
And, in our own time, A1 Capone
built quite an organization for tak
ing care of such associates as
seemed lacking in the faith. 'Twas
a great boon to the floral design
business, too, while it lasted.
But in Russia where they really
do things—there no job-holder need
ever worry about old age. Brer
Stalin’s boys will attend to all nec-1
essary details, except the one, for
merly so popular in Chicago, of
sending flowers to the funeral.
IRVIN S. COBB.
<£— WNU Service.
Ttoyd
ADVENTURERS’ CLUB
HEADLINES FROM THE LIVES
OF PEOPLE LIKE YOURSELFI
“Terror in Old Mexico”
By FLOYD GIBBONS
Famous Headline Hunter
HERE’S a yarn from Emil Berg of Brooklyn, N. Y.—the
story of how, in November, 1927, he faced one of the
most terrible fates any man can imagine. You know, in
Russia the worst sentence a man can be given is a stretch
in the horrible salt mines of Siberia.
Most prisoners in the salt mines die from the hardships. Those who
do return come back gaunt and wasted—mere shadows of the men they
were when they went in. But down in Mexico they have salt-mine
prisons which. I’m told, are even worse than the ones in Siberia. They
say that no gaunt and wasted men return from those mines. In fact,
they say that the men who go down in them never came back at all.
And that's where they were going to send Emil Berg!
It happened while Emil was in the army down on the border. He
was stationed in Laredo, Texas, with the "Fourth Field” and he says the
boys used to go across the river to get a drink of Mexican beer now
and then, because in those days we had prohibition in the states, and
beer was harder to get this side of the border.
Emil Laid Out a Bad Mexican.
On the night of November 1, Emil was in Nuevo Laredo, over on the
Mexican side, having a drink or two. About eight o’clock he started for
camp again, but on his way to the international bridge across the Rio
Grande an ominous looking individual stepped out of the bushes at a de
serted spot and asked Emil what his name was.
Emil had been doing some boxing in the Fort McIntosh bowl
and was pretty well known In Laredo. At first he thought that
this fellow had recognized him and—well—just wanted to talk.
But suddenly the Mexican reached for his hip and Emil found
himself looking into the business end of a forty-five.
He started to put up his hands, but the Mexican chose that moment
to turn his head and take a quick glance down the street. It only took
a second, but Emil saw his chance. He put his whole hundred and flty
eight pounds behind a well-timed haymaker. It caught the Mexican on
the chin and he slumped to the ground. Emil bent down and picked
up his gun, tossed it into the bushes and continued on his way.
He walked on toward the international bridge, strolling along in a
leisurely fashion—taking his time about it. But when he got there he
wished he had hurried. For there was his friend the Mexican, who had
taken a short cut and beaten him to the bridge, talking to the Mexican
It caught the Mexican on the chin and he slumped.
soldiers guarding the Mexican end of the span. They grabbed Emil.
Emil yelled for the American sentry on the Texas side, but the sentry
didn't hear him. The soldiers hustled him off to the local jail and
threw him into a cell.
Sentenced to the Salt Mines.
The next morning they hailed Emil into court, and there he learned
that his Mexican friend was accusing him of hitting him for no reason
whatever. What made matters worse was that Emil had broken the
Mexican’s jaw with his haymaker. He told his side of the story, but the
Mexicans refused to believe it because they couldn’t find the gun where
Emil said he had tossed it.
They took him back to his cell and tried to make him sign some
pavers written in Spanish, which Emil couldn’t read. For three days
they urged and coaxed and threatened him to get him to sign those
papers. They refused to let him communicate with his officers at Fort
McIntosh, but Emil had one consolation. Soldiers in the United States
army don’t go across the border and just disappear without anything
being done about it They’d be looking for him by this time—and maybe
they'd find him.
Emil was right. On the third day the American consul came to see
him. Then Emil got the shock of his life. The consul told him he had
been tried and sentenced to two years in the salt mines inland—the
mines from which, people said, you never came back alive!
The consul had obtained a writ which would prevent the Mex
icans taking Emil out of Laredo for a while, but he wasn’t sure
even then that he could save Einil rrom the mines. They put
Emil back in the cell—and then began a period of waiting.
Tough Days in the Prison Cell.
Day after day went by. The uncertainty was driving Emil half
crazy, but the prison itself was even worse. “There were ten of us in
the cell I was in,” he says, “and we were never let out for exercise, for
we were considered dangerous. There were no beds. We slept on the
floor. I didn’t even have a blanket, but I shared my cigarettes with
the Mexican prisoners and they shared their rags and blankets with me.
1 was getting along fine with those fellows until one night a new arrival
was thrown into our dungeon.
“This newcomer was all hopped up with marihuana, and he lost no
time in telling us in broken English that he hated all gringoes in general
and gringo soldiers in particular. So that night I had to sleep in a sit*
ting position with my back to the wall to make sure I d be alive the
next day. . _
"One day there was some shooting outside the prison wall and I saw
the guards carry in a colored man. They took me out to talk to him as
none’ of the guards spoke English. He had been serving a ten-day sen
tence for having imbibed too much tequila, and on his third day, while
working in a prison gang in the street, he had made a break for the
river. But one of the guards brought him down with a rifle bullet. He
died as I was talking to him.”
A few minutes later the American consul came rushing in to see if
Emil was all right. He had heard that someone had been shot. But that
was the end of Emil’s troubles, and a couple of days later he was re
leased The consul tool* him home, gave him a big feed to sort of make up
for the short jail rations he had been on, and drove him back to the post.
And that time no one tried to high-jack them on their way across the
international bridge.
©—WNU Service.
Notary Public’s Oath
A notary public is a public of
ficer who takes acknowledgement
of. or otherwise attests or certifies,
deeds and other writings, or copies
of them, usually under his official
seal, to make them authentic, and
takes affidavits depositions, and pro
tests of negotiable paper. In the
United States appointments are
made by the governors of the states.
The oath is as follows: “I do sol
emnly swear that I will support the
Constitution of the United States
and the Constitution of the state of
(name of state) and that I will faith
fully and impartially discharge the
duty of notary public for name of
county), according to the best of my
skill and ability; so help me God.”
Voice Reveals Character
An indication of character which
concerns the face is the voice, which
can tell you quite a lot about a per
son. Weak colorless voices, accord
ing to a writer in Pearson’s Lon
don Weekly, belong to weak color
less people. Harsh voice, harsh,
gross nature. High pitched, uncon
vincing, emotional. Musical, diplo
matic. refined. Deep voice, power
ful, courageous, forceful. Here, oi
course, one must not overlook the
difference in male and female
voices. For instance, the woman
with a low-modulated voice, without
it being harsh, is usually deeply
emotional though she may not show
it to outsiders. She is refined, “true
blue"—a thoroughbred.
