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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
auit and is still aloof. Dunn’s ranch is
•urrounded 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
morning before he had come upon blood
stained 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
arrived at the scene and read the signs
the way he had. Dunn reveals that be
cause 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 sad
dle 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, also
that he recently sold his own ranch in
Arizona and that his partner, Bob Flagg,
Is en route with the money. Billy ac
companies Marian on a ride to Short
Creek. "Kid" Bender, now a deputy,
rides up. They have an argument, and
by a trick Bender tries to shoot him.
Billy saves himself by plunging against
Bender's pony and "the Kid” is injured.
Coffee returns to the ranch with the sad
dle and reveals that Cayuse Cayetano is
on the trail for Sheriff Amos. The saddle
belonged to Lon Magoon, a small-time
cattle thief. Billy learns he is to be
arrested for assaulting “Kid” Bender.
CHAPTER IV—Continued
C
“I am looking at it. Seems like
to me, Horse, the game is a little
different from that. He may be
laying off of you because his crowd
has a little different plan for you.
I’ll say right here, this sure makes
It look to me like they must have
a case against you on the murder of
Lon Magoon—a case we maybe can
begin worrying about.”
“Then why do they turn and jump
on Billy Wheeler?”
“It might be because Billy
Wheeler is kind of strong as a cat
tleman. I’m speaking of bank
strength. I don’t know anything
about how Billy Wheeler stands in
this mess. But it may be they think
he might work out as an ace card
in patching up the finances of the 94.
That being the case, naturally
they’d like nothing better than to
set him aside to cool for 30 days.
A man can’t read his facts unless
he looks a little into the people situ
ation. It sure begins to look,” said
Old Man Coffee, “as if I’m going to
have to go to Inspiration for this
trial.”
“No,” said Horse Dunn. “Be
cause there isn’t going to be any
trial.”
Marian Dunn said sharply, “What
do you mean?”
For once Horse Dunn failed to
wilt before the flare-up of his niece.
“I won’t stand for it,” he declared.
“I’ve stood enough! They'll take
Billy Wheeler no place.”
“I think,” Marian Dunn said,
“you must be mad!”
“Mad, is it? Mad or no mad, the
coyote pack will never take Billy
Wheeler in.”
“There s this about it, Mr. Dunn,
Val Douglas drawled. “We’re com
ing up against bigger things here
than an open fight over whether or
not this Wheeler will stand up and
take his medicine for busting the
Kid’s leg. After all, there’s some
thing in what your niece says. Tu
lare says that tonight or tomorrow
Amos can raise up a posse of a
hundred. We’d look good trying to
bronc-stomp a hundred men.”
Horse Dunn bellowed, “You stand
there and tell me—”
Billy Wheeler cut in. “He’s right,
Horse.”
“What?”
Billy Wheeler looked Val Douglas
over coolly. “Val doesn’t strike me
like a feller that would be right
very often,” he said at last. “But
this ought to raise his percentage,
I guess. I’m going to leave ’em
take me. Horse.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,”
Horse Dunn told him. “I’m boss
here!”
Billy Wheeler sprawled relaxed,
as if he were resting, and met
Dunn’s glare evenly. If the others
there did not understand why the
Old Man of the 94 turned to this
youngster more readily than to any
one else in time of need, they could
have learned something about that
by looking at them now.
“I don't know as you can stop
me, Horse," Wheeler said.
The day was hardly breaking
when Sheriff Walt Amos came ham
mering at the door.
CHAPTER V
The sheriff came alone, without
show of force. Wheeler’s surrender
he outwardly took as a matter of
course; though a close observer
might have detected a certain
pleased relief.
It was nearly six in the morning
as they rolled down the dusty ruts
toward the first test of strength
since the killing at Short Creek.
Three cars drove to Inspiration, for
Billy Wheeler had reserved certain
privileges of free action; and the
sheriff returned to Inspiration alone
in his own car, as he had come. A
second car was driven by Horse
Dunn, who took with him Gil Baker,
Steve Hurley, and Tulare Callahan;
and—what seemed more important
—Marian Dunn, between Val Doug
las and her huge uncle in the front
seat. The Old Man of the 94 was
possessed by a vague persistent
hope that somewhere, some time,
Marian would see something which
would change her opinions as to the
balance of force and justice in the
Red Hills ranges.
Old Man Coffee rode with Billy
Wheeler, who drove his own road
ster.
“There in that one car,” said Cof
fee, watching Horse Dunn's tower of
dust, “goes all that's left of the 94
outfit; except for you and me, who
don’t realfy belong here.”
Billy Wheeler nodded. “I couldn’t
hardly believe,” he said, “that
Horse was trying to run 20,000 head
of cattle, even through the quiet
months, with only four men and
himself.”
“He’s got 20,000 head, has he?”
“The book count shows 20,000
head. Allowing for death losses, he
supposes he’s got 14 to 16 thousand.
Short-handed as he is, he can’t be
right sure.”
“I’ve seen the day," Old Man Cof
fee said, "two, three years ago,
“For One Thing—Magoon Wasn’t
Killed by No Man on a Horse!”
when the 94 bunkhouse never held
less than 12 or 15 hands. And in
roundup times I've seen better than
50 riders follow the 94 wagons. But
I guess those days are gone.”
Coffee suggested that Horse Dunn
was getting old. “It's hard for us
old fellows to bend to new ways of
handling cows—or men. But Horse
Dunn might just as well get ready to
realize he has to. He's forced his
way for a long time; but comes a
time when he can’t force it no
more."
“And that,” Wheeler said, "is
what we’ve got to save him from.
For God knows he’ll never bow his
head! It’s up to you, more’n any
body.”
“Don’t count on me.”
That was Old Man Coffee’s atti
tude. Because of his uncommon
sixth sense in handling a trail and
because of his widely heard-of luck
in making shrewd deductions, Old
Man Coffee had been called in on
many a mystery killing in the inter
mountain country. But though he
worked hard without cost to any
one, he stubbornly avoided an offi
cial responsibility. “I got nothing
to do with it.” That was the Coffee
theme song on a murder case.
But now he added, “Something’s
wrong. When I first looked at this
case I thought it was open and shut.
But something’s the matter with
this case. Somebody knows some
thing they’re not telling me.”
Billy Wheeler waited, but the in
formation which silence would have
brought from most men was long
in coming.
“People in this country is going
to the dogs,” Coffee complained.
“Take you. Your old father had a
pair of eyes that could find out the
devil through the smoke of hell.
But you—you ain’t got any eyes. I
not only got to do your thinking for
you. I also got to see for you and
hear for you and ride for you. I’ll
give you just a sampl#.”
An ironic amusement faintly al
tered Old Man Coffee’s gaunt face.
“Answer me one question.’’ he
said now. “What weapon killed Lon
Magoon?”
Billy Wheeler looked at Coffee
sidelong, and for a moment he hes
itated. “Lon Magoon,” he said,
“was killed by a shotgun. Is that
what you wanted to know7'
“Part. What else?”
“It was fired from in front of him
a little to his right-hand side, by a
man on a horse.”
“What else?"
“The shell was home-loaded. And
that's all I know, yet.”
Old Man Coffee was regarding
Wheeler with a peculiar fixed ex
pression. "Son," he said at last,
“I back down; I’m free to admit I
had you wrong. You’re further
along the trail than most of ’em.
You got the shotgun right, at least
I suppose you seen that one shot
pellet bogged into the seam of the
leather on Lon Magoon’s saddle
horn?”
“Yes; I saw it.”
“That little pellet is pretty well
hid. I guess nobody saw it but you
and me. But the rest of your dope’s
wrong. For one thing — Magoon
wasn’t killed by no man on a
horse!"
“How do you know that?”
“How did you know the shell was
home-loaded?”
“Because the charge was weak.
The sign showed the horses was
close together when the shot was
fired. If the charge hadn’t been
weak that pellet of lead would have
plowed a whole lot deeper than it
did."
Old Man Coffee nodded approval.
"A good catch,” he said. “But I
think you got it wrong. If the charge
had been fired from close like you
say, the killer could have rammed
the long shotgun barrel plumb
against Magoon — there wouldn’t
have been no shot in the saddle
horn. It was distance slowed that
pellet. Lon Magoon was shot by a
third man, from up on the flat
ground above the cut!”
“Seems like,” Wheeler objected,
"the trail of the third man should
have showed up, somewhere about.”
“Maybe; if it had been read prop
er before the cattle pawed out the
sign. But—there’s one man mixed
into this that knows too much about
trails to have left one himself—even
if he’d been there.” They fell si
lent, while the hard-working engine
threw the rack of the road behind
them in big spasms and gouts of
dust; and far ahead presently
showed the faint disturbance on the
plain which was Inspiration.
Inspiration consisted principally
of a main street, backed by a few
score houses, some of them neatly
painted, with a tree or two; many
simply unpainted shacks.
To a stranger the town would not
have seemed so full of people as
Tulare Callahan’s report perhaps
suggested. But Billy Wheeler at
once recognized a dozen or more
cars which would not ordinarily
have been there, and about an equal
number of dozing cow ponies. And
—as the 94 cars pulled up in front
of the little frame building that
housed the county office—Wheeler
noticed a small inconspicuous stir in
doorways, a too casual moving to
gether of spur-heeled loungers at
two or three places along the street.
Billy Wheeler caught Horse
Dunn's signal as he slid his roadster
to a stop. He stepped down from
the wheel and walked forward to
Dunn’s car.
“We want to all kind of keep to
gether, here, as we move into this,”
Horse Dunn said casually. “I don’t
think there’s going to be any trou
ble of any kind. Still—I wish Bob
Flagg had got here. There aren’t
so many of us as there has been
some years.”
The sheriff pulled up and stepped
to the sidewalk.
“Court won’t open yet for a little
bit,” he said. “You, Wheeler, park
yourself around here close. You’re
lucky not to be in the lock-up, by
God! You, Dunn, I’ll speak to you
inside. I’ve got a couple of ques
tions I figure to ask.”
“All right,” Horse Dunn said.
“Come on, folks.”
“The rest of you stay outside,”
Sheriff Amos said. “You’re the one
I aim to talk to, Dunn.”
Horse Dunn looked up and down
the street, noting how the groups of
booted loungers had grown. Hardly
a doorway in that street was empty
now. Wheeler saw Dunn run a quick
glance along the second story win
dows across the street. Dunn turned
to his car, relaxed, casual.
“Marian, take this here car
around the corner, and park it; then
wait there, until someone brings
word.”
Marian glanced once, questioning
ly, at her uncle, then once more, al
most despairingly, at Billy Wheeler.
Then the car lumbered away in the
dust as she obeyed.
Horse Dunn turned with a curious
mildness to the sheriff. “I don't fig
ure to give any answers. Amos, that
I wouldn't just as leave my outfit
would hear.”
The Old Man of the 94 stood
square-planted—smiling a little, al
most bland; but the confidence of a
lifelong dominance was in the easy
set of his enormous shoulders, so
that he seemed then bigger than the
town, bigger than the range.
The sheriff hesitated; he knew
what he was up against. Abruptly
he burst out, “I decide these things
here!”
The mild mask fell away. “Then
give your orders to people you can
boss,” Dunn snarled at him.
Walt Amos sized up the situation,
then stood for a moment with a
blank face. Then—the young sheriff
grinned, not sheepishly, and not irri
tably, but with the interested hu
mor of a man who plays his own
game against another’s.
"Oh, all right, Dunn,” he said; "I
don’t set any great store on that
point. I haven’t got any of my fel
lers with me—I don't need ’em; but
maybe you need some. Bring ’em
on!”
In effect, Horse Dunn had backed
Sheriff Walt Amos down; but Horse
admitted afterward that it was here,
in the backdown, that the young
sheriff had first commanded his re
spect He grunted an assent. "Billy
Wheeler, Coffee—come on.”
The others moved forward, but
he waved them back; and Dunn,
with Wheeler and Coffee, followed
Amos into the little old adobe that
held the sheriff’s office.
“Dunn," said Sheriff Amos, "you
were the first man found out there'd
been a killing at Short Crick. That
was Tuesday—three days ago. Right
off you sent Tulare Callahan here,
to wire Old Man Coffee, clear
around at McTarnahan. Dunn, why
did you send for Old Man Coffee?”
“I sent for Old Man Coffee,” said
Dunn, “to find out who was making
free on my range. To tell you the
truth, I didn’t figure you numbskulls
was equal to handling it.”
“Then it wasn’t your idea,” said
the sheriff, “to get him here to seize
and suppress evidence?”
“When I want to seize some
thing,” Horse Dunn told him, “I
won’t be sending for some old guy
the other side of two ranges of
mountains. I’ll just seize it.”
“Where were you riding Monday,
Dunn?”
“Monday I was riding Red Sleep
Ridge.”
“And when,” the sheriff shot at
him, “did you first learn that Lon
Magoon was camping on 94 range?”
Horse Dunn did not hesitate for
a fraction of a second. "Yesterday
—when Old Man Coffee found Ma
goon’s saddle."
The sheriff’s smooth, comerless
face tightened a little, but Billy
Wheeler saw that the man was not
surprised. Instantly Wheeler knew
two things. First, that one of the
Inspiration crowd — perhaps with
field glasses—must have seen Cof
fee pick the saddle up. And second,
what was equally important, that
the sheriff must have succeeded in
tracing out the dead man's horse—
and had identified it us belonging
to the little cow thief, Magoon.
(TO HE CONTINUED)
Swiss Train Dogs for Service in Army;
Special Courses for Dispatch Duty
Man's best friend, the dog, has
proved his worth in numerous ways
and for many centuries dogs have
been playing an important role in
human warfare. Originally, states
a correspondent in the Philadelphia
Inquirer, an attempt was made to
press the animals into field hospital
service. The experiment did not
prove satisfactory and was partial
ly given up during the World war.
The activities of the Army dog to
day are chiefly confined to the dis
patch service, where excellent re
sults have been obtained. Dogs have
done splendid work in the most dif
ficult and most dangerous situations,
where all other means of conveying
messages or reconnoitering were
impossible.
The Swiss army owes the introduc
tion of dogs into its activities to
private initiative. A few years ago
a privately organized dispatch dog
service was added to the First
Army corps. It immediately gave
proof of its usefulness. Based on
these experiences, the Swiss Fed
eral council decided on official train
ing courses for Army dogs, and on
the establishment of a permanent
station for these animals. The su
pervision of this new service was
entrusted to the commander of the
First Army corps.
The dispatch dogs are chiefly as
signed to officers and soldiers who
volunteer for this particular serv
ice. The introductory course has a
duration of four weeks and upon its
conclusion each participant has a
trained dog assigned to him, which
he has to board and teach further.
The animal remains, however,
property of the confederation for a
number of years.
The main difficulty is that the ani
mals, in order to be systematically
trained, must be stationed closely
together.
No Forests in Egypt
A large variety of trees grow
throughout Egypt, especially along
the Nile, but nowhere is there »
forest.
Prints Tune to School Girl Needs
By CHERIE NICHOLAS
MYRIADS of gay little print
(rocks wending their way
schoolward is the picture fashion is
Hashing on the screen for fall. There
is really no danger of overdoing
the print collection for little daugh
ter, for there are so many varieties
of textures and design in the realm
of washable prints this season
mothers can assemble a wardrobe
of prints ranging from playtime
and classroom frocks to pretty-pret
ty party dresses, and then not have
too many for occasions that may
arise.
From mother’s standpoint the
new print collections should and
will prove all that they should be
in supplying fabrics which will in
sure her child the Joy of being
well-dressed whatsoever the occa
sion, because fabricists are bring
ing out cottons and rayons and
linens that have the “looks" of
choicest challis and fine crepes.
The thing that intrigues the little
folks in regard to prints is that
many of the nicest, prettiest prints
have been especially designed for
them with pictorial motifs that
make direct appeal to childhood.
Not only are the patterns charm
ing to behold but they are in many
instances instructive and entertain
ing as well. For smaller children
there are prints with the letters
of the alphabet scattered designful
ly in allover patterning. Mother
Goose figures too, and boats and
ships and birds and animals, fruits
and flowers done in a way to cap
ture the fancy of a child.
The washable prints developed
this season are unique and lovely.
It’s a series of perfectly charming
prints that we have in mind—ar
tistic creations each of which has
been inspired by a song. There are
fifteen designs in this collection nine
of which have been adapted to cot
ton fabrics and six to rayon. The
unique part of it is that these theme
song designs use titles of copy
righted songs. What a grand cho
rus of prints there will be in class
room, at home and in the highways
and byways that little girls tread
during the coming tangy autumn
days! Not that children have a
monopoly on these intriguing mu
sical prints for designers are mak
ing them up into the smartest-ever
housecoats, pajamas and daytime
dresses for grown-ups.
Does your little girl love mu
sic? If so she’ll adore the beruf
fled frock of new chintz-type print
(centered in the illustration) the
motif of which is based on “I’m
Forever Blowing Bubbles,” a song
children know and love. Clever
little girl and boy figures holding
balloons and other bubble motifs
following the position of the notes
oh the scale with tiny clef signs
make the design of this print which
is fascinating for young and older
folks. The crisp white organdy ruf
fles and buttons add winsome ac
cents.
The dress to the left is also made
of a theme-song "bubble" print. It
is a pleasing type for the growing
girl. Three narrow ribbon bows po
sitioned on ribbon crossbars set
row and row march soldier-like
down the front of the bodice. Pleat
ed skirt and demure Peter Pan
collar complete this smart style.
The dress to the right reflects a
quaint spirit in the lacings up the
front, the close-fitting bodice, and
the now-so-fashionable “swing
skirt.” Any girl would love to wear
this dress "first day of school.” The
scattered daisies is a patterning in
spired by that familiar song,
"Daisy, Daisy, Tell Me Your An
swer True”—enough to inspire any
little girl wearing this dress to be
come a prima donna.
© Western Newspaper Union.
_k.. . .. i .. - ■ - —- i. —
CASUAL COSTUMES
SLATED FOR FALL
‘‘Look casual,” Is the latest slo
gan being broadcast to women who
are pre-occupied with the question
of what to wear for early fall. Al
though both tailored tweeds and
softly-feminine garments will con
tinue to be style-right for particular
occasions, it’s the casual costume
that is slated for high-style accept
ance.
Suits are always an early-fall
favorite but they were never better
calculated to make women want to
cast aside their summer clothes. Al
ready the shops are beginning to
display scores of casually cut mod
els ranging from classic two-piece
ensembles complete with blouse and
topcoat or fur cape.
College Girls in Favor of
Low-Heeled Daytime Shoes
Increased interest in sports is giv
j en as the chief factor in the college
girl's inclination toward lower heel
heights on daytime shoes but her
choice is also influenced by other
considerations such as comfort and
the suitability of low-heeled foot
wear to sports clothes.
The prevalence of “girls of more
than average height” was one of
the reasons advanced for the in
creased popularity of low and me
dium-heeled evening shoes.
Shaded Stockings Boon to
Woman With Bulky Calves
The woman with oversized calves
can buy shaded stockings which
gradually darken in color at the
largest |i*rt of the leg and thus have
a very slenderizing eilect. These
stockings shade from a light tan at
the foot and ankle to a dark brown
at the calf and upper leg. For slim
mer legs, there are stockings of sun
tan color with feet of dark browu.
PLAID TAILLEUR
By CHERfE NICHOLAS
Plaid’s the thing for your new fall
suit if you are seeking the smartest.
The one pictured is of heavy plaid
linen. It’s a real Scotch tartan plaid
done in dark green, dark blue lined
with white, red and yellow. Black
velvet binds the edges, pocket flaps
and cuffs. This makes a stunning
costume for early fall and later on
you will be wanting to copy it in
plaid wool. We are quite sure you
will for these stunning- plaid jacket
suits are the "last word" in chic.
Star-Sprinkled Mode
Silver and gold stars sparkle on
the veils of new afternoon hats.
The State of the World.
SANTA MONICA, CALIF.
—Up in Montreal a veter
an showman says he talks
with chimpanzees in their
own language. I wish he’d
ask one of his chimpanzee
pals what he thinks about the
present setup of civilization.
Because I can’t find any humans
who agree as to where we all are
going and what the
chances are of get
ting there. In fact,
the only two who ap
pear to be certain
about it are young
Mr. Corcoran and
young Mr. Cohen,
and they seem to
hesitate at times—
not much, but just a
teeny-weeny bi t—
which is disconcert
ing to the lay mind.
We are likely to lose
Irvin S. Cobb
confidence even In a comet, once it
starts wobbling on us.
I'm also upset by a statement
from England's greatest star-gazer
—they call him the astronomer roy
al, which, by coupling it with the
royal family, naturally gives astron
omy a great social boost in England
and admits it to the best circles.
He says the moon is clear off its
mathematically prescribed course.
• • •
Cash Versus I. O. U.'s.
ONLY a few weeks ago the front
pages were carrying dis
patches saying the adjustment of
Great Britain's defaulted debt was
just around the corner. Economists
and financiers had discussed terms
of settlement. Figures were quoted
—mainly figures calling for big re
ductions on our part, but never mind
that. They were figures anyhow.
Lately the papers have been
strangely silent on the subject. Per
haps you remember the old story
told on the late John Sharp Wil
liams, who frequented a game at
Washington where sportive states
men played poker for heavy stakes
—mostly with those quaint little fic
tional products called I. O. U.’s as
mediums of exchange.
Early one morning a fellow sena
tor met the famous Mississippian
coming from an all-night session.
“I certainly mopped up,” he pro
claimed. ‘‘I won $3,000—and what’s
more, $8.75 of it was in cash.”
Autumn Millinery.
JUST as the poor, bewildered
males are becoming reconciled
to the prevalent styles in women’s
hats, up bobs a style creator in New
York warning us that what we’ve
thus far endured is merely a fore
taste of what’s coming. In other
words, we ain't seen nothin’!
For autumn, he predicts a
quaint number with a slanted peak
fifteen inches high, which, I take
it. will make the wearer look like
a refugee trying to escape from un
der a collapsing pagoda.
Another is a turban entirely com
posed of rooster feathers.
A matching coat of rooster feath*
ers goes with this design. But in the
old days they used hot tar.
A third model features for its top
hamper a series of kalsomine
brushes sticking straight up. Nat
urally, the hat itself will imitate a
barrel of whitewash.
But the gem of all is a dainty
globular structure of Scotch plaid.
Can you imagine anything more be
coming to your lady wife than an
effect suggesting that she’s balanc
ing a hot-water bag on her brow?
+ • •
“McGuffeyisms.”
THE lieutenant-governor of Ohio
urges a return to “McGuffey
ism” for settling modern problems.
’Twas in a McGuffey reader that
I met those prize half-wits of lit
erature—the Spartan boy who let
the fox gnaw his vitals; the chuckle
headed youth who stood on the burn
ing deck; the congenial idiot who
climbed an alp in midwinter while
wearing nothing but a night shirt
and carrying a banner labeled “Ex
celsior” in order to freeze to death;
the skipper who, when the ship was
sinking, undertook to calm the pas
sengers by—but wait, read the im
mortal lines:
“We are lost!” the captain shouted,
As he staggered down the stair.
And then the champion of all—the
Dutch lad who discovered a leak
in the dyke so he stuck his wrist in
the crevice and all night stayed
there. In the morning, when an
early riser came along and asked
what was the general idea, the
heroic urchin said—but let me quote
the exact language of the book:
“ ‘I am hindering the sea from
running in,’ was the simple reply of
the child.”
Simple? I’ll tell the world!
Nothing could be simpler except an
authority on hydraulics who figures
that, when the Atlantic ocean starts
boring through a crack in a mud
wall, you can hold it back by using
one small Dutch boy’s arm for a
stopper.
IRVIN S. COBB.
© Western Newspaper Union.
Cabot Discovered Nova Scotia
Nova Scotia was discovered by
Cabot in 1497. In 1604 the country
was settled by the French, who
called it Acadia. It became Brit
ish in 1713.