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CHAPTER II.—(Continued »
Poor IttUe Mrs Bouverle. having
given up all idea of attending Ihe
thryaaa’fce»um party at Lrdy Barry s
la considerably surprised a ben. at
•lexit S or lock, her son dvshes into
the drawing rovm with speed aad ex
ciatms:
“The dogcart will be round in five
minutes. Jump into your bonnet,
mother mine, and we ll trot over to
iisrryatown.'*
Mrs Bouverie stands up. with a look
of pleasure and grandest ion on her
sweet uid fare. Any little attention i
from George touches her heart
* How good of you. my dear boy. to
think of me* So swert of you. George!** i
abe says, reach tug upon tiptoe to kiss
hu brown cheek, pride and love in her :
eyes.
George had refeaed to gj to the
party at Barrystown. He had made an
ea- use. aad hia mother thinks, that. ;
aenng her disappointment, be has re
gretted hia decision and changed his
mind
“But are you sure. dear, you don't
mind?*' »he asks her sweet eyes cn his
fare. “It is good of you to give up
your afternoon to take the old woman
out.*'
“Before you cared for me.” George
whisper* softly.
Th** lover* <lo not look at the chrys
anthemums after all. but Into each
other's eye*, for they have entered a
paradise that opens to mortals in tho
days when the heart is young.
CHAPTER III.
Mrs. Saville is standing In her own
room dressed for dinner. Her dress
Is ruby velvet, very long, and a small
lace cap rests on her white hair. On
the hearthrug stands Barbara, in a
am pie white frock, a primrose sash
round her slim waist. There is an
expression of resolution on her pretty
face, but the eyes are wistful and ap
pealing.
Mrs Saville Is putting on her brace
lets. Even in her old age she is a vain
woman, and casts sundry glances at
a face that owes much to art.
Barbara turns round suddenly, her
heart boating w.ldly beneath the
wh:te. lace-tnmmed bodice of her
gown.
“Aunt Julia. I want to tell you
something.”
The agitation in the young voice
does not escape Mrs Saville. She
crosses the room suddenly, and lays
tw » jeweled hands on Barbara’s shoul
ders.
"My dear, are you going to be my
laughter? Is tnat what you are going
to tell me. Barbara?"
Barbara turns rather white, but
the beautiful blue eyes are brave
enough as she looks up at her aunt.
"So. Aunt Julia. I told Sabastian
today—this afternoon at Barrystown
—that I could not marry him. because
I am engaged to George Bouverie."
It is out at last, the wondeful
secret, and the girlish face is covered
with confusion
"Engaged to George Bouverie?” Mrs.
Saville echoes the words wildly. “I
am surprised, Barbara! Since when,
may 1 ask?”
"About a month ago." Barbara re
plies. "George wanted to speak to
you. but I wished him to wait till I
heard from father. He ought to know
first." with a pleading look.
Mrs. Saville is very angry. A leaden
look comes over her face, and her pale
full eyes scintillate with passion: yet
she only gives a short, unpleasant
laugh.
Of coarse. I like going*" George re*
pW*». half thaine-faredly ‘Trot off. j
mother, and pat on your toggery; I've >
got to change, too."
Tuenty minutes later a very spruce ;
and well-groomed young mas. with a
little tiny aid lady with a bonnet with
violets in it sitting perched beside him.
spins down the avenue and out of the
gates of the Grange at a pace little
abort of terrific. Mrs Bouverie is
frightened, hut has every confidence in
her son as a whip.
"He is very fresh, dear. Isn't her- j
she ventures to ask. as the chestnut
performs various frantic evolutions.
"Your aren't frightened, little moth- I
er. are you?" George says. We must
hurry along, you know, for we've a
good hit to go; hot there's nothing to
he afraid of."
The chestnut is a rare good goer,
and stead.** to his work presently; but
It Is dark when they reach Barrys
towa.
"lSo good of you to come so far. dear
Mrs Bouverie.** laid? Barry says, in s
high-pitched, harsh voice; "and you
have brought your eon How very de
lightful! 1 know It is hard to get
young men to do anything but hunt."
The rooms are full. George Bou
vene'a golden head rises out of the
cr owd. How handsome he looks! Mrs.
Seville, seated on a sofa amidst a bevy
of friends, remarks withermgly tnat it
Is a pity poor dear Mrs Bouverie has
1 a bad. unprincipled son
"He i» breaking his mother’s heart."
she adds, lowering her roice. "Poor
thing* she told me herself that she
has never known happteoas since he
t>ok to gambling. His father, you
know-** And here she lowered her
voice still more, and shakes her head
till the osprey in her headgear shakes
like a field of barley warn the wind
passe* over it.
• My dear child, do you think your
father will sanction such an engage
ment for a moment? I have no power
over you. Barbara—engage yourself as
much ae you please; but I do not for
one moment think your father will
allow you to marry a young man tvho
possesses nothing but debts. As for
Mr. Bouverie. he may be very disin
terested; but it is far more probable
he imagines you have money. But I
may as well tell you at once you will
have no fortune if you marry contrary
to your father's wishes.”
"We could not help caring for each
other." falters Barbara.
"My dear, with that I have nothing
to do. I am sorry for Sebastian. He
has loved you for years, and it has
been the dream of his life to make
you his wife, but of course all that
is at an end. Come. Barbara. I feel
i sure dinner is ready, and Sebastian
will not like to be kept waiting "—
laying her hand on Barbara's arm.
An 1 together ».h*y pass through count
ies long, draughty corridors, Mr3.
Saville sweeping along in her velvet
gown. Inwardly furious at Barbara
having dared to become engaged with
| out her knowledge; for Barbara s for
tuo - had b^en destined to build up the
, Court and restore the Saville family to
' prosperity.
Barbara, feeling as if she were in
deep disgrace, walks beside the mas
sive figure of her aunt, to confront Se
, L’ustian with lowering brow and furi
ous eyes. He and his mother exchange
glances as they take their places an l
tonight Barbara is strictly left out in
; the cold as far as conversation goes.
.She do**s not car*—her thoughts ars
1 full of happiness.
But in the evening Sabastian joins
her as, sitting at the piano, she plays
| dreamy music while Mrs. Saville slum
bers peacefully.
Sabastian's fingers closed on Bar
bara's wrist with a clasp that is pain
i ful
' Do you think I shall ever give you
up to him?” he asks, fixing her with
his strange, powerful gaze. “We Sa
villes know how to keep our own!”
I am a Saville, too!’ 'retorts Bar
bara. shaking off his hand, "and you
have no right to speak to me like that,
Sebastian!"
"Have 1 not?” he whispers, "I have
the right of every man to try and win
the woman he loves, and I will make
you love me yet, Barbara!”
‘ Never!’ 'the girl exclaims, passion
ately. “And I think you are cruel
and cowardly.”
"Cruel and cowardly? You shall
unsay those words!” he breathes out
fiercely, his face close to her scarlet
cheek. "Barbara, your beauty mad
dens me! I have looked upon you as
mine for so long, and your father
wishes you to marry me. He wrote to
me himself."
It won't be Mrs SaviUes fault If
George Bouvene's failing* are aot
magnified Into crimes
George is looking for Barbara. Per
Lap* abe ia in the tearoom, and thither
he wend* hia way; and then to the
conservatory, which ia of! the drawing
room, and lit with lamp* to display
the beauty of blossom* there.
Yes. Barbara ia there, and Sebastian
Is at her aide. Barbara's cheeks are
flushed, and her eyes are sparkling
with anger. Sebastian looks moved,
too. out of hia usual cynical calm.
torWis i face as George appears is a
revelation, and the man s heart throbs.
* You have come, the girl says soft
ly .turning her bnck on her cousin and
U -*k!ng up from beneath the brim of a
black velvet picture hat trimmed with
ostrich Upn "I thought you weren't
coming “
'Sebastian's face is white, and hit
eyes g«eam. How dare Barbara treat
him like that*
‘Will yon come bnck to my mother
now** he says pointedly to her. "You
have eeca all the chrysanthemum*"
‘1 am goiag to show them to Mr.
B •overt#." Barbara says, with a .-mile
that after all ia forced. "If you are
tired of them. Sebastian. Mr. Bou
verve will take rare of me "
Without n word Sebastian SavUle
waiks «g. and then nil Barbara's care
lees. easy manner vanish*-,, her lip*
tremble, and if the lashes hide her
eyes It ts bemuse she is Striving to
conceal the tosrs.
• Hr was crus! to me." she falters.
"George. 1 am afraid of him "
They are alone, and be takes both
her hands in his in n close clasp.
"let ns announce our engagement
Barbara, and give me the right to
* hampkm yon “
"Mot yet." she whisper* "We must
waft. Georgs, till I ftflV from father.'
Bet that will be weeks and weeks.
Barbara." be urge* "How am I to
wait and nee Sebastian Sarilie perae
c sting you?"
"A faint smile curve* her lips. "It
ts foolish of me. George, but I feel
afraid of him. he Is so cold, so cruel."
"lh»s be make love to you. Bar
bara *“
Two troubled eyas look up at hln
for a second.
"Tan.” she whispers, very low. •
George Bouverle ts young and pas
sionate.
"It 1* my right ~ he exclaims, "to
let Selmstian know that you are mine,
that yon have given your love to
And. woman-like, Barbara loves the
masterful tones of his voice.
"I will tell my aunt myself." she
sayn. "bat she will be dreadfully an
gry. George. 1 know quite well Aunt
jails means me to marry Sebastian.
*aid so over and over, long be
Her qvick blush finishes her sea
She lifts her dark head with pride,
“And am I to have no voice in the
matter? Sebastian, you need not say
any more; 1 have made my choice."
“And so have I!" he says, with a
' ring of suppressed passion in his voice
as he rises to his feet “Don’t think
for one moment. Barbara, that I will
give you up"—moving away across the
room.
The days that follow are unhappy
enough. Barbara finds her engage
ment ignored, and she herself under
goes a sort of domestic boycotting.
George arrives at the Court one aft
ernoon and holds a short interview
with Mrs. Saville. That lady gives
him to understand pretty plainly that,
without the consent of Barbara’s fath
er. the name even of engagement la
do* to be mentioned.
"Barbara is under my charge, Mr
Bouverie, and her father would never
forgive me if she made an undesirable
marriage. I may as well tell you at
once he has other views for hia daugh
ter!”
George is furious; but what is the
use of being angry? He and Barbara
are treated as a pair of children, al
lowed to play at being engaged if they
choose, with the distinct understand
ing that it can never come to any
thing.
"Of course I cannot prevent my
niece promising to marry you.” Mrs.
Savllle says, with great frankness,
turning her heavy, expressionless face
on George. "She is quite at liberty
to engage herself to any one sho
chooses; but I feel sure, Mr. Bouverie.
you will have the good sense and
taste to agree with me that, under the
circumstances, it would be better for
you not to visit at the Court until
Barbara can hear from her father.
You have written to him. I presume?"
Yes. George has written, and colors
up as he thinks of his letter, which he
had found so hard to write, for he
had so little to offer Barbara but his
love.
A kind of smile passes over Mrs.
Saville’s face.
“I suppose you have explained to
Mr. Saville how you intend to sup
port a wife?” she asks, with a degree
of sarcasm.
”1 have two hundred a year.” says
poor George, “and in course of time
the Grange comes to me.”
"Ah. yes. but I fear Mr. Saville may
not take quite such a hopeful view as
you do.”
Which is undeniable, and Gorge
feels that he can say nothing in re
ply.
Mrs. Saville writes herself to Tas
mania by the next mail. Barbara
watches her aunt as she sits at her
writing table, her pen racing over the
foreign notepaper. covering page after
page abusing George, thinks Barbara
indignantly. The letter is posted, and.
greatest trial of all, Barbara’s love af
fair is quietly ignored.
George does not come any more to
the Court. In honor he feels bound
not to do so. And Mrs Buverie,
coached by Mrs. Saville. also thinks
it better not to ask Barbara to the
Grange; so the lovers are forced to
meet each other how and where they
can.
These stolen interviews are truly de
lightful. and the young people build
lovely castles in the air. and count the
days till the letter can come from Tas
mania. never doubting that the answer
will be anything but favorable.
(To be continued.)
HORSES IN WARFARE.
Eqalne Quadruped* Necewarf at the
Front.
The horse is not to become obso
lete after all—that is. so long as there
are wars. Automobiles and electric
ears may drive him from town and
country, but the army is still left for
him. One thing that the present war
in South Africa has emphasized is the
value of mobility in troops. And mo
bility can only come through mounted
infantry, and mounted infantry needs
horses. Here, incidentally, lies a new
market for Canadian horses, and one
that may not be unworthy of attention.
The last official report of Edwin M.
Stanton, secretary of war in President
Lincoln's cabinet, gives some faint
conception of the enormous consump
tion of horses and mules entailed by
active hostilities on a large scale dur
ing such a Titanic war as that between
the Northern and Southern states of
the American Union, which lasted
from April, 1861, to May, 1865. The
report in question is dated Washing
ton. March 1, 1865, and contains the
following striking passage: “The sup
ply of horses and mules to our armies
has long been at the rate of 500 per
day, which is also the average rate of
their destruction. The cavalry of the
army of the Potomac was twice re
mounted during the first eight months
of 1864. The resources of supply in
this country were able to bear the im
mense drains upon its horses and
mules, and, judging from current pri
ces, the stock shows no symptoms of
exhaustion or diminution. An army in
the field, well equipped with artillery,
cavalry and trains, requires one horse
or mule to every two men. The num
ber of horses and mules in our armies
is nearly equal.”
If the calculation of Mr. Stanton, the
American secretary of war in 1865, be
correct, 100,000 British troops now en
gaged in fighting the Boers would need
50,000 horses and mules to keep them
going.—Philadelphia Times.
Stationery of the Kaiser.
Those persons who have been hon
ored highly enough to get many let
ters from the Emperor of Germany
must be in a state of perpetual won
der as to what kind of paper will be
the next. The Kaiser is as particu
lar and original in his choice of letter
paper and envelopes as he is about
battleships and trousers, drama and
morals. The very latest things in the
way of paper are beauties. They show
the Reichsadler (the imperial eagle)
in the corner with the imperial crown
on his head. He roosts on a crowned
Hohenzollern castle, from which there
extends toward both corners of a paper
a flowing ribbon with the German col
ors. In one claw the eagle shows the
yellow imperial standard, and in the
other the purple flag of the Kings of
Prussia. For use on board of the im
perial yacht Hohenzollern the letter
paper has the imperial eagle resting
on the cross of the Order of the Red
Eagle with the gold chain. Over and
on both sides of the cross are the
words “H. M. S. Hohenzollern” (His
Majesty’s ship Hohenzollern).—New
York Press.
Detecting the Laugh.
■When the curtain had fallen on the
last act the multitude mobbed the
manager of the show. “Where,” they
hoarsely clamored, “is the one continu
ous laugh which you advertised?”
“Search me!” protested the manager.
“Ah, possibly It is on us!” exclaimed
the multitude starting violently, and
regarding each other suspiciously,
while sickening doubts gnawed at their
hearts.—Detroit Journal.
Shut not thy purse strings always
against painted distress.—Lamb.
THE YELLOW
TOMATOES.
When Dominicus Van Brunt first
went to the public school in his adopt
ed country he had the felicity of sit
ting opposite a little girl with freckles
and blue eyes. Her name was Bertha
Manderson. which w’as a difficult name
for Dominicus to remember. But it
was not at all hard for him to remem
ber the dear little girl with freckles.
She wore tiny black tassels at the top
of her shoes, and white aprons, ruf
fled and tied upon the shoulders with
large, airy-looking bows, and the ends
of her smooth braids were tied with
ribbons now the color of the violet and
now the color of the rose.
Dominicus said to himself that in
Amsterdam he had never known any
little girl so freckled and so dear.
‘‘I wish she would look at me,”
thought little Dominicus Van Brunt.
But he thought it in Dutch, although
when he spoke aloud he managed to
make himself understood in English.
It must be confessed that little Ameri
can children are too egotistical to be
polite. Thinking as they do that they
are molded on the right pattern, they
are inclined to regard all children dif
fering from them as curiosities. They
considered the round-faced Dutch boy,
with his shy ways and deferential
manner to the teacher, a strange little
fish indeed. And no one in all the
school was more amused than the
dainty Bertha, who looked at him co
vertly out of her gray-blue eyes. How
ever. she did not laugh at him. So
Dominicus, who did not know that she
was amused, and who perceived only
her aspect of gravity, thought her
kinder than the rest, and was grateful.
If only she would have spoken to him,
or looked at him as if she were his
friend, he would have nothing more to
ask—he could even have been patient
with that terrible English language
which every one around him was Jab
bering.
He determined to do something to
call the attention of his freckled
hearts-own to himself, and one day he
hurried into the schoolroom the first
minute the doors were opened and laid
three pear-shaped yellow tomatoes on
her desk. The scholars came, saw the
pretty vegetables and had little trou
ble in deciding from what source the
tribute came. For w ho else in a fash
ionable suburb would have yellow to
matoes, except the son of the Dutch
gardener? The school indulged in
unrestrained giggling, but Bertha, in
stead of participating, shot defiance
from her gray-blue eyes, and, turning
with an adorable smile toward Do
minicus, carefully fitted one of the
yellow tomatoes into her red mouth,
and devoured it in the same spirit in
which a loyal subject drinks to his
king. It was evident that Dominicus
had been right Bertha was different
from the others. His happiness stained
the amiable boy’s face scarlet, and
while the other boys jeered at him a
number of them felt a distinct pang of
Jealousy. They were quite alive to
the extraordinary favor which had
been shown him.
From that day on Bertha, the daugh
ter of a prosperous lawyer and a little
maid distinctly conscious of her social
opportunities, and Dominicus, the son
of the man who rased garden truck,
were friends. There came a day when
Bertha, having reached the proud age
of 10, gave a birthday $arty on her
father’s lawn, and insisted on having
Dominicus among her guests—a fa
mous day for Dominicus, in which he
saw his princess in all the glory of her
best white frock, with her hair crimped
down her back, and had the rapture of
eating cream tarts in her company!
But there was yet a prouder day in
which Dominicus was permitted to re
turn this social attention, and was al
lowed to Invite Bertha and three other
friends to the snowy kitchen of his
home, where the mother of Dominicus
sang beautiful songs to them in a lan
guage they could not understand, and
fed them with crullers and grape juice.
Bertha thought she had never seen any
room so charming as this kitchen, with
its racks and blue plates, its shining
pans and its Illuminated mottoes upon
the wall.
Bertha was not more than 12 when
she was sent to a private school, and
as the years went by she saw people of
quite a different sort from Dominicu3
and his father and mother, and ought,
probably, to have forgotten all about
them. But it is an undeniable fact—
though it may have shown some evi
dences of vulgarity in her nature—
that all the years that she was occu
pied with other matters, such as board
ing-school and summer resorts, and
"coming out,” and the gayeties of a
winter in the city, she remembered
that curious kitchen, and the people
who lived in It, and wondered where
they had gone. For it had happened
that one autumn, after returning from
the seashore, Bertha had discovered
that the house back of the garden was
empty. It had been a sad moment for
her. She had felt the tears come to
her eyes as she looked at the untidy
piece of ground where the exquisitely
kept garden of Jacob Van Brunt had
been; and the windows, from which
the round face of her friend had often
smiled at her, repulsed her now with
their bareness.
It happened that In course of time
Bertha had a notion to go abroad, and,
having the consciousness of her cer
tificate of graduation in her trunk, she
was in no haste to return to her home.
So she lingered where she pleased, ar
rogantly directing the movements of
her party, which consisted of a maid
en aunt and an elderly second cousin.
With this double cnaperonage she was
allowed to do almost anything she
pleased.
At length they reached Amsterdam,
making headquarters for themselves
there, and planning to go upon many
excursions through the country. It
was natural enough that, having a lo
cal habitation, they should make some
friends in the city, and so it came
about that before they had been there
long they were invited to dinner by
an American lady, Mrs. Truax, whose
husband was engaged in some mercan
tile enterprise there.
The Truax house was a cosmopolitan
one, and at it the habitue expected to
meet all manner of celebrities and hu
man curios. Bertha, much elated at
the prospect, whirled off, accompanied
by her decorous relatives, arrayed for
the occasion in the most becoming of
their best silks.
“What dear old frnmp3 they are,”
Bertha commented to herself. “I think
the Amsterdam ladies will like them
They just suit this background.”
They seemed to, indeed, and got on
better than Bertha, whose youth con
demned her to a subordinate place.
This was not as it was in America,
Bertha reflected, and permitted herself
to indulge in a moment of homesick
ness, as she sat apart, her glowing
beauty unnoticed by the middle-aged
people who were paying their respects
to her aunt and her second cousin.
“I have delayed for a moment for
another guest,” Mrs. Truax said. “I
wished to present to your niece, Miss
Manderson,” she said, addressing Ber
tha’s aunt, “a young man who is half
an American. Ah, there is the bell
now! ”
The man at the door announced a
moment later:
“Herr Van Brunt.”
Bertha turned with an anticipation
which she endeavored to subdue. It
was not likely that the son of a gar
dener would be at the home of Mrs.
Truax. But in the young man who
entered Bertha saw with unmistakable
recognition the amiable, soft eyes, the
round face and high brow, and the
quiet, kindly manners of her old
friend, borne with the assurance and
ease that come with self-confidence.
The hostess managed to whisper to
Bertha's aunt, and of course Bertha
overheard:
“This young man has distinguished
himself in landscape gardening. He
has just laid out a park for Prince
Zagenwell, and is much thought of
both in Holland and Germany. I hear
that the Duke of York is likely to send
for him for his new place in Scotland.”
Dominicus Van Brunt saluted his
hostess with a profound bow—how
well Bertha remembered that quaint
reverence of manner! He was pre
sented to the guests and at last was
led up to Bertha, who suddenly felt as
if she were in short frocks, with frec
kles on her face and braids down her
back. He started and flushed, and
then held out his hand in the good
American way, regardless of cere
mony.
“What, you are acquainted!” cried
the hostess. They explained. The
hostess turned in some perplexity to
the spinster aunt. She wondered if
she had unintentionally committed an
indesoretion. But there was no an
noyance in the face of the elder Miss
Manderson, and the hostess felt at lib
erty to permit the two young people
to go down to dinner together.
The conversation at dinner would
not be particularly interesting to re
count. But Bertha remembered every
word of it. Perhaps Dominicus Van
Brunt did too—but it has been im
possible to secure his confidence. It
is a certain thing, however, that the
next day a basket came for the young
American lady, containing a dozen
yellow tomatoes, dropped like eggs in
a nest of white daisies. Which was,
surely, a curious gift!
Now it is undeniable that Bertha
Manderson found Amsterdam interest
ing. yet for some reason best under
stood by her sex she remained in it
but a short time, hastening away to
other points of interest. It is also cer
tain that about the time of her depart
ure a young landscape gardener ran
to yews and weeping willows in his de
signs, and accepted with alacrity the
opportunity of designing a cemetery
for some new American town. But he
recovered from his gloom when there
reached hsn from the shores of the
Baltic a trinket fashioned of lucent
amber, shaped like a yellow tomato.
It occurred to him that he ought also
to visit the storied beaches of the Bal
tic, and he did so without an hour’s
unnecessary delay.
And the consequence was, as the
children say when they play the old
game, that when Miss Bertha Mander
son returned to America, she wore for
an engagement ring a tomato shaped
topaz on her third finger.
To Give a Cent Party.
A cent party is the latest idea for
whiling away an evening when a few
friends are met together. Here is the
recipe for one: Each guest was given a
card. Fastened to the card with rib
bons was a cent with a hole in it, and
a pencil. At the top of the cards, in
fancy letters, was painted, “A penny
for your thoughts.” Underneath this
were the names of fifteen objects which
can be found on a cent. The guest
who properly filled his card received
a prize of a cent dipped in gold for a
watch charm. The ladies’ prize was a
hatpin on the same order. The fol
lowing are the articles to be searched
for on the cent: 1. An animal, hare. 2.
Serpent, copper head. 3. Southern fruit,
date. 4. Emblem of royalty, crown. 5.
A spring flower, tulip. 6. Part of an
ancient armor, shield. 7. Another term
for matrimony. 8. Part of a hill, brow.
9. Plenty of assurance, cheek. 10.
Found in a school, pupil. 11. Ancient
place of worship, temple. 12. Early
American settler, Indian. 13. Emblem
of victory, wreath. 14. Part of a river,
mouth. 15. A messenger, one cent.—
What to Eat.
Flaw In an Old Saying.
Ascum—I suppose you’re one of
those who consider marriage a lot
tery? Henpeck—No. indeed. If you
draw a blank in a lottery you can tear
up your ticket and forget all about it.
—Philadelphia Press.
Winning a Sweetheart.
“How did Bluffer so easily win with
Miss Goldbag’s heart?” “He sent her
22 roses on her 30th birthday.”—Week
ly Telegraph.
SCARED BY HIS LUCK.
HOW A SENATOR'S $5 CREW
INTO $30,000.
It Was His First and Only Experience
at the tismblksc Table and He Was
Frightened—Gave It All Away to Aid
Struggling looag Fellows.
An entertaining tale of the gamb
ling room was related recently by Col.
Cole Martin, according to one of the
Washington papers. It has to do with
the phenomenal luck of Henry N Rice,
who was the first senator from Minne
sota, after the territory was admitted
as a state. Martin’3 story is as fol
lows: “Being a resident of St. Paul
when Rice was elected by the legisla
ture and having taken a hand in the
fight, I concluded to come on with
Rice to Washington, as in those days,
1858, Washington was a wide-open
town, and faro was as free then as
a beer lunch is now. Of course, I had
an acquaintance among the sports,
and shortly after I erected my tepee
in the capital the senator Invited me
to visit him. While making the rounds
one afternoon we got hungry and I in
vited him into Pringle’s. Pringle’s at
that time was the finest gambling
house in Washington. The proprietor
served three elegant meals a day to
his guests and patrons without charge.
It was a rendezvous for all manner
and kinds of men with money. You
could meet there in groups a foreign
ambassador, a United States senator,
judges, generals, and. of course, men
like myself, who followed the green
cloth as a profession. I was then in
or about my 30th year, and thought no
more of ‘win or lose’ $5,000 than L
would now of a single $5 bill. There
were no 10 or 25 cent chips in those
days. The ’whites’ cost $1, the very
lowest price for them. Nobody
thought of buying a stack, of chips
under $50, and play was high. I was
as high a roller as the best of them,
for just previous to my arrival in
Washington L had lost as ‘banker’ in
two nights- over $30,000.
“Well, Senator Rice and myself en
joyed Pringle’s fine spread. L intro
duced the senator, and as he had
never played a card, like old Matt
Carpenter, he knew all the ‘boys,’ and
w5s gracious and democratic ia. his
associations with them; he felt em
barrassed over eating such an elegant
meal and not having to pay for it.
Passing a faro •lay-out’ in the next
room, he threw down a $5 gold piece
on a card, expecting to lose it. To his
surprise and chagrin, however, he
won. This made the matter worse
than ever, as he did not want to win,
but to lose the $5 aa an indirect pay
ment for the meal he had eaten.
While he fl-as in a quandary I bougnt
a stack of chips and soon became ab
sorbed in the game. The senator was
trying to lose what he had won. but,
in spite of himself, his winnings in
creased. His bets were placed hap
hazard. he not knowing whether they
were placed right or not. and not car
ing, except that he wanted to lose, and
get out of the place. But lose he
couldn’t, and I soon dropped out, be
ing broke, to watch his play and mar
vel at his ever-increasing pile. He
soon had a crowd around him, which
added to his embarrassment, and he
appealed to me to help him get broke,
as he wanted to get out. and did not
want to take any of the bank's money
with him. Well, this was the fun
niest snap I have ever experienced in
my life of over "0 years. There sat
the senator and myself playing for all
we were worth to reduce his winnings,
and play any way we chose the piles
of chips increased. I, who had been so
tmlnoky, caught the fever of the sen
ator’s good luck, and I won in a
streak.
“The senator’s face was as white as
his shirt, and he was as scared a man
as ever I saw in my life. But the play
went on, and owing to the fact that
at that time there was no limit at
Pringle’s, the bets were so high, that
the modern 25-cent chip layer wonll
get the grip if I should mention the
size of betSw
“Finally, Mr. Pringle called me to
one side, and told me that his partners
objected to the game without a limit.
He was willing himself to play the
bank without it, but te was compelled
to defer to the wishes of his partners,
and would place the limit at $250 a
bet.
“He said It was all right to have me
play on, as he liked me and all that,
but I was the first man who ever forced
him to put a limit on the game. When
I returned to the table I quietly in
formed the senator and he looked dis
tressed, as he saw no chance, from his
point of view, in getting rid’ of his
winnings at a $250 limit. We played
until midnight, and the senator at last
yielded to fatigue, and ordered me to
cash in. When he counted the roll in
his room, our joint winnings were just
$31,300, of which sum he staked me,
as my share to $10,000. Said he, when
he gave me the money:
“ ‘Martin, I never played a card in
my life before this afternoon, and I
will never play another one as long
as I live. This money I will do some
thing with which shall not immediate
ly benefit myself or my family.’
“I visited St. Paul 20 years after thi3
occurrence and met the senator. True
to his word, he had never touched a
card, and I learned from others who
got wind of the play In Washington
that the senator’s winnings were ex
pended in helping struggling young
fellows to get a start in life, accom
panied in every case by the condition
that they should never play in a gam
ing house.
"I venture to say tnat tnis is the
most remarkable case on record of a
man’s unexpected and undesired large
winnings turning him against gamb
ling and card playing and scaring him
almost to death. I was then so reck
less with money that it made no sort
of difference to me whether I won or
lost $20,000, so you can imagine how I
regarded the senator’s squeamishness.
But you see he was right after all.
and he took the proper view of the
matter, for money which comes easy
in a winning at faro, goes easy the
same way; in a week I had lost the
$10,000 an thought no more of it than
I do now of losing a $10 bill."
The average man is apt to believo
what the world doesn't say about him.
MADE THE USUAL KICK.
Til'■ Time the Aahed for Redaction W»»
Not Granted.
"They are telling a story at the ex
pense of a commission merchant of
a sister city who is well known in New
Orleans.” said a Poydras street busi
ness man the other day. "I won't
vouch for the accuracy of the yarn, but
anyhow it is worth repeating. The
commission man in point is an extreme
ly close buyer, and when he receives
a consignment he never fails to make
claim for anything that may have
spoiled or deteriorated en route. This
little habit of demanding rebates Is
well known to the trade, and has led
to many a vociferous kick from ship
pers, but the merchant always man
ages to come out on top. During Christ
mas week as the story goes, he re
ceived several barrels of fat dressed
turkeys from a poultry man in the
northwest. Heretofore he has dealt
exclusively in live fowls, and I suppose
the correspondence clerk must have
got things mixed. At any rate the
shipper was astonished to receive a
letter by return mail running about
as follows: ‘Dear Sir—We regret to
advise you that four of the turkeys in.
your consignment of December —
reached here dead. Please make de
duction for same and return correct
amount.’ The poultry man communed
with himself and replied thusly: ‘Dear
Sir—I am sorry to say I And it im
possible to make concession requested.
I have established a rule requiring all
customers who desire live dressed tur
keys to notify us in advance, so we can
send them in heated cars. Turkeys
without their feathers and insides are
liable to catch cold if shipped in the
ordinary manner. The mortality
among dressed turkeys was very large
this year. Yours mournfully.’ That
ended the correspondence.”—New Or
leans Times-Democrat.
LESSONS IN ENGLISH.
Things a- Frenchman Learned Studying
the Language.
A Frenchman thirsting for lin
guistic superiority, recently began a
course of English lessons with a
teacher of languages, After toiling
conscientiously through a good many
exercises, the following dialogue be
tween the pupil and his master was
overheard: “I find the English very
difficult,” complained the Frenchman.
“How do you pronounce t-o-u-g-h?”
“It is pronounced ‘tuff.’ ” “Eh. bein,
‘tuff;’ ‘snuff,’ then, 13 spelt s-n-o-u-g-h.
is it not?” “Oh, no; ‘snuff’ is spelt
s-n-u-f-f. As a matter of fact, words
ending in o-u-g-h are somewhat irregu
lar.” “Oh, I see; a superb language!
T-o-u-g-h is ‘tuff,’ and c-o-u-g-h is
‘cuff.’ I have a very bad cuff.” “No,
it is ‘coff,’ not ‘cuff.’ ” “Very well,
coff, tuff, and coff. And d-o-u-g-h is
‘duff,’eh?” “No. not ‘duff.’ ” “‘Doff.’
then?” “No, ‘doh.’” “Well, then,
what is h-o-u-g-h?” “That is pro
nounced hock.” “ ‘Hohck?’ Then T sup
pose the thing the farmer uses, the
p-l-o-u-g-h, is ‘pluff,’ or it is ‘plohek,’
or ‘plo.’ Fine language—‘plo.’ ’’ “No,
no; it is pronounced ‘plow.’ ” “I shall
soon master English, I am sure. Here
we go. ‘plow,’ ‘coff,’ ‘toff,’ ‘hohck,’ and
now, here’s another—r-o-u-g-h; now
that is ‘row,’ I suppose?” “Oh, no, my
friend; that’s ‘ruff,’ again.” “And
b-o-u-g-h is ‘buff?’ ” “No, that hap
pens to be ‘bow.’ ” “Yes, wonderful
language. And I have just e-n-o-u-g-h
of it. that’s ‘enou,’ is it not,” “No,
‘enuff.’ ”—Sheffield Weekly News.
FACTS ABOUT THE DEAD SEA.
Theory That Nothing Can Sink In It Is
Wrong.
Some Long current illusions concern
ing the Dead sea are dispelled by Hen
ry Dexter, who went to see its reputed
wonders with his own eyes, says Col
lier’s Weekly. In his opinion the bed
of the sea is of volcanic formation. “I
took a plunge in the water to test its
qualities. The water is, I should say.
a bituminous salt brime. I was care
ful not to get the water in my eyes or
on my hair. I had been told that noth
ing could sink in the Dead sea. but
found that was untrue, for the reason
that If I did not make an effort to
keep on top I would go down. The
water is of a character that if any one
had a cutaneous disease it would make
the flesh smart fiercely. It was excep
tionally refreshing, however, on ac
count of the heat. The water was won
derfully clear, and you could see down
a depth of twenty feet. The water
was perhaps a little more buowint than
ordinary salt water, but it would not
hold me up. It was not sticky, but
washed off as freely as any salt water.
One thing I noticed, and of which I
have never been able to get an ex
planation, was a small lslar.1 about
500 feet from the shore. This had on
it large square blocks of stone. I have
never been able to ascertain where
these blocks came from. The theory
that birds cannot fly over the water is
untrue, as I saw lots of birds flying
over it.”—Chicago News.
This Is the Age of Cement.
Gen. J. S. Clarkson, formerly of
Iowa, but now president of the New
York and New Jersey Bridge com
pany, and also of the Monolith Im
provement company, who was at the
Auditorium in Chicago, recently said:
“The st<?ne age is passing, and the age
of cement Is upon us. American cities
are in the rough, and they must in the
next few years be completed so that
they will be safe and sanitary. The
work of development will be done in
great part with Portland cement. That
will be the material for bridge piers,
for foundations of buildings, for con
duits, and for the tunnels in which
underground transportation will in
time be placed.”
Cheerful News for Bill.
Sheriff (of Frozen Dog)—The re
ward says: “Dead or alive,” Bill; but
I much prefer ter take yer back alive.
Bronco Bill—All right, sheriff; I’m "
yours. Sheriff—Thanks, Bill. The
boys is all ready an’ waitin’ fer ter
lynch yer, an’ I should certainly feel
cheap an’ mean if I took yer back
dead.—Judge.
How Widows Mourn iu Sltfcs.
Indian widows in Sitka go into
mourning by painting the upper part
of their faces black down to their
mouths.
