SERGEANT FOYLE
Bar GILBERT PARKER
Author of '“The Seats of the Mighty"The Right of Way.”
** The Ladder of Steords," Etc..
(Copyright, by Joseph B. Bowles.)
hay, amt lie pretty?”
A Jim-dandy—oh, my!"
"What’s his price in open market?”
Thirty millions—I think not.”
Then was heard the voice of Billy
Goat—his name was William Goatry:
in the cold world, out in the street;
Nothing to wear, and nothing to eat.
l atherless, motherless, sadly I roam.
I’hild of misfortune. I’m driven from
home.”
A loud laugh followed, for Billy
Goat was a popular person at Ko
watin in the Saskatchewan country.
He had an inimitable drollery, height
ened by a cast in his eye, a very
large mouth, and a round, good
humored face; also he had a hand
and arm like iron, and was alto
gether a great man on a ’ spree."
There had been a two days’ spree
at Kowatin, for no other reason than
that there had been great excitement
over the capture and subsequent es
cape of a prairie rover who had
robbed the contractor's money-chest
■at the rail-head on the Canadian Pa
cific railroad. He had been caught
10 miles from Kowatin by the tall,
brown-eyed man with the hard-bitten
face who leaned against the open
window of the tavern, looking in
differently at the jeering crowd be^
fore him. He was not unpopular with
i hem, but he had been a failure for
once, and, as Billy Goat had said, “It
lickled us to death to see a rider of
ihe plains off his trolley—on the cold,
cold ground, same as you and me.”
This man, leaning idiv against the
wall, staring into the sunlight, and
smoking a Mexican cheroot, had been,
as Billy Goat said, “so dang success
ful" that they had a peculiar joy in
his coming a cropper, as they had
done in tlieir time too often. They
lid not under-value him. If he had
!>een less a man than he was, they
would not have taken the trouble to
cover him with their drunken ribaldry.
He had scored off them in the past
in just such sprees as this, when he
had the power to *do so,'and used the
power good-naturedly and quietly—
but used it.
i hen, he was sergeant royie. ot
the Royal Northwest Mounted Police,
■ in duty in a district as large as the
United Kingdom. And he had no
greater admirer than Billy Goat, who
now reviled him. Not without cause,
in a way, for he had reviled himself
to this extent, that when the prairie
over. Hal'oeck, escaped on the 'way
to Prince Albert, after six months’
hunt for him and a final capture in
i he Kowatin district, Foyle resigned
the force before the commissioner
< ould reproach him or call him to ac
count.
Then he had made his way to the
Happy Land hotel at Kowatin, to be
gin life as “a free and independent
gent on the loose,” as Billy Gcat had
said. To resign had seemed extreme;
because, though the commissioner
was vexed at Halbeck's escape, Foyle
was the best noncommissioned officer
in the Force. He had frightened horse
'hieves and bogus land agents and
speculators out of the country; had
fearlessly tracked down a criminal or
a band of criminals when tbe odds
were heavy against him. He carried
on his face the scars of two bullets,
and there was one white lock in his
brown hair, where an arrow had torn
the scalp away a3. alone, he drove
into the post a score of Indians, fresh
'from raiding the cattle of an immi
grant trailing to the farther north.
Nettlewood Foyle watched the dust
rising from the wheels of the stage,
which had passed the elevator and
was nearing the Prairie Home hotel
far down the street. He would soon
leave behind him this noisy ribaldry
of which he w’as the center. He tossed
his cheroot away. Suddenly he heard
a low voice behind him.
‘ Why don't you hit out, sergeant?”
it said.
A girl's face from the shade of the
sitting room was looking out at him
half-smiling, but with heightened
color and a suppressed agitation. The
girl was not more than 25, graceful,
supple and strong. Her chin was
dimpled; across her right temple was
a slight scar. She had eyes of a won
derful deep blue; they seemed to
swim with light. As Foyle gazed at
her for a moment dumfounded, with
a quizzical suggestion and smiling
.'till a little more she said:
"You used to be a little quicker,
Nett.” The voice appeared to attempt
unconcern; but it quivered from a
force of feeling underneath. It was
so long since she had seen him.
He was about to reply, but at the
instant a reveler pushed him with a
foot behind the knees so that they
bent quickly forward. The crowd
laughed—all save Billy Goat, who
knew his man.
Like lightning, and with cold fury
in bis eyes, Foyle caught the tall cat
tleman by the forearm and, with a
swift, dexterous twist, had the fellow
in his power.
"Down—down, to your knees, you
skunk,” he said, in a low, fierce voice.
The knees of the big man bent—
Foyle had not taken lessons of Ogomi.
the Jap, for nothing—they bent, and
the cattleman squealed, so intense
was the pain. It was break or bend;
and he bent—to the ground, and lay
there. Foyle stood over him for a
moment, a hard light in his eyes, and
then suddenly, as if bethinking him
self, he looked at the other roisterers,
avd said:
“There’s a limit, and he reached It.
“Hell, but you’re a twister!” the
cattleman said with a grimace of pain.
Billy Goat was a gentleman, after
his kind, and he liked Sergeant Foyle,
with a great liking. He turned to the
crowd and spoke.
“Say, boys, this mine’s worked out.
Let’s leave the Happy Land & Foyle.
: - • • ’ ’
Hoys, what !s he—what—is he?
What—is—Sergeant Foyle—boys ?”
Then, suddenly, the look in Foyle’s
face changed, the eyes swam as
they had clone a minute before
at the sight of the girl in the
room behind. Whatever his trouble
was, that face had obscured it
in a fla3h, and the pools of feel
ing far down in the depths of a
lonely nature had been stirred.
Recognition, memory, tenderness, de
sire swam in his face, made generous
and kind the hard lines of (he strong
mouth. In an instant he had swung I
himself over the window sill. The |
girl had drawn away now into a j
more shaded corner of the room, and ]
she regarded, him with a mingled i
anxiety and eagerness. Was she I
afraid of something? Did she fear j
that—she knew not quite what, but it i
had to do with a long ago.
He reached out and took her hand 1
with a strange shyness, and a seif-con-1
sciousness which was alien to his na- 1
ture. The touch of her hand thrilled '
him. Their eyes met. She dropped
hers. Then he gathered himself to
gether. “Glad to see you? Of course,
of course. I'm glad. You stunned me,
Jo. Why, do you know where you
are? You’re a thousand miles from
home. I can’t get it through my
head, r.ot really. What brings you
here? It's ten years—ten years since )
I saw you, and you were only 15—but
a 15 that was as good as 20.”
He scanned her face closely. \
“What's that scar on your forehead, I
Jo? You hadn’t that—then.”
“I ran up against something,” she |
said evasively, her eyes glittering, I
“and it left that scar. Does it look so '
bad?”
' Xo. you’d never notice it, if you
weren’t looking close as 1 am. You
see. 1 knew your face so well ten
years ago.”
“You were always quizzing,”, she !
said with an attempt at a laugh; “al-j
own child—It’s eight years old now,
isn’t it?”
“Bobby is eight and a half,” she
answered.
"And his schooling, and his cloth
ing, and everything; and you have to
pay for it all?”
“Oh, I don't mind, Xett; it isn't
that. Bobby is Cynthy’s child; and I
love him—I love him; but I want him
to have his rights. Dorl must give
up his held on that money—or—”
He nodded gravely. “Or you'll set
the law on him?”
“It s one thing or the other. Better
to do it now when Bobby is young
and can't understand.”
“Or read the newspapers,” he com
mented thoughtfully.
“I don't think I’ve a hard heart,”
she continued, “but I'd like to punish
him—if it wasn't that he's your
brother, Xett; and if it wasn’t for
Bobby. Dorland was dreadfully cruel,
even to Cynthy.”
“How' did you know he was up
here?” he asked.
"From the lawyer that pays over
the money. Dorland has had it sent
out here to Kowatin this two years.
And he sent word to the lawyer a
month ago that he wanted it to get
here as usual. The letter left the
same day as I did, and it got here
yesterday with me, I suppose. He’ll j
be after it—perhaps to-day. He
wouldn't let it wait long, Dorl
wouldn’t.”
Foyle started. “To-day—to-day—'*
There was a gleam in his eyes, a j
setting of the lips, a .line sinking into I
the forehead between the eyes.
‘ I've been watching for him all day,
and I'll watch till he comes. I'm go
ing to say some things to him that he
won't forget. Fm going to get Bobby's
money, or have the law do it—unless
you think I'm a brute, Xett.” She
locked at him wistfully.
“That's all right. Don't worry about
me, Jo. He's my brother, but I know
him—1 know him through and
through, lie’s done everything that a
man can do and not be hanged. A
thief, a drunkard, and a brute—and
lie killed a man out here—I know it,”
he added hoarsely. “I found it out I
myself—myself. It was murder.”
Suddenly, as he looked at her, an 1
idea seemed to flash into his mind.
He came very near and looked at her
closely. Then he reached over and al- !
most touched the scar on her fore- j
head.
“Did he do that, Jo?”
For an instant she was silent and ]
looked down at the floor. Presently
she raised her eyes, her face suffused, j
Once or twice she tried to speak, but |
thief—I read it all in the papers—the
thief that you caught, and that got
away. And you’ve left the police be
cause of it. and—ob, Nett!" Her
eyes were full of tears, her face
drawn and gray.
He nodded. "I didn't know who he
was till I arrested him,” he said.
“Then, afterward, 1 thought of his
child, and let him get away—and for
my poor old mother’s sake—she was
fond of him in spite of all. She never
knew how bad he was even as a boy.
But I remember how he used to steal
the brandy from her bedside, when
she had the fever, and drink it. She
never knew the worst of him. But I
let him away in the night, Jo, and I
resigned, and they Jhought that Hal
beck had beaten me, had escaped. Of
course 1 couldn't stay in the force,
having done that. I couldn’t. But,
by the heaven above us, if I had him
here now, I’d do the thing—I'd do it
—do it, so help me God!”
“Why should you ruin your life for
him?” she said with an outburst of
indigns.tion. All that was in her heart
welled up in her eyes at the thought
of what Foyle was. “You must not
do it. He must pay for his wicked
ness, not you. It would be a sin. You
and what becomes of you meau so
much.” Suddenly with a flash of pur
pose she added, “He will come for
that letter, Nett. He would run any
kind of risk to get a dollar. He will
come here for that letter—perhaps to
day.”
lie shook his head moodily, op
pressed by the trouble that was on
him. “He's not likely to venture here,
after what’s happened.”
“Yon don't know him as well as I
do, Nett. He is so vain he'd do it,
just to show that he could. He'd prob
ably come in the evening. Does any
one know him here? So many peo
ple pass through Kowatin every day.
Has anyone seen him?”
“Only Billy Goatry,” he answered,
working his way to a solution of the
dark problem. “Only Billy Goatry
knows him. The fellow that led the
singing—that was Goatry.”
“There he is now," he added, as
Billy Goat passed the window.
She came and laid a hand on his
arm. "We've got to settle things with
him," she said. "If he comes, Nett—”
There was a silence for a moment,
then he caught her hand in his and
held it. “If he coines, leave him to
me, Jo. You will leave him to me?”
he added anxiously.
"Yes,” she said. “You'll do what’s
right—by Bobby.”
“And by Dorl, too," he replied
strangely.
“Sit down,” was the sharp rejoinder, and a pistol was in his face.
ways trying to find out things. That's
why you made them reckon with you
out there. You always could see be
hind things; always would have your
own way; always were meant to be a
success."
She was beginning to get control of
herself again, was trying hard to keep
things on the surface, for she did not
know—“You were meant to succeed
—you had to," she added.
“I’ve been a failure—a dead fail
ure,” he answered slowly. "So they
say. So they said—you heard them,
Jo.”
He jerked his head toward the
open window.
“Oh, these drunken fools!" she said
indignantly, and her face hardened.
“How I hate drink! It spoils every
thing."
There was silence for a moment.
They were both thinking cf the same
thing—of the same man. He repeated
a question.
“What brings you out here, Jo?"
he asked gently.
“Dorland,” she answered, her face
setting Into determination and anx
iety. u_
His face "became pinched. “Dorl!"
he said heavily. “Wliat for, Jo? What
do you want with Dorl?”
“When Cynthy died she left her
$500 a year to the baby, and—”
“Yes, yes, I know. Well, Jo?”
“Well, it; was ail right for five
years—Dorland paid it in, but for five
years he hasn’t paid anything. He’s
taken it, stolen it from his own child
by his own honest wife. I’ve come
to get it—anyway, to stop him from
doing it any more. His own child—
it puts murder in my heart. Nett. I
could kill him.”
He nodded grimly. “That’s likely.
And you’ve kept Doris child with
your own money all these years?”
“I’ve got; $400 a year. Nett, you
know; and I've been dressmaking—
they say ]"ve got taste," she added
with a whimsical smile. *
Nett nodded his head. “Five years.
That’s $l/>00 he’s stolen from his
failed. At last she gained courage
'and said:
“After Cynthy’s death I kept house
for him a year, you know, taking care
of little Bobby—1 loved him so—he
has Cynthy’s eyes. One day Dorland
—oh, Xett, of course I oughtn’t to
have stayed there—I know it now;
but I was only lb, and what did I un
derstand! And my mother wgs dead.
One day—oh, piease. Nett, you can
guess. He said something to me. I
made him leave the bonne. Before I
could make plans what to do, he
came back mad with drink. I went
for Bobby, to get out of the house,
but he caught hold of me. I struck
him in the face, and he threw me
against the edge of the open door—it
made the scar.”
Foyle’s face was white. "Why did
you never write and tell me that, Jo?
You know that 1—’’ He stopp4d sud
denly.
“You had gone out of our lives
down there. I didn’t know where you
were for a long time; and then—then
it was all right about Bobby, and me,
except that Bobby didn’t get the
money that was his. But noW—”
Foyle’s voice was hoarse and low.
“He made that scar, and he tried—
and you only 16— Oh. my God!”
Suddenly his face reddened, and he
choked with shame and anger. “And
he’s my brother!” was all that he
could say.
"Do you see him up here ever?” she
asked pityingly.
“1 never saw' him till a week ago.”
A moment, then he added, "The let
ter wasn’t to be sent here in his own
name, was it?”
She nodded. “Yes, in his own name,
Dorland W. Foyle, Didn't he go by
that name when you saw him?”
There was an oppressive silence, in
which she saw that something moved
him strangely, and then he answered;
“No. he was going by the name of
Halbeck—Hiram Halbeck.”
The girl gasped. Then the whole
thing burst upon her. “Hiram Hal
beck! Nett—Hiram Halbeck, the
There were loud footsteps without.
“ft’s Goatry,” said Foyle. “You stay
here. I'll tell him everything. He’s
all right—he’s a true friend. He’ll
not interfere.”
The handle of the door turned
slowly. “You keep watch on the post
office, Jo,” he added.
Goatry came round the opening
door with a grin.
“Hope I don’t intrude,” he said,
stealing a half-leering look at the girl.
As soon as he saw her face, however,
he straightened himself up; he took
on different manners. He had not
been intoxicated as he had made out,
and he seemed only “mellow” as he
stood before them, with his corru
gated face and queer, quaint look,
the eye with the cast in it blinking
faster than the other.
“It's all right, Goatry,” said Foyle.
“This: lady is one of my family from
the east.”
“Goin* on the stage?” Goatry said
vaguely, as they shook hands.
She did not reply, for she was look
ing down the street, and presently
she started.- as she gazed. She laid
a hand suddenly on Foyle’s arm.
■See—he’s come,” she said in a
whis]>er, and as though not realizing
Goatiy's presence. “He’s come.”
Goatry looked as well as Foyle.
“Hal!>eck—the devil!” he said.
Foyle turned to him. “Stand by
Goati-y. I want you to keep a shat
mouth. I’ve work to do.”
Goatry held out his hand. “I’m
with you. If you get him this time,
clam;? him, clamp him like a tooth in
a harrow.”
Halbeck had stopped his horse at
the post office door. He dismounted,
looked quickly round, then drew the
reins over the horse’s head, letting
them trail, as Is the custom of the
west
A few swift words passed between
Goatry and Foyle.
“lid do this myself. Jo” he whis
pered to the girt presently. "Go into
another room. I’ll bring him here.”
In another minute Goatry was lead
. Jr ’ _ ...
ing the horse away from the post of
fice while Foyle stood waiting quietly
at the door. The departing footsteps
of the horse brought Halbeck swiftly
to the door, with a letter in his hand.
“Hi, there, you damned sucker!”
he called, and then saw Foyle waiting.
“What the hell—” he said fiercely,
his hand on something in his hip
pocket.
"Keep quiet, Dorl. I want to have
a little talk with you. Take your hand
away from that gun—take it away,”
he added with a meaning not to be
misunderstood.
Halbeck knew that one shout
would have the town on him, and he
did not know what card his brother
was going to play. He let his arm
drop to his side. "What's your game?
What do you want? ” he asked
surlily.
“Come over to the Happy Land,”
The lifeless figure in the chair.
Foyle answered, and in the light of
what was in his mind his words had a
grim irony.
With a snarl Halbeck stepped out.
Goatry, who had handed the horse
over to the hostler, watched them
coming.
“Why did I never notice the like
ness before?" he said. "But, gosh!
what a difference in the men. Foyle's
going to double cinch hint this time,
I guess."
He followed them inside the hall of
the Happy Land. When they stepped
into the sitting room, he stood at the
door waiting. The hotel was entirely
empty, the roisterers at the Prairie
Home having drawn oS the idlers and
spectators. The barman was nodding
behind the bar; the proprietor was
moving about in the back yard in
specting a horse. There was a cheer
ful warmth everywhere, the air was
like an elixir, the pungent smell of a
pine tree at the door gave a kind of
medicament to the indrawn breath.
And to Billy Goat, who sometimes
sang in the choir of a church not a
hundred miles away—for people
agreed to forget his occasional sprees
—there came, he knew not why, the
words of a hymn he had sung only
the preceding Sunday:
“As pants the hart for cooling: streams.
When heated in the chase—'**
The words kept ringing in his ears
as he listened to the conversation in
side the room—the partition was thin,
the door thinner, and he heard much.
Foyle had asked him not to intervene,
but only to stand by and await the
issue of this final conference. He
meant, however, to take a hand in, if
he thought he was needed, and he
kept his ear glued to the door. If he
thought Foyle needed him—his fin
gers were on the handle of the door.
“Now, hurry up! What do you want
with me?” asked Halbeck of his
brother.
“Take your.time,” said ex-Sergeant
Foyle, as he drew the blind three
quarters down, so that they could not
be seen from the street.
“I’m in a hurry, I tell you. I’ve got
my plans. I'm going south. I've only
just time to catch the Canadian Pa
cific three days from now, riding
hard.”
“You're not going south, Dorl.”
“Where am I going, then?" was the
sneering reply.
“Not farther than the Happy Land.”
“What the devil's all this? You
don’t mean you’re trying to arrest me
again—after letting me go?”
“You don’t need to ask. You’re my
prisoner. You’re my prisoner,” he
said in a louder voice—“until you
free yourself! ”
“I’ll do that damn quick, then,”
said the other, his hand flying to his
hip.
“Sit down,” was the sharp rejoinder,
and a pistol was in his face before he
could draw his own weapon.
“Put your gun on the table,” Foyle
said quietly. Halbeck did so. There
was no other way.
Foyle drew it over to himself. His
brother made a motion to rise.
"Sit still, Dorl!” came the warning
voice.
White with rage, the freebooter sat
still, his dissipated face and heavy
angry lips looking like a debauched
and villainous caricature of his
brother before him.
“Yes, I suppose you’d have potted
me, DorC’ said the ex-sergeant. “You’d
have thought no more of doing that
than you did of killing Linley, the
ranchman; than you did of trying to
ruin Jo Byndon, your wife’s sister,
when she was G6 years old, when she
was caring for your child—giving her
life for the child you brought into the
world.”
“What in the name of hell—It’s a
lie!”
“Don't bluster. I know the truth.”
“Who told you—the truth?”
“She did—to-day—an hour ago.”
“She here—out here?” There was
a new cowed note in the voice.
“She is in the next room.”
“What did she come here for?*’
“To make you do right by your
own child. I wonder what a Jury of
decent men would think about a man
who robbed his child for five years,
and let that child be fed and clothed
and cared lor by the girl he tried to
■ *'■ ’ "i. v* \ . . . JfX
. . ->-v V •,*. *£•
destroy, the girl he taught what sin
there was in the world.”
“She put you up to this—she was
always in love with you, and you
know it.”
There was a dangerous look in
Foyle’s eyes, and his jaw set hard.
“There would be no shame in a de
cent woman caring for me, even if it
was true. 1 haven’t put myself out
side the boundary as you have. You’re 1
my brother, but you’re the worst
scoundrel in the country—the worst
unhanged. Put on the table there the
letter in your pocket. It holds $500
belonging to your child. There’s
$2,500 more to be accounted for.”
'the other hesitated, then with an j
oath threw the letter on the table. ]
“I’ll pay the rest as soon as I can, if !
you’ll stop this damned tomfoolery.” !
he said sullenly, for he saw that he
was in a hole.
“You’ll pay it. I suppose, out of
what you stole from the C. P_ R. con
tractor’s chest. No, I don’t think that
will do.”
"You want me to go to prison,
then?”
”1 think not. The truth would come
out at the trial—the whole truth—the
murder, and all. There’s your child
Bobby. You've done him enough
wrong already. Do you want him—
but it doesn't matter whether you do
or not—do you want him to carry
through life the fact that his father
was a jailbird and a murderer, just as
Jo Byndon carries the scar you made
when you threw her against the
door?”
“What do you want with me, then?”
The man sank slowly and heavily
back into the chair.
"There is a way—have you never
thought of it? When you threatened
others as you did me, and life seemed
such a little thing in others—can’t
you think?”
Bewildered, the man looked around
helplessly. In the silence which fol
lowed Foyle’s words his brain was
struggling to see a way out. Foyle's
further words seemed to come from
a great distance.
“It’s not too late to do the decent
thing. You’ll never repent of all you’ve
done—you’ll never do different—you
never would.”
The old reckless, irresponsible
spirit revived in the man; he had
both courage and bravado, he was not
hopeless yet of finding an escape
from the net. He would not beg, he
would struggle.
“I ve lived as T meant to. and I’m j
not going to snivel or repent now. It’s
all a rotten business, anyhow,” he re
joined.
With a sudden resolution the ex- i
sergeant put his owu pistol in hi3 J
pocket, then pushed Halbeck's pistol
over toward him on the table. Hal
beck's eyes lighted eagerly, grew red
with excitement, then a change passed
over them. They now settled on the j
pistol and stayed.
He heard Foyle’s voice. "It's with !
you to do what you ought to do. Of !
course you can kill me. My pistol's
in my pocket. But I don’t think you j
will. You've murdered one man. You
■won't load your soul up with another.
Besides, if you kill me, you will never
get away from Kowatin alive. But
it's with you—take your choice. It’s
me or you.”
Halbeck's fingers crept out and
found the pistol.
"Do your duty, Dorl.” said the ex
sergeant as he turned his back on his
brother.
The door of the room opened, and
Goatry stepped inside softly. He had
work to do, if need be, and his face
showed it. Haibeck did not see him.
There wras a demon in Halbeck’s
eyes, as his brother stood, his back
turned, taking his chances. A large
mirror hung on the wall opposite Hal
"Come away, come away, Jo"
beck. Goatry was watching Halbeck’s
face in the glass, and saw the danger.
He measured his distance.
All at once Halbeck caught Goatry's
eyes in the mirror. The dark devilry
faded out of his eyes. His lips moved
in a whispered oath. Every way was
blocked.
With a sudden wild resolution he
raised the pistol to his head. It
cracked, and he fell back heavily in
the chair. There was a red trickle at
the temple.
“He had the pluck,” said Goatry, as
Foyle swung around with a face of
misery.
A moment afterward came a rush
of people. Goatry kept them back.
“Sergeant Foyle arrested Halbeck,
the robber, and Halbeck’s shot him
self,” Goatry explained to them.
A white-faced girl with a scar on
her temple made her way into the
room.
"Come away—come away, Jo,” said
the voice of the man she loved; and
he did not let her see the lifeless fig
ure in the chair.
Three days later the plains swal
lowed them, as they made their way
with Billy Goatry to the headquarters
of the Riders of the Plains, where
Sergeant Foyle was requested to re
consider his resignation. Which he
did. And henceforth he did not -travel
the trail of life alone.
TAKING OUT STAINS
PAINT MARKS SHOULD NOT BE
ALLOWED TO DRY.
Can Easily Be Removed When Fresh
ly Made—Turpentine, Soap and
Water Ail That Is Necessary
for Operation.
The ease or difficulty with which
paint stains are removed depends ou
the length of time they have been in
the fabric. If removed when the paint
is wet, their removal is more easily
accomplished than when left until dry.
To remove wet paint from white ma
terial, wash the stain with soap and
water and boil it with kerosene in the
water, as for kerosene washing, and
again rub between the hands, using
soap and very hot water. Kinse in
several waters to get rid of the smell
of the oil.
While fre3h it may be removed by
repeated applications of spirits of tur
pmitine, or spirits of wine rubbed on
with a rag.
Dry paint on white material can be
easily removed by soaking the stain in
turpentine to soften the medium which
hardens the fabric. It should then be
rubbed well in the turpentine and
washed in soap and water and finished
by ordinary washing.
Paint consists mainly of oils and
some colored earth. Spots of paint
then must t>e treated with something
that will take out the oil, leaving the
insoluble coloring matter to be brush
ed off.
Paint can be removed from .silk by
first saturating it in equal parts of
turpentine and ammonia, then wash
ing in soap suds and letting.it dry be
tween blotting paper under a heavy
weight.
To remove paint from colored ma
terial, dip the stain in turpentine and
rub, then place it in a little ammonia
and again rub, to saponify the oil of
the paint and wash in warm soapy
water, rinse thoroughly, dry, and iron
when it is slightly damp.
There is a risk, when washing paint
stains from colored material, of mak
ing the material shaded. If this is
likely to happen, it is advisable to
place the stain over a towel and to
rub it with a rag moistened with tur
pentine, then with ammonia, concen
trating the rubbing as much as possi
ble on the stain.
Water color paint stains can be re
moved by simply washing. To re
move paint from a light tan coat use
turpentine, then sponge with benzine.
To remove paint from a dress,
spread some dry starch around the
part stained, then wet the stain with
turpentine. Let it rest for awhile and
wet again, and then with the dull edge
of a knife scrape off the paint; then
sponge again with turpentine. Rub
dry with a clean cloth. The starch is
used to prevent the spreading of the
paint and turpentine. If the color has
been affected sponge writh chloroform.
A New Confection.
A dainty new confectiou was re
cently invented by a friend, says a
writer in the Delineator. He selected'
a firm, ripe banana, and cut it into
somewhat thin slices. In the mean
time, he melted some confectioner's
chocolate by steaming it, and into
this he dipped each slice of banana.
When thoroughly coated, the slices
were laid on oiled paper, and were
set in a cool place to harden. The
result was both a delicious and a nov
el confection. It is also suggested that
the idea, with some natural varia
tions, might be adopted as a popular
novelty in the garnishment of cer
tain kinds of salads, or in the decora
tion of desserts, the airtight covering
of chocolate preserving the fruit per
fectly.
Nut Roast.
Shell nuts and grind enough to
make two cups, or they may be
chopped fine. Take a five-cent loaf of
bread or its equivalent of home-made
bread, two days old, and break the
crumbs fine, discarding the crust. Mix
the crumbs and nuts together with a
level teaspoonful of salt, a saltspoon
ful of pepper and a half teaspoonful
of mixed herbs. Melt one-third cup of
butter, add one cup of milk and stir
into the mixture, then stir into a loaf
on a buttered pan that is not much
larger than the loaf. Bake one hour
and baste often with butter melted in
water. Make a rich tomato sauce
while it is baking. With a broad
knife lift the nut roast to a warm plat
ter or a serving dish and pour the
sauce around it.
Papier Mache Trays.
Papier mache trays should never be
allowed to remain wet from tea.
water or milk spilt on them. Wash
them with a sponge, not too wet, and!
cold water. While still damp sprinkle
a little flour over, then rub with a soft
flannel and polish with a chamois
leather.
White heat marks may be partially
removed from papier mache trays by
rubbing with a flannel dipped in sweel;
oil and afterwards lightly in spiritu
of wine.
Velvet Sherbet.
Scald one quart of milk in a double
boiler. Add two cups of sugar and
stir until dissolved and the milk looks
blue, then set away to cool. Pack this
freezer, pour into the can the cold
milk, and let stand five minutes. Then
add the strained juice of two lemons
or oranges and the whites of two eggs
(beaten), with two tablespoons of
powdered sugar. Freeze, repack, and
set away for two hours to ripen. Servo
with this a delicate white cake.
Sauce for Winter Salad.
One gallon vinegar, one-half pound
mustard, one-half ounce celery seed,
one-half ounce tumeric, one and one
half pounds brown sugar, one cup
flour. Mix celery seed, mustard,
tumeric, and flour in a little cold
vinegar and stir into the sugar an
gallon of vinegar when at the boilin
Iioint. Strain and pour over salad.
Currant Apple.
Scoop out with a teaspoon ahon
one-quarter of the inside of a large
Arm apple. Fill half full with cur
rants and on top place half a tea
spoonful of butter and All the remain
ing cavity with brown sugar. Roast
for half an hour and serve with a hot
sauce.
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