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The
Sable
HORACE
HA'ZELTINE
LOUCUA
COPY/P/GSiT' /3VZ, A C Pf CCA UPC &. CO.,
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SYNOPSIS.
Robert Cameron, capitalist, consults
Phillip Clyde, newspaper publisher, re
farding anonymous threatening letters he
as received. The first promises a sample
of the writer’s power on a certain day.
On that day the head Is mysteriously cut
from a portrait of Cameron while the lat
ter is in the room. Clyde has a theory
that the portrait was mutilated while the
room was unoccupied and the head later
removed by means of a string, unnoticed
by Cameron. Evelyn Grayson. Cameron s
niece, with whom Clyde Is In love. “n”s
the head of Cameron’s portrait nailed to
a tree, where it was had been used as a
target. Clyde pledges Evelyn to secrecy.
<^lyde learns that a Chinese boy employed
by Philetus Murphy, an artist living
nearby, had borrowed a rifle from C am
eron’s lodgekeper. Clyde makes an ex
cuse to call on Murphy and is repulsed.
Tie pretends to be investigating alleged
Infractions of the game laws and speaks
of finding the bowl of an opium pipe un
der the tree where Cameron’s portrait
was found. The Chinese boy is xjuna
dead next morning. While visiting Cam
eron in his dressing room a Nell Gwynne
mirror is mysteriously shattered. Cameron
becomes seriously ill as a result of tne
shock. The third letter appears myster
misly on Cameron’s sick bed. It manes
direct threats against the life of Cameron
*'Ivde tells Cameron the envelope wa.
empty. He tells Evelyn everything ana
plans to take Cameron on a yacht
The yacht picks up a fisherman founa
drifting helplessly In a boat. He Co
the name of Johnson. Cameron disap
pears from yacht while Clyde’s back is
turned.
CHAPTER IX.—Continued.
"There’a no other explanation." he
decided, conclusively.
“You mean he committed suicide?
"Call It what you like, sir.”
“But there was no reason for him
to do such a thing,” I objected.
“I understand he’s been pretty ill,
sir.”
“He was ill, yes. But he was on the
road to recovery.” And then, with the
realization that I was speaking of
Cameron in the past tense, as though
It were already settled that I should
never see him alive again, a shiver
of horror swept over me. I know Mac
L«eod observed it, for he said:
"There’s been a drop in the tem
perature, in the last half-hour. It’ll
be more comfortable in my cabin, sir,
if you don’t mind coming in, and talk
ing the thing over a bit.”
“Good Heavens, MacLeod," I ex
claimed, turning on him with nervous
savagery, “do you expect me to sit
down and talk calmly at such a mo
ment? 1 can’t.' It’s all I can do to
stand still here, for a minute at a
time. I feel I must do something. It’s
torture to have one’s hands tied this
way.”
“I think I know how you feel. sir.
Rut walking the deck will do no good,
and if you could calm yourself eiiough
to talk it over quietly, we might get
down to something that would guide
us, so to speak.”
“Guide us?” I repeated.
“Yes, sir. It’s not Impossible, you
know, sir, that when he went over
board he was picked up.”
The light from his cabin porthole
illuminated us both, and now as he
looked at me he must have seen my
perplexity.
“You said yourself, sir,” he ex
plained. “that you thought you heard
the exhaust of some sort o’ craft not
far away.”
It was this reminder, I think, which
Brought back my wool-gathering wits
and steadied me to a perception of the
real importance of the captain’s plea.
Of one thing, at least, I was assured:
Cameron was not a suicide. How he
:ould have gone over the tafTrail with
put my seeing or hearing him, I should
never be able to understand. But gone
he was, and it lay upon me to dis
cover by whose assistance this mar
velous disappearance was accom
plished. And so It came about that,
controlling my futile unrest, I wras
presently seated in MacLeod’s swivel
chair, while he, from a place on the
side of his berth, fired pointed ques
tions at me, which I either answered
as best I could or returned in kind.
“Now maybe it’s none of my busi
ness, Mr. Clyde, but in view of to
night's occurrence 1 think it’s perti
nent to know why there was such a
'.horough inspection of the Sibylla be
fore we sailed, and such a lot of cau
tion regarding the crew." That was
the first of his volley, and for a mo
ment it staggered me. I recognized,
however, that this was not a time for
quibbling, and as MacLeod had been
’or years a staunch soldier in Camer
on's army of employees, I saw no
harm in letting him know the truth.
I “I’ll tell you,” I returned, frankly,
‘but it’s not to go any further. In the
past nine weeks Mr. Cameron has
beep receiving a series of threatening
anonymous letters. The last one came
a week ago today; and In it this was
named as the dare for the climax.”
“Climax?” he repeated, questioning
tr
“Yes. Today, the letter stated, Mr.
Cameron would disappear.”
The calm, phlegmatic young captain
3id not start. He simply narrowed his
eyes in thought.
“That’s odd,” he said, gravely,
‘damned odd." And then, after a sec
ond's consideration, he asked: “Was
that—but of course it was—why ho
took this cruise?”
“No,” I told him. “That was not his
reason; though it was mine.”
1 did not mean to be enigmatic, but
i suppose I was, for MacLeod showed
plainly enough that he failed to un
derstand.
“You see,” I went c i, in elucidation,
“Mr. Cameron did not know about this
last threat. He was ill when the let
ter came, and we kept it from him ”
It was evident to me that the cap
tain disapproved, but he held his
peace.
“What were the previous threats?”
he asked, presently.
“Nothing definite,” I answered.
Simply that on certain fixed days the
writers would demonstrate their
pow er ”
’ vnd did. they?”
“Most marvelously.”
Again MacLeod was silent for a
space.
“Under the circumstances, Mr.
Clyde, don't you think it would have
been better if you’d told me about
this?"
"Mr. Cameron was very anxious
that no one should know.”
The captain compassed his right
knee with his locked hands.
"All the same,” he 6aid, "he'd never
have been spirited off this yacht If I’d
a’ known what was in the wind.”
This statement annoyed me, and I
resented it.
"What could you have done?" I
asked. "I was with him almost con
tinuously."
There came a strange, half-medita
tive, half-bold look in the man’s eyes,
and I was wondering whaf it portend
ed, when, quite ignoring my question,
he began speaking:
"Vou see there oughtn’t to be any
misunderstanding between you and
me, sir. This is too serious a busi
ness to be bungled because I am only
captain of this yacht and you are the
owner’s friend. So, if I speak plainly,
sir, you’ll understand why, and not
think me disrespectful”
I smiled to reassure him, still puz
zled, and added:
"Go straight ahead, captain. You
are perfectly right.”
“Well,” he began, "I’ll tell you, Mr.
Clyde. Your story, as you told It to
me, has some weak points in it. You
say, for instance, that you were with
Mr. Cameron almost continuously.
Now- I'm not mentioning the little
while you were in here, early in the
evening, but during the last quarter
of an hour before you gave the alarm,
you weren’t writh him, either.”
I stared at the speaker for an in
stant in absolute dumb amaze.
"1 don’t know why you say that,” I
said, at length, more hurt than an
gered. "I told you that from the mo
ment I last spoke to him, seated be
side him there on the after-deck, un
til I turned from the rail and found
him gone, not more than two min
utes elapsed. And that was God’s
truth.”
"You said you were listening for
what you thought sounded like a mo
tor boat, didn't you?"
"I did.”
“And you were leaning over the taff
rail, looking for it, weren't you?”
“I was.”
“But you didn’t see it?”
“No, I didn’t see it; and I couldn’t
hear it after the first few seconds.”
The captain had fixed a gaze on me
that seemed aimed to penetrate to my
soul's fiber. After my answer he was
silent a moment. Then he said:
“Where were you, Mr. Clyde, when
that boat—motor, tug, or whatever
she was—crossed within ten feet of
the dory we are towing?”
Had he struck me in the face I
could not have been more dumfound
ed.
"What do you mean?” were the only
words that came to me.
“I mean that the craft you have
been talking about came up and went
astern of us, ten or twelve minutes
before you gave the alarm that Mr.
Cameron had vanished under your
eyes. I was on the bridge and saw It
myself—just a black shape, without
lights, and her exhaust muffled, just
as you say. You tell me that you and
Mr. Cameron had been sitting there
for three hours, at least; that you
heard seven bells strike; that it was
not more than fifteen or twenty min
utes after this that you got up and
went to the rail, and that you only
stood there two minutes.”
“I told you all of that, and every
word Is the truth,” I insisted, vehe
mently.
“And yet,” he retorted accusingly,
“and yet—eight bells had struck be
fore you gave the alarm.”
I had not thought of the time. In
my panic it had not occurred to me,
of course to ascertain the hour and
minute. But Captain MacLeod knew.
At sea they work by clock. At eight
bells the watch had changed.
“My dear fellow,” I exclaimed ris
ing, "you certainly cannot for a mo
ment suspect me of complicity.”
He stood up, too; imperturbable.
"I just want those things explained,
that’s all,” was his reply.
“And I can’t explain them,” I told
him, candidly. “You say you saw the
boat. I didn’t. You say it was after
midnight when I came to you. It
may have been. I don’t know. It
may have been nearer twelve, when I
went to the rail. My impression is
that it was not. I’ll admit it is mys
terious. The whole awful thing is
mysterious.”
My candor seemed to relieve him.
“Well, Mr. Clyde,” he said, with
equal sincerity, “maybe I was out
spoken, but I wanted to know what
you’d say to the points that were
puzzling me.”
“You did perfectly right,” I told
him. "As you have said, there must
be no secrets between us.” And then,
as I resumed my seat, I asked: “What
about the fisherman? He hasn’t evad
ed his guard, has he?”
MacLeod sat down again too.
"He’s in where I put him, now,” he
answered with a shade of reluctance,
“but—I’m not sure; it’s almost as
mysterious as the other—but I could
have sworn I saw him come up that
for’ard hatchway and go sneaking afl
while I was on the bridge."
“When was that?” I pressed, eager
ly.
“About a quarter of twelve.”
“What did you do?"
"Nothing, Just then. I waited. And
while I was waiting I saw that black
spooky craft come out of the dark
and go skimming astern of us. 4
little after eight bells I came down
from the bridge—I stopped there for
just a minute to have a word with
Brandon when he' came up—and then
I went myself to look after Johnson
and the man I’d set to watch him. The
fisherman was in a bunk sound asleep,
and the man swore he had been lying
there snoring, for the past two hours.
’Who was it came up the ladder twen
ty minutes ago?’ I asked. He looked
at me as if he thought I was gone
suddenly loony. ‘Before the watch
changed?” he asked. I nodded. ‘Not
a soul came or went,’ he said, ‘since I
been here.’ ”
‘‘And the boat without lights?" I
questioned. ‘‘Did you inquire about
her? Who else saw her?”
“I asked the lookouts; but—well,
no. sir—and that’s very strange to me
—neither of them saw her. I gave
them both a rating. If they weren't
asleep I don’t see how they could
have missed her."
The thing was growing more and
more baffling. MacLeod was the last
man to be accused of imaginative fan
cies. He was thoroughly in earnest in
what he had told me; and yet for
neither of his statements had he the
smallest corroboration. For my own
part I was sure that, at the time he
mentioned, no vessel of any descrip
tion had passed anywhere near us.
“What did you make the craft out
to be?"
"Weil, sir, I couldn’t say exactly.
She was in sight only a minute, com
ing in range of our own lights. She
looked more like a tug than anything
else; but she had more speed than
any tug I ever saw. She hadn't the
lines of a yacht.”
"She wasn't a pilot boat?”
"Oh, no, sir. New York pilots don’t
cruise this far east, and the Boston
pilots wouldn't be so far away from
home either.”
I offered the captain a cigar, which
he declined, filling his pipe in prefer
ence. When I lighted a cigar myself,
I asked:
"I suppose you have some theory,
MacLeod. You don’t seriously think
it was suicide?”
As usual he w'as slow to answer.
After a thoughtful second, he said:
“I’d be sorry to think that, Mr.
Clyde. Taking into consideration what
you told me about the threat, and
connecting that boat with it, it
looks—” and then he paused, thought
ful again. “It’s not in possibility," he
went on, after a second, “that they
could have plucked him olT with a line.
But if that fellow I saw' going aft—Oh,
Lord, no, sir! It’s past me to see a
way out. All the same, we are keep
ing that craft in sight, and if we can
only get thirty knots out of the Sibylla
again, we’ll find out what she is and
what her business is, before morning.”
CHAPTER X.
A Woman of Intuition.
Ill tidings, always a heavy burden,
never weighed more heavily on any
one than on me that dismal, rainy
Sunday morning, on which I stepped
from the Sibylla’s launch to the stone
water steps of Cragholt. For two days
we had searched the bays and inlets
from Provincetown to Plymouth and
from Siasconset to Providence; ques
tioning at every pier and landing
stage; making inquiry in every town
and hamlet; but without a thimbleful
of profit for our pains. As that black
craft, with dimmed lights and muffled
engines, had eluded our pursuit on
the night of Cameron's disappearance,
so for forty-eight hours succeeding
she had baffled our quest. No one
knew her; no one had seen her.
As for that shaken, frayed, pallid
fisherman. Peter Johnson, he ap
peared below, rather than above, sus
picion. If my knowledge of men went
for anything he was too inferior both
mentally and physically to be a par
ticipant in any such plot as was here
involved. He seemed to me woefully
weak and wasted, and with as little
brains as sinew. So, with enough
money for a new mast and sail, we
had put him and his dory ashore at
our first landing, and had forthwith
forgotten him.
MacLeod had been inclined to con
tinue the search, but I argued that
any further efforts in that direction
would be only a waste of time. The
craft we were looking for might have
come from any one of a thousand
places and returned to any one of a
thousand more. Some more effective,
general and far-reaching steps must
be taken, I held, and taken quickly.
Indeed I felt now that to keep secret
longer the conspiracy, as indicated in
those mystic letters, would be little
short of criminal. The aid of the po
lice and the press must be invoked at
once, and nothing left undone to trace
the crime to its source.
But my first and most onerous task
was to acquaint Evelyn Grayson with
the facts as I knew them. How I
shrank from that duty is beyond any
thing I can put Into words. I know
it would have been far easier for me
to have carried her definite news of
her uncle’s death. What I had to
tell was horrible in its stark obscurity.
And yet, if I could have foreseen just
what was to follow, I might have
spared myself a goodly share of dis
tress.
I imagined I knew Evelyn Grayson,
before this. I thought I had sounded
the profundities of her fortitude and
courage on the night that I spread be
fore her and read with her that third
and last letter. But my fancy did her
an injustice. She was even more of
a woman than I dreamed.
Recently I chanced upon these lines
by Thomas Dunn English, which must
have been inspired by such a one as
she:
So much Is clear.
Though little dangers they may fear.
When greater perils men environ.
Then women show a front of Iron;
And, gentle In their manner, they
Do bold things In a quiet way.
Evelyn Grayson did a bold thing in
a quiet way that morning. I have not
yet forgotten how marble white she
was, and yet how bravely she came,
with springing step and lifted chin
and fearless eyes. I had waited her
coming in the music room, with its
score of reminders of happy evenings
in which he had participated. The
chair he usually chose, in the corner,
near the great bow window against
which the east wind was now driving
the rain in gusty splashes, took on a
pathos which moved me to weakness.
The Baudelaire lyric, spread open
paged upon the music rack of the pi
ano, stirred memories scarcely less
harrowing. A photograph, an ash
tray, a paper knife, all commonplace
objects of themselves, but so linked
to him by association, became, sud
denly, instruments of emotional tor
ture.
In this environment, under these
influences, I rose to meet her. word
less. Yet my expression and attitude
must have spoken loudly enough to
confirm the dread that was in her
heart, for even before she spoke I was
8ure that she knew. And then she
had taken my two outstretched hands
in hers and raised her brave eyes to
mine, and low-voiced, but sure and
tremorless, was saying:
"I feared it, Philip. From the very
first, I feared it.”
And when I told her all, to the
smallest detail, it was as though she
were the man and 1 the woman; for
the recital had been for me a very
painful confession of my own incom
petence, and its conclusion left me
more nervously unstrung than at any
time since the night of the strange
catastrophe. With what heroic forti
tude she heard the narrative may best
be indicated by the statement that
throughout it all she 6at calmly atten
tive, but unquestioning, and with no
sign of emotion beyond her continued
pallor and a recurrent tensing of her
small white hands. At the end I
leaned forward and with left elbow on
knee rested my forehead in my palm.
She sat beside me on the same settee;
and now she drew closer, and laying
her cool right hand over my own dis
engaged one, began stroking my hair
with her left. For a full minute she
said nothing. Then, in soothing ac
cents:
"I am glad you didn’t find the boat.
That means he is on it. If you had
found it, it would have been some or
dinary thing having no connection
with this affair, whatever.”
It was odd reasoning, but very fem
inine, and in an esoteric way, forceful.
“But you made one mistake, Philip,"
she went on. “You should not have
let that fisherman, Peter Johnson, go.”
At this I raised my hea<} and regard
ed her with something like astonish
ment.
"He was one of them,” she explained
in a tone of conviction.
"How can you say that?” I asked,
a little nettled. It annoyed me that
she should be so positive, knowing no
more of the man than that which I
had told her.
“I feel it,” she answered. And that
was all the reason she could give.
I had not expected to find such de
velopment of intuition regarding world
ly matters in one so young, and so
fresh from conventual seclusion. And
then her judgment seemed to keep
pace with her auguries; for when I
spoke of inviting the aid of detectives
and the newspapers, she begged me
to consider.
“I am afraid for him,” she pursued
gravely. “Publicity might mean death.
If they discover they are being sought,
they may murder him. Somehow, I
feel he is still alive; and so we must
do nothing that will incite them to
further violence.” ’
“But,” I returned, conscious of the
force of her argument, yet failing to
see how this caution could very well
be exercised, "we can't find him with
out seeking."
“No, but we can seek him in se
cret The newspapers must not tell
the w’orld.”
“The police would of course tell the
newspapers,” I added.
“We can do some things, without
the police,” was her next assertion.
“There are some things that I can do;
and there are more that you can do.”
She was thoughtful for a moment, and
t®n: "I am so sorry about Peter
Johnson! You should never have lost
sight of him.”
"We gave him money and God
speed,” I reminded her.
"Captain MacLeod must go back
there, where you left him. Where
was It? Siasconset? He must trace
him. His trail won't lead to Glouces
ter, I'm sure of that.”
My self-esteem was not being vigor
ously stimulated by the young lady
at this juncture. Indeed. I was being
made to feel more and more my stra
tegical inferiority.
“And I," she continued, with the
methodical expediency of a command
er-in-chief, so curiously inapposite in
one so young and inexperienced as
she: “and I shall find out about those
letters.”
"Find out what?” I asked in aston
ishment.
“Find out what manner of man
wrote them." she amplified.
“But how can you?” I inquired.
“That seems a pretty big undertaking
of itself, for one so small.”
“I have thought of a way,” she de
clared, noncommittally.
"And what am I to do?” was my
next question, feeling miserably small
beside this efficient child.
"You must give me the letter yon
have, and help me look for the oth
ers.”
The first part of the command was
easy enough of obedience; for the
letter was in my pocket at the mo
ment. But my assistance in searching
for the first two communications was
more energetic than successful. To
gether we ransacked desks, bureaus,
tables, closets, trunks, clothes In
deed, every possible hiding place both
at Cragbolt and on the Sibylla was
carefully and systematically delved
Into and exhausted without reward.
Either Cameron had destroyed the let
ters, or he had them on his person
when he vanished from the yacht.
At Evelyn’s request, however. 1
wrote copies of those two strangely
couched, malevolent epistles, as near
ly as I could remember them; and
save, perhaps, for possibly two or
three verbal errors they were, I think
quite accurate.
"And now,” I asked again, “what am
I to do?”
It was nearly midnight, and I was
leaving her, my car waiting in the
sopping driveway to carry me home.
"You are not to worry any more
than you possibly can help,” she told
me, with a brave little smile, "for we
are going to succeed. Aud tomorrow
you must go to your office, and keep
very, very silent about what has hap
pened. And then you are to come to
me again in the evening, and I will
tell you all I have learned.”
With which she gave me her hand
to kiss, in the odd little French way
she had—a way that could scarcely
have been a part of her convent teach
ing.
As I come to review these matters
now, it seems singular that I should
have so readily consented to be guid
ed by this girl’s will in a case of such
grave importance; yet I cannot but
believe there was something providen
tial both in her assumption of leader
ship and in my own unquestioning ac
quiescence. For the day of office
work and silence, which she enjoined
was exactly what I needed to restore
my nerves to their normal tension. It
was, in fact, a sort of counter-irritant,
which brought me up standing, with a
revised self-confidence and recuperat
ed energy.
So when, a little before five o’clock
that afternoon, just as I was making
ready to run for my train, I heard
Evelyn’s voice over the telephone, I
was fairly tingling with ardor for the
game; and her request to call on Pro
fessor Griffin, the expert in Oriental
literature, who occupied a chair in Co
lumbia college, and lived a mile or
more back from the Greenwich sta
tion, was a welcome call to action.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
m Jefferson as a Naturalist
Carried Bones of Common Sloth to
Philadelphia Supposing Them
Those of Mammoth.
It is said that when Thomas Jeffer
son journeyed from Monticello to
Philadelphia on his way to take the
oath of office as vice president he car
ried a lot of bones in his baggage.
The bones, alleged to be those of a
mammoth, had been found in Green
brier county, Virginia, and sent to
Monticello, where they were set up
by Jefferson, who, it appears, enter
tained a somewhat exaggerated no
tion of his attainments in natural his
tory, and who stood sponsor for the
bones as those of "a carnivorous
clawed animal entirely unknown to
science."
It was not until after Jefferson
reached Philadelphia that he was un
deceived, for at a glanoe the learned
Doctor Wistar saw that they were the
bones of tbe common sloth, several
specimens of which he showed the Vir
ginian. Jefferson, it is related, was
greatly chagrined, especially as his
discovery became known as Megalo
nyx jeffersonii.
It has been pointed out that, in
directly, no less a naturalist than the
great Buffon may have been responsi
ble for Jefferson’s error. It was the
Virginian’s practice to send Buffon
specimens and information, and with
the subtle flattery of a courtier the
French naturalist wrote:
"I should have consulted you, sir.
before publishing my natural history,
and then I should have been sure of
the facts.”
Love That Endures.
Remember, that there is sometimes
a fine love that never leaves a man’s
heart It stays and waits!—Man
chester Unioq|
OLD CITY IN DECAY
Bruges, in Belgium, Once Great
est Town in World.
Had 200,OCO Population Six Centuries
Ago—Was Next to Venice in Com
mercial Importance—Deserted
When Sea Cut Off Town.
Bruges, Belgium*— At the beginning
of the fourteenth century Bruges was
a city of 200,000 inhabitants. It was
not only the most important city in
Flanders, but next to Venice the
greatest trade center in the world.
Its harbor was filled with ships, and
its people were enormously wealthy.
Their homes were filled with every
luxury. Their churches and public
buildings were beautiful, and the in
sides were decorated with precious
gems, beautiful windows and exquisite
carvings.
Art flourished as the town grew
richer, and it produced such painters
as Van Eyck and Hans Memlinc.
Then came an awful blight upon
the city. The zivijn, or chanenl,
which connected Bruges with the sea
became clogged up with sand and
mud. At first it was only the larg
est ships that could not get past, but
gradually the sand became so high
that it formed a bank across the
zivijn and Bruges was cut off from
the sea. And with the loss of trade
the town became deserted and fell
into decay. The people that remain
ed behind became so poor that alms
houses had to be stationed through
out the city and it fell upon the
church to support them. Even to
•his day out of the 55,000 inhabitants
it still retains, 11,000 are paupers.
It is a very sad old town and seems
to be in a dreamy slumber from
which even the gayest sunshine can
not awaken it. Its brilliant glory has
faded, but a mellower beauty is left
that is still more poetic and alluring.
The belfry alone seems to have
! lived through the past, and it rises
; high in the market place like an old
I mother watching her sleeping chil
| dren. The belfry is the heart and
j soul of Bruges. In olden days a
watchman was stationed here always
to signal the approach of enemies or
the breaking out of fire.
In the square below the belfry
market Is held, and here everything
can be bought from a piano to a
collar-button. In the corner of the
market place is the famous chapel of
the Holy Blood. In the under part of
the chapel are a number of cold, damp
cells where the people go to pray.
In the upper chapel, which is very
gorgeously decoratetd, the relic of the
I-1
I
Ancient Houee In Bruges.
Holy Rlood is, kept. Once a year, on
May 2, it is carried through the
streets of Bruges at the head of a
great procession and taken to the
Cathedral of St. Sauveur and placed
on the high altar while mass is cele
brated. On this day the city is full
of strangers, and it is decorated with
flags, music is played in the streets
and candles burn at every window in
Bruges. At one side of the city, sit
uated on the Minnewater, which was
once the harbor of Bruges, is the
Beguinage. It is an order of nuns.
These nuns are free to enter the
world at any time they choose.
The people of Bruges live very
much in their own narrow sphere and
let the world wag as it will. They
do not care what the world is doing
and their daily topics are the scandal
and the gossip of the town. They
gather at the market place each day
to talk over the affairs of Bruges as
if it were the center of the world,
but in the long winter evenings when j
the old men and women are gath
ered around the Are they speak to
the children not of Bruges as it is or
might be tomorrow, but of its glorious
past, and of the days when the city '
was filled with merchants, dukes and
princes; of the days when boats came
from all over the world into the har
bor and the flogs of all nations float
ed over Bruges.
HIS BED AFIRE, HE SLEEPS ON
Friend Dashes into Flames and Drags
to Place of Safety a Man Who
Refuses to Wake Up.
Atlanta, Ga.—'The leading man of |
the "Please Go ’Way and Let Me !
Sleep” song, so popular a couple of i
S years ago. bobbed up in real life here !
in the person of E. H. Seymour, an
aged merchant, whose house was
robbed and set on fire.
Like the man in the song, Seymour's
bed began to burn from under him,
while he slept peacefully on. J. M.
Thompson. a neighbor. hurried
through the smoke to awaken the
sleeping man. and dragged him. still
half asleep, from the flaming quilts.
So unusual was the whole affair, the
police made investigations to see
whether the sleeper had been drugged
or not, but the very pillow on which
his head rested was so singed with
flames and blacked with smoke that
it was impossible to tell whether any
chloroform had been used or not. The
man's beard was slightly scorched,
but otherwise he was unharmed,
though how he kept from choking in
the smoke is still a mystery.
For Eveiy Baking
CALUMET
BAKING POWDER
Best—because it’s the
purest. Best—because
it never fails. Best—
because it makes every
baking light, fluffy and
evenly raised. Best
—because it is moder
ate in cost—highest in
quality.
At your grocers.
RECEIVED
HIGHEST
AWARDS
World'* Pure Food Exp
sition, Chicago, 111.
Pari* Exposition. Franc
March, 1912.
You don l save money when you buy
cheap or big-can baking powder. Don't
be misled. Buy Calumet. lt‘s more
economical — more wholesome—gives
best results. Calumet is far superior to
sour milk and soda.
JAKEY’S FAULT VERY SERIOUS
Father Rightly Felt Me Could Never
Be Captain of Industry Unless He
Was Taught to Improve.
Mr. and Mrs. Isaacs took great
pride in their young son, Jakey. Fa
ther was determined to make him a
great business man, a veritable cap
tain of industry. One day mother
heard loud screams coming from an
adjoining room and rushed in to in
vestigate the cause of the trouble.
Father was vigorously administering
a dose of ‘‘strap oil” to the young
hopeful.
“Ikey! Ikey! Vy for you are lick
ing liddle Jakey?”
"Because I caught him in a lie;
dot’s vy.” replied father, continuing
the chastisement.
“A lie? You say a lie?”
“Yes; I vill teach him to lie better
as dot eef 1 haff to break effery bone
in hees body.”—Exchange.
Occasional Visitor.
A notable housekeeper of the past
generation, before the days of screens,
had just announced with decision that
she never had any flies.
“But, Aunt Augusta,” faltered the
timid visitor, “it seems to me that I
saw a few in the dining room.”
“Oh. those,” replied her aunt, with
a majestic wave of the hand, "were the
neighbors’ flies. They will come in
occasionally. But I was saying, we
never have any of our own.”—Youth's
Companion.
He only is rich who owns the day
and no one owns the day who allows
it to be invaded with worry, and fret,
and anxiety.—Emerson.
-Too Hasty.
“Diggs can dash oft epigrams with
out a moment's thought.”
“That’s just the way they sound.”
A DIFFERENCE.
It Paid This Man to Change Food.
“What is called ‘good living’ eventu
ally brought me to a condition quite
the reverse of good health,’ writes a
N. Y. merchant.
“Improper eating told on me till my
stomach became so weak that food
nauseated me, even the lightest and
simplest lunch, and I was much de
pressed after a night of uneasy slum
ber, unfitting me for business.
"This condition was discouraging,
as I could find no way to improve it.
Then I saw the advertisement of
Grape-Nuts food, and decided to try
it, and became delighted with the re
suit.
“For the past three years I have
used Grape-Nuts and nothing else for
my breakfast and for lunch before re
tiring. It speedily set my stomach right
and I congratulate myself that I have ^
regained my health. There is no great
er comfort for a tired man than a
lunch of Grape-Nuts. It insures restful
sleep, and an awakc-ning in the Corn
ing with a feeling of buoyant courage
and hopefulness.
Grape-Nuts has been a boon to mv
whole family. It has made of our 2
year-old boy, who used to be unable
to digest much of anything, a robust,
healthy, little rascal weighing 32
pounds. Mankind certainly owes a
debt of gratitude to the expert w'ho
invented this perfect food.’’ Name
given by Postum Co., Battle Creek,
Mich. "There's a reason.’’