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About The Loup City northwestern. (Loup City, Neb.) 189?-1917 | View Entire Issue (May 27, 1915)
MACK. 15 WHITE: fir- GEORGE DARK McCUTCHEON Illustrations j^ray Walters COPYP/O/T/, /y/T. 3Y POPP, PJPAD AW COPJPAPY CHAPTER XXVII—Continued. —12— He obeyed. "See! There is no one Hear.” He held open the door to the hall 1 You must speak quickly. 1 am to leave this house in an hour. I was Rt ven the hour." "Ah. I can see by your face that you tiate him! It is well. That is some thing It is but little. I know, after all 1 have wished for—but it is some thing for me to treasure—something Tor me to take back with me to the j one sacred little spot in this beastly j world of men and women." "You are the most incomprehen- ' Bible—” Am I not beautiful, Frederic? Tell tne!'' She came quite close to him. You are the most beautiful woman In all the world,” he said abjectly "And I have wasted all my beauty— I have lent it to unloveliness and it has not been destroyed! It is still with *nc, is it not? 1 have not lost it in—" “Y'ou are beautiful beyond words— beyond anything 1 have ever im agined," said he, suddenly passing his hand over his brow. “You would have loved me if it had not been for Lydia?” “1 couldn't have helped myself. I—■ ( fear I—faltered in my— Good God, are you still trying to tempt me? Are you still asking me to go away with you?” A hoarse cry came from the door way behind them—a cry of pain and anger that struck terror to their souls. They had not heard his approach. CHAPTER XVIII. The Shot That Failed. Transfixed, they watched him take two or three steps into the room. At his back was the swarthy Hindu, his ayes gleaming like coals of fire in the shadowy light. “James!" fell tremulously from the tips of Yvonne. She swayed toward blm as Kanjab grasped his arm from . behind. Frederick saw the flash of ; something bright as it passed from the • brown hand to the white one. He did j not at once comprehend. “It happened once,” came hoarsely j from the throat of James Brood. “It I shall not hapiien again. Thank you. ' Ranjab.“ Then F*rederic knew! The Hindu i had slipped a revolver into his mas ter’s hand! “It gives me great pleasure, Yvonne, to relieve you of that damned, rotten, worthless thing you call your life.” As he raised his arm. FTederic ■prang forward with a shout of horror. Scarcely realizing what he did. he burled Yvonne violently to one side. It was all over in the twinkling of an eye. There was a flash, the crash of an explosion, a puff of smoke and the smell of burnt powder. Frederic stood perfectly still for an instant, facing the soft cloud that rose from the pistol barrel, an expression ] of vague amazement in his face. Then ; bis hand went uncertainly to his breast. Already James Brood had seen the red blotch that spread with incredible swiftness—blood red against the ■nowy white of the broad shirt bosom Glaring with wide-open eyes at the i horrid spot, he stood there with the pistol still levelled in a petrified hand “Good God. father, you’ve—why, i you’ve—■” struggled from Frederic's ! writhing lips, and then his knees ! sagged; an instant later they gave way j with a rush and he dropped heavily to ! the floor. There was not a sound in the room. Suddenly Brood made a movement quick and spasmodic. At the same in stant Kanjab flung himself forward and grasped his master's arm. He bad turned the revolver upon himself! The muzzle was almost at his temple when the Hindu seized Ills hand in a grip of Iron. "Sahib! Sahib!" he hissed. "What would you do?" Wrenching the weapon 1 from the stiff, unresisting fingers, he hurled it across the room. “My God!" groaned Brood. Ilia tall body swerved forward, but his legs re fused to carry him. The Hindu caught him as he waa sinking limply to his knees. With a tremendous effort of the will. Brood succeeded in conquer ing the black unconsciousness that waa aasailing him. He straightened up to hia full height, and with trem bling fingers pointed to the prostrate figure on the floor “The pistol. Ran tab! Where Is It? (live it me! Man, man. can 1 live after that? I have killed my son—my own son! Quick, man!" "Sahib!" cried the Hindu, wringing his hands. "1 cannot! I cannot!" "I command you! The pistol!" Without a word the Hindu, fatalist, •lave, pagan that he was, turned to do his master's bidding. It was not for him to say nay. It was not for him to ! oppose the will of the master, but to obey. All this time. Yvonne was crouching against the table, her horrified gaze apon the great red blotch that grew to terrible proportions as she watched She had not moved, she bad not breathed, she had not taken her hands from her ears where she had placed them at the sound of the explosion. ‘‘Blood! It is blood!” she moaned, and for the first time since the shot was fired her husband glanced at the one for whom the bullet was intended. An expression of incredulity leaped into his face, as if he could not believe his senses. She was alive and unhurt! His bullet had not touched her. llis brain fumbled for the explanation of this miracle. "Blood!” she wailed again, a long, shuddering word that came not from her lips but from the very depths of her terror-stricken soul. Slowly Brood's mind worked out of the maze. His shot had gone straight, but Frederic himself had leaped into its path to save this miserable crea ture who would have damned his soul if life had been spared to him. llanjab crawled to his side, his eyes covered with one arm, the other ex tended. Blindly the master felt for the pistol, not once removing his eyes from the pallid figure against the table. His fingers closed upon the weapon. Then the Hindu looked up, warned by the strange voice that spoke to him from the mind of his master. He saw the arm slowly extend itself with a sinister hand directed straight at the unconscious figure of the woman. This time Brood was making sure of his aim—so sure that the lithe Hindu had time to spring to his feet and grasp once more the hand that held the weapon. ".Master! Masier!” he cried out. Brood turned to look at his man in sheer bewilderment. What could all this mean? What was the matter with the man? "Down, Ranjab!" he commanded in a low, cautious tone, as he would have used in speaking to a dog when the game was run to earth. "There is but one bullet left, sahib," cried the man. "Only one is required,” said the mas ter hazily. "You have killed your son. This bul let is for yourself.” "Yes! Yes! But—but she! She lives! She—" The Hindu struck his own breast significantly. "Thy faithful servant re mains, sahib. Die, if thou wilt, but leave her to Ranjab. There is but one bullet left. It is for you. You must not be here to witness the death Ran jab. thy servant, shall inflict upon her. Shoot thyself now, if so be it, but spare thyself the sight of—" He did not finish the sentence, but his strong, bony fingers went through the motion that told a more horrible story than words could have expressed. There was no mistaking his meaning. He had elected himself her executioner. A ghastly look of comprehension flitted across Brood's face For a sec ond his mind slipped from one dread to another more appalling. He‘knew “Sahib! Sahib!” He Hissed. this man of his. He remembered the story of another killing in the hills of India. His gaze went from the brown fanatic s face to the white, tender, lovely throat of the woman—and a hoarse gasp broke from his lips. No! No! Not that!" he cried, and as the words rang out. Yvonne re moved her horrified gaze from the blot of red and fixed it upon the face of her husband. She straightened up slowly and her arms fell limply to her sides. “It was meant for me. Shoot, James!” she said, almost in a whis per. The Hindu s grasp tightened at the convulsive movement of his master’s hand. His fingers were like steel bands. “Shoot!' she repeated, raising her voice. "Save yourself, for if he is dead I shall kill you with my own hands. This is your chance—shoot!” Brood’s fingers relaxed their grip on the revolver. A fierce, wild hope took all the strength out of his body— he grew faint with it. | "God, he—he can't be dead! I have not killed him. He shall not die—he shall not—” Flinging the Hindu aside he threw himself down beside the body on the floor. The revolver as it dropped, was caught in the nimble hand of the Hindu, who took two long swift strides toward the woman who now faced him instead of her husband. There was a great light in his eyes as he stood over her and she saw death staring out upon her. But she did not quail. She was past all that. She looked straight into his eyes for an instant and then, as if putting him out of her thoughts entire ly, turned slowly toward the two men on the floor. The man half raised the pistol, but something stayed his hand —something stronger than any mere physical opposition could have done. He glared at the half-averted face, confounded by the most extraordinary impression that ever had entered his incomprehensible brain. Something strange and wonderful was transpir ing before his very eyes—something so marvellous that even he. mysteri ous seer of the Ganges, was stunned into complete amazement and unbelief. That strange, uncanny intelligence of his. born of a thousand mysteries, was being tried beyond all previous exac tions. It was as if he now saw this woman for the first time—as if he had never looked upon her face before. A mist appeared to envelop her and through this veil he saw a face that was new to him—the face of Yvonne and yet not hers at all. Absolute won der crept into his eyes. As if impelled by the power of his gaze, she faced him once more. For what seemed hours to him, but in reality only seconds, his searching eyes looked deep into hers. He saw at last the soul of this woman and it was not the soul he had known as hers up to tlidt tremendous moment. And he came to know that she was no longer afraid of him or his powers. His hand was lowered, his eyes fell and his lips moved but there were no words, for he addressed a spirit. All the venom, all the hatred fled from his soul. His knee bent in sudden submis sion. and his eyes were raised to hers once more, but now in their somber depths was the fidelity of the dog! "Go at once,” she said, and her voice was as clear as a bell. lie shot a swift glance at the pros trate Frederic and straightened his tall figure as would a soldier under orders. His understanding gaze sought hers again. There was another command in her eyes. He placed the weapon on the table. It had been a dis tinct command to him. "One of us will use it,” she said monotonously. 'Go!” With incredible swiftness he was gone. The curtains barely moved as he passed between them and the heavy door made no sound in opening and closing. There was no one in the hall. The sound of the shot had not gone beyond the thick walls of that pro scribed room on the top floor. Some where at the rear of the house an in distinct voice was uttering a jumbled stream of French. Many minutes passed. There was not a movement In the room, lirood. beside the outstretched figure of his unintended victim, was staring at the graying face with wide, unblinking eyes. He looked at last upon the fea tures that he had searched for in vain through all the sullen years. There was blood on his hands and on his cheek, for he had listened at first for the beat of the heart. Afterward his agonized gaze had gone to the blood less face. There it was arrested. A dumb wonder possessed his soul. He knelt there petrified by the shock of discovery. In the dim light he no longer saw the features of Matilde. but his own. and his heart was still. In that revealing moment he realized that he had never seen anything in Fred eric's countenance save the daxk. never-to-be-forgotten eyes—and they were his Matilde's. Now those eyes were closed. He could not see them, and the blindness was struck from his own. He had always looked into the boy's eyes—he had never been able to seek farther than those haunting, in quiring eyes—but now he saw the lean, strong jaw, and the firm chin, the straight nose and the broad fore head—and none of these were Ma tilde's 1 These were the features of a man—and of but one man. He was see ing himself as he was when he looked into his mirror at twenty-one! All these years he had been blind, all these years he had gone oil curs ing his own image. In that overpower ing thought came the realization that it was too late for him to atone. His mind slowly struggled out of thrall that held it stupefied. He was looking at his own face—dead! He would look like that! Matilde was gone forever— the eyes were closed—but he was there, going grayer and grayer of face all the time. He had forgotten the woman. She was standing just beyond the body that stretched itself between them. Her hands were clasped against her breast and her eyes were lifted heaven ward. She had not moved throughout that age of oblivion. He saw her and suddenly became rigid. Slowly he sank back, his eyes distended, his jaw dropping. He put out a hand and saved himself from falling, but his eyes never left the face of the woman who prayed—whose whole being was the material repre-1 sentation of prayer. But it was not ^ vonne. his wife, that he saw standing there. It was another—Matilde! "My God, Matilde—Matilde! For give! Forgive!" Slowly her eyes were lowered until they fell full upon his stricken face "Am I going mad?” he whispered hoarsely. As he stared, the delicate ! wan face of Matilde began to fade and he again saw the brilliant, undimmed features of Yvonne. "God in heaven. I it was Matilde! What accursed trick of—" He sprang to his feet and advanced upon her, actually stepping across the body of his son in his reckless haste. For many seconds they stood with their faces close together, he staring wildly, she with a dull look of agony in her eyes, but unflinching. What he saw caused an icy chill to sweep through his tense body, and a sickness to enter his soul. He shrank back. “Who—who are you?” he cried out in sudden terror. He felt the presence of Matilde. He could have stretched out his hand and touched her, so real, so vivid was the belief that she was actually there before him. "Matilde was here—I saw her, before God, I saw her. And—and now it is you! She is still here. 1 can feel her hand touch ing mine—I can feel—no, again 1— I—” The cold, lifeless voice of Yvonne was speaking to him, huskier than ever before. “Matilde has been here. She has always been with him. She is always near you. James I’roo^l.’' , “What — are — you — saying?" he gasped. She turned wearily away and pointed to the weapon on the table. “Who is to use it, you or I?” He opened his mouth but uttered no sound His power of speech was gone. She went on in a deadly monotone. "You intended the bullet for me. It is not too late. Kill me, if you will. I give you the first chance—take it, for if you do not I shall take mine.” “I—I cannot kill you—I cannot kill the woman who stood where you are standing a moment ago. Matilde was there! She was alive, do you hear . t ru- « ‘‘Matilde Had Been There.” me! Alive and—ah!” The exclama tion fell from his lips as she suddenly leaned forward, her intense gaze fixed on Frederic's face. “See! Ah, see! I prayed and I have been answered. See! God in heaven, see"’ He turned. Frederic's eyes were open. He was looking up at them, with a piteous appeal in their depths—an appeal for help, for life, for conscious ness. "He is not dead! Frederic, Frederic, my son—” He dropped to his knees and frantically clutched at the hand that lay stretched out beside the limp figure. The pain-stricken eyes closed slowly. Someone knelt beside Brood. He saw a slim white hand go out and touch the pallid brow "I shall save your soul, James Brood,” a voice was saying, but it seemed far away. "He shall not die. Your poor wretched soul may rest se cure. I shall keep death away from him. You shall not have to pay for this—no. not for this. The bullet was meant for me. I owe my life to him, you shall owe his to me. But you have yet to pay a greater debt than this can ever become, lie is your son. You owe another for his life—and you will never be out of her debt, not even in hell, James Brood.” Slowly Frederic's eyes opened again. They wavered from one face to the other and there was in them the unsolvable mystery of divination. As the lids dropped once more. Brood's manner underwent a tremendous change. The stupefaction of horror and doubt fell away in a flash and he was again the clear-headed, indomit able man of action. The blood rushed back into his.veins, his eyes flashed with the returning fire of hope, his voice was steady, sharp, commanding. ’’The doctor!” he cried in Yvonne's ear. as his strong fingers went out to tear open the red shirt bosom. "Be quick! Send for Hodder. By heaven, we must save him." She did not move. He whirled upon her fiercely. "Do as I tell you. Are you so damned—” "Doctor Hodder is on the way now,” she said dully. His hands ceased their operations as if checked by a sudden naralvsis "On the way here?" he cried in credulously. “Why—” “He is coming,” she said fiercely ”1 sent for him—ages ago. Don't stop now—be quick! You know what to do. Stanch the flow of blood. Do some thing, man! Y’ou have seen men with mortal w-ounds—and this man must be saved.” He worked swiftly, deftly, for he did know what to do. lie had worked over men before with wounds in their breasts—and he had seen them through the shadow of death. But he could not help thinking, as he now worked, that he was never known to miss a shilling at thirty paces. She was speaking. Her voice was low and husky once more, with a per sistent note of accusation in it. "It was an accident, do you understand? You did not shoot to kill—him. The world shall never know the truth—un less he dies, and that is not to happen. You are safe. The law cannot touch you, for 1 shall never speak. This is between you and me. Do you under stand?" He glanced at her set, rigid face. “Yes. It was an accident. And this is between you and me. We shall settle it later on. Now I see you as you are —as Yvonne. God, I—wonder—” His hand shook with a sudden spasm of indecision. He had again caught that baffling look in her dark eyes. "Attend!” she cried, and he bent to the task again. He is not going to die. It would be too cruel if he were to die now and miss all the joy of vic tory over you—his life-long foe. He—” The door opened behind them and they looked up to see the breathless Hindu. He came straight to the woman. “He comes. Ranjab has obey. I have told him that the revolver was dis charge accidentally—by myself, by the unhappy son of a dog. I. It is well. Ranjab is but a dog. He shall die to day and his lips be sealed forever. Have no fear. The dead shall be si lent—” His voice trailed off into a whisper, for his eyes were looking into hers. “No,” he whispered, after a mo ment—“no, the dead are not silent. Qne who is dead has spoken to Ran jab.” "Hush!” said the woman. Ilrood's hands were shaking again, shaking and uncertain. "The doctor? He comes ?” “Even now,” said the Hindu, turn ing toward the door. CHAPTER XIX. The Voice of the Wind. Hours afterward Brood sat alone in the room where the tragedy occurred Much had transpired in the interim to make those hours seem like separate and distinct years to him, each hour an epoch in which a vital and memor able incident had been added to his already overfull measure of experi ence. Underneath all was an ever present sense of insecurity, as if the whole order of life had been suddenly deprived of foundation or support. No matter where he looked, there was not the slighest ray of light in the dark ness that enveloped his understand ing. Something tremendous had hap pened. aside from the visible, phys ical incident that had stunned him i temporarily at the outset of the tragic I era, something that was beyond com prehension and intangible and which ! continually loomed up before him as a j specter that had neither shape nor I substance and yet was as completely | positive as anything else that had transpired. He could account for the shooting, the emotions preceding that unhappy occu-rence, the intervention of fate that saved Yvonne from death and laid low the substitute, the sense of horror that ensued, the sudden rev-1 elation that came to him as he looked into Frederic's face with its closed eyes, and the agony of suspense that now consumed him. but a cloud still hung over him that his intelligence ; could not penetrate nor his physical! being dispel, no matter how hard he 1 struggled to clear a way to the open. He had seen a vision. Its effect on him had been overpowering. The for- j titude of a lifetime had been shattered j in a single instant of contact with the j influence that had at last made itself \ felt in physical manifestation after all these years of spiritual attendance. He had never been completely free from the vague notion that Matllde was near him in spirit, that there was an actual identity to the presence that filled his dreams and denied him the boon of forgetfulness for a single In stant of the hours when he was awake. He had never tried to banish her from his memory. He wanted to forget her. to put her out of his thoughts alto gether, for obvious reasons, but the fact that she remained the dominant figure in his present despite the past was proof, even to him, that she was and always would be the controlling j force in his mind if not in his heart. Now he was ordering himself to tace : new complexities. He was confronted I by the most improbable of hallucina tions. It was not an intangible shadow that he now had to contend with but something definite, something that took shape and mocked him. In his bitter indictment against circum stances. he argued that his brain was momentarily unbalanced following the shock caused by the shooting, and that in its disordered state he had pictured things that did not exist. It was only reasonable to assume that he had suf fered from the effect of a startling vivid hallucination, and yet there was a strange, insistent voice somewher; in his clearing mind that persuadei him against his will that he had actual ly seen the fade of Matilde. Admitting that he had been deceiv-d by a trick of the imagination, there still remained certain indisputable facts to confound him. First of all, the absolute conviction that Yvonne had the power to preserve the life that hung so precariously in the balance. He could not overcome the amazing belief that she, and not the skilled surgeon, would check the sure progress of death. Something told him that she represented a force even mightier than death and that she would prevail, no matter what betide. He had refused to see the newspa per men who came. Doctor Hodder wisely had protested against secrecy. “Murder will out," he had said fret fully, little realizing how closely the trite old saying applied to the situa tion. He had accepted the statements of Yvonne and Kanjab as to the acci dental discharge of the weapon, but for some reason had refrained from asking Brood a single at though he knew him to be a witnesi to the shooting. Yvonne saw the reporters arid latei on an inspector of police. Ranjab told his unhappy story. He had taken tbf weapon from a hook on the wall ftn the purpose of cleaning it. It had been hanging there for years, and all the time there had been a single cartridge left in the cylinder unknown to any one. He had started to remove the cylinder as he left the room. All the*.e years the hammer had been raised; death had been hanging over them all the time that the pistol occupied its in secure position on the wall. Somehow, he could not tell how the hammer fell as he tugged at the cylinder. No one could have known that the revolver was loaded. That was all that he could say, except to declare that if his master’s son died he would end his own miserable, valueless life. His story was supported by the dec larations of Mrs. Brood, who, while completely exonerating her husband's servant, had but little to say in expla nation of the affair She kepi her wits about her. Most people would have made the mistake of saying too much. She professed to know nothing except that they were discussing young Mr. Brood's contemplated trip abroad and that her husband had given orders to his servant to pack a revolver in his son’s traveling bag when the time came for his departure. Siie had paid but little attention to the Hindu's movements. All she could say was that it was an accident—a horrible, blighting accident. For the present, it would not be possible for anyone to see the heart-broken father. Doubt less, later on. he would be in the mood to discuss the dreadful catastrophe, but not now, etc., etc. He was crushed with the horror of the thing that had happened. 1 tie nouse was in a state of subdued excitement. Servants spuke in whis pers and tiptoed through the hails Nurses amd other doctors came. Two old men, shaking as with palsy, roamed about the place, intent only on worm ing theirt way into the presence of their friend and supporter to offer con solution and encouragement to him in his hour of tribulation. They shud dered as they looked into each other's faces, and they shook their heads without speaking, for their minds were filled with doubt. They did not ques tion the truth of the story as told, but they had their own opinions. In sup port to the theory that they did not believe there was anything accidental in the shooting of Frederic it is only necessary to speak of their extraordi nary attitude toward Ranjab. They shook hands with him and told him that Allah would reward him! Later on, after they had had time to think it all out for themselves—being some what slow of comprehension—they sought out James Brood and offered to accept all the blame for having loaded the revolver without consulting him, their object having been to destroy a cat that -infested the alley hard by. They felt that it was absolutely neces sary to account for the presence of the unexploded cartridge. Brood, coming between them, laid his hands on their shoulders, shaking his head as he spoke to them gently. "Thank you. old pals. 1 understand what it is you are trying to do. It's no use. 1 tired the shot. It isn’t neces sary to say anything more to you. I'm sure, except that, as God is my wit ness. I did not intend the bullet for Two Old Men, Sinking as With Palsy, Roamed <>b >ut the Place. Frederic. It w?.* an accident in that respect. Thank yOM for what you would do. It isn’t necessary, old pals. The story that Ran a') tells must stand for the time being l^ter on—well, 1 may write my own sfary and give it to the world.” "Write it?" -said Mr. Dawes, and Brood nodded Kis head slowly, signid cantly. "Oh. Jim. yoi*—you mustn't do that!” groaned Mr. r>awes. appalled. "You ain't such a ccf vard as to do that.” • There was Dne bullet left In the re volver. RanJ/b advised me to save it —for myself He’s a thoughtful fal low.” said Brood. “It has been re moved, of course, but—” “Jim." said Mr. Riggs, squaring him self. “it's too bad that you didn't hit what you shot at.” "Jim." interrupted Mr. Riggs, ignor ing his comrade, “I see she’s going to nurse Freddy. Well, sir, if 1 was you. Id—” (TO BE CONTINUED.) EXPERT ADVISER ON DRESS Woman Has Achieved Succeee in Oc cupation That la Something of a Novelty. I heard lately of a plan adopted by one young w oman that has worked out well with her. and might be of use to someone else, says a writer In the Pittsburgh I'ispatch She lives at home. 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Write at once Zona Company, tt Florida Lands For Sale to Settlers in tracts of ten acres and up wards, in Volusia County, adapted to cultivation of citrus fruits, vegetables of all kinds and genera! crops Situation healthful. Send for circulars Write in English. Railroad run _ through tract Will sell on month ly payments Agents wanted Address Florida Land & Settlement Co. Care Alex. St. Clair-Abrams, Attorney ; 615-19 Dyal-Lpchurch Bldg., Jacksonville, Fla. A Typewriter in Every Home rThe typewriter has come to be a ne cessity in almost — everyiamny. lttca I daughter is a stenographer, she ; can increase her earning power by home practice The father and sons need a typewriter for ■ their correspondence The mother likes to keep recipes and other data In neat, read able form. You will be inter ested in our booklet, “A Lesson | in Operating the L. C. Smith ! &Bros.Typewriter " Writeforit L. C. Smith & Bro*. Typewriter Co. 1819 Famam Street Omaha Nebraska - Exercise and Music Together. ! "Myrtle is in a quandary." "What's the matter with her?” "She loves music, but she needs physical culture.” "Yes?” "But she hasn't time for both " "I can tell her a way out of th* difficulty.” "Indeed?” "Yes: just fell her to buy an ac cordion.” DON’T VISIT THE CALIFORNIA EX POSITIONS Without a supp.y at » s r Ease, tha an'iseptic prwder to be shak*- i-tpt Shoes. or dissolved in the foot-bath. TheE---. ro Remedy for the feet for 25 years. It t'-rs :-. stunt relief to tired achlne feet and prevents S'- - hot feet. Or.o lady writes: "I entered every nv-ute of my stay at the Expositions, thanks to A »r s Foot-Ease in my shoes. Get it TOCAY Adv Wooden. The trees were leaving, and when the hackman came to take a*a\ the trunks the willows were weeping and the dogwood began to bark. Drink Denison’s Coffee. Always pure and delicious. Japanese mills are suffering from a shortage of cotton supplies Always sure to please. Red Cross tia.. Blue. All grocers self it. Adv. Argentina is marketing a govern ment bond issue of $15,000,000. Safety First Ct begins with a C and smells like “Camphor * Wbut is it? i ampholKum, of course N there a Jar of Campholatum in your huEf* Or is it possible you have never u&ed this »t*«* derful remedy, which is giving thousands rr .»? and comfort every year from Hay Fever, Flies and Hemorrhoids, *t»r* Eyes Sprains, Rheumatism, Pneumonia. In sect Slings, Neuralgia, Cuts, Chapped Hands, Burns and Scalds, and a ho>i i f other conditions? You should acquaint you seif with its household usefulness by ta* * advantage of this golden opportunity. C;t c pon out before you forget, fill in your name ard address and mall to us with 15 cents in stair. * receive a full size Jar of this wonder? .. * meat. There is but one Campholatuiu a: thousands of imitations. Insist up* a t- « ami no other. Campholatum Co., E2SJl$/5&: ! *“•.-. ! | Address.... | l_._I DAISY FLY KILLER gpss *. 11m. N«at. ci«u or ■amsatal. wn»*£.»nt Last, all • aanon. metal, cat (pin or u p over; will sot soil or 1nj ur• » ay t h1cf Qaamatwd sir sot ; «• All dsslsrs iiTin— mid for ii os ■ AXOLS IOKIKS. ISO D. Kalk An.. Break in. ■ ( Nebraska Director. TYPiwRlfTEBBARSAiMS^ £l™o5»I5 WML “ wl«« ,r>« 1BOS TTpewrtLer S,rh»nee. |„< 1805 Faruam Street, Omaha. Nebratk. KODAK fnd 8UPPU,»»- large. Ruiasinfa house in the we>< A FINKUIlia S*sI®»ngcoj!uU>p.v ■ ■ HI w IIIH V turn postaire on flr. * raSROBERTOEIIPSTERCO.. WS F»rrv.mS»-,»t EastmanKodak Co. n»,a. xek THE PAXTON”2— w. N. u., OMAHA, NO. 21-1915.