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About The Loup City northwestern. (Loup City, Neb.) 189?-1917 | View Entire Issue (May 3, 1917)
[web of steel b’ ">>DY I Here Is a Powerful Story of Failure and Sacrifice and Love and Courage and Success Copyright by Fleming H. Revell Co. II.■ ,■■■■■—=— .— I Bertram Meade. Sr., plans a great international bridge for the Martlet Construction company. His son, Bertram Meade, Jr., resident erg neer at the bridge site, and Helen Illingworth, daughter of Colonel ll rgwerth. president of the Martlet concern, are engaged to marry as Sdd« as the work is finished. The young engineer had questioned his father’s judgment on certain calculations and was laughed at for his fears. The bridge collapses and 150 workmen die. This installment describes a memorable scene in the elder Meade’s office. CHAPTER VII.—Continued. *1 haven't lost nti) confidence. sir. V\V all make mistakes. I made oue. fou know, atwl ><*n t««*k tne up." "It* Us* late f**r attylswly to take nr «p Men ewn't make mistakes at ju> age. No more **f that. We have mil one thing t** do. set the hoy right M<tv the world." "ftut If I were your «<*n. sir. said the secretary, “rather than are you mined | would take the hlaiue on oij ■eif. He can live it down." -|tu: he is not to Maine. < »n the onntniry be was right, and I was wrong. Here, S*hurtUff is his own let ter. T*n know it; you saw him give It to me Too henr»l the conversation, and 1 have written out a little arrow.; eiplan. g it stating that I made light of hi* protest*. acknowledging that he was right and I wan wrong, taking the Whole Mam* 'i|**wi it >*elf. He will he hack here t • gtit. I on. »ure. 1 intend «d to give it t» him." T>h. d*-n't do ’hat. Mr. Meade." The teUy.h.*ne l»e!l rang. "Tiie bridge ’" clamored the Insistent bell. Staggering aim*—’ like n drunken wan. * ur .<• \rfx ),;» place hy the d*s>r rea« It* d hi- thin hand out and lifted Bp t! telephone, p* belt vibrat ing It *» i—l with angry, venomous persist.-!. . through ihe quiet ri**m. "It's a t*!.-gram," he whispered. “Te* fhi* 1* Mr. M.-ade* private sec retary. (si on," he au-wer-d iuto the •MWthfcere of the telephone. There was alio’^i* | ly sileti *> while In- took ’he message. It wits *sj of ShurtlilT* character that in *t*He of the horrible agitation that filled him. h* put the instrument 4«wn carefully on the desk. met h* sl um!!} hanging up tic* receiver l*ef<*re he turtt--l t** face, the other man. lie «fs*kr deprecatingly. No woman could r\ *1 the tenderness he tuauag—1 to lafcs*- into his ordinarily dry. etuoiion l«o voice. "The bridge i« in The river, air." "Of ™«r«r; any more." "AM--it -til ..ne hundreii nnd fifty Men with It." my God'" said fh.- old man. He ss**gered forward. Shurtliff caugl:t I m and he!jed him dow n into the btg <h»lr before the desk. The ►»< had been discounted in his mind. ■Ui! -me kind <*f h«>|e had lingered there Vow it was over. "We icj*t wire Martlet." he gasjied “The te .-graph office said the mes sage wn* 1 to you and Mart let so they have g.it the news, sir.” "It won't be t«». late for the last edi tions of the eVen’.t.g J»a{-er*. either." Mid the old tux*. 'SbiinSiff. 1 was going to glte These documents to the boy when tie jot tstck. but I want them to appear simultaneously with the •ew. j# the fa.! of the bridge. Walt." He seii*-d the pen and signed his name t The brief letTer of excul pation. The writing in the b»*iy of the doc UMBt w*» we»k and feeble, the signa ler* str'-ng _nd hold. He gathered the papers up Usoeiy. "Here.* Im* "I went you to take them to a nemsj«j{*r—the Gazette— th-f will * - cer*nin to issue an extra -We Must Wire Martlet." He Gasped Out. If U |« too late for the last edition. | wan! thi» letter of bU with mine to fpt Mile bf sole with the news. There O.K be a moment of uncertain^ •posit It." -Mr. Meade, for tiod's aake—" “Don't atop to algue with me now. T-a- a tail and get there as quickly as m cai. Toss are earning my honor. Bjj mb's reputation. Go." CHAPTER VIII. Far the Father. I Two and as^Ulf hmtn later a of aniloaa StporUn. clustered door of Oka Opilft building, were gamini7.il Into life t»y the arrival of a tixnnh. out of it leaped Bertram Meade. He was recognized instantly. “You know about the bridge, Meade?" ask.il one. forcing liis way through tin- crowd, which broke Into a sudden clamor of questioning. Meade nodded. He recognized the speaker, their hands met. Tills was a man of his own age named Kodney, who had been Meade's classmate at Cambridge, his devot.il friend there after. Instead of active practice, lie •aid chosen to become a writer on sci entific subjects and was there as a representative of the Engineering N'eus. There were sympathy and af fection in his voice and look, and in tiie grasp of his hand. “Have you seen n.y father. Rodney?" 'I.ude asked, quickly moving to the ••levator, followed by all the men. "At the house they said he was not there, and here at the office we get no answer.” As Meade turned he saw his father’s s.i-retary coming slowly through the entrance. •‘Shurtliff,’’ he called out. “My father?” "1 left him in the office two hours ago. He fold me to—to—go away and —leave him alone. I have been wan dering about the streets.” Outside in the street the newsboys were shrieking: "Extry! Extry! All almut the coi !:>!•'■ -f the International bridge. Two •i engineers and workmen lost.” '•iff lull! one of tin* papers in h]% id. Meade tore it from him. ‘ Who I- ResjMonsible?” stared at him in big red headlines. Oentlernen. said Mende, ”1 can answer that question”—he held up the paper s.. that all might see—“tlie fault —tlie Idutue—is mine.” "We'll have to see your father, I'.err.'' said Rodney. lie is in this building, we know, atel lie II never leave it without run ning the gantlet of us all,” cried an "'•i' r amid a chorus <*f approval* Meade realized there was no escape. I hey all piled into the elevator with him and Shurtliff. They followed him up the corridor. He stopped before the door of the office. “I forbid you to come in.” he said. “Tliis is my father's private—” “Have no fear. Bert," said Rodney firmly. “We don't intend to break in. W e understand how you feel. W'e will wait here until you say the word, and then ail \\e shall want will be a state ment from your father.” “Tlmnk you. old man. Come. Sliurt liff.” said Meade, turning his key in the lock. The two men entered and carefully do—d the door behind them. The diM.r was scarcely shat when H' len Illingworth left the elevator and • nine rapidly up the corridor. She hutl ailed at the office before and had no need to ask the way. The reporters gathered around the door moved to give her passage while they stared at t with deep if respectful curiosity. •‘1’ardon me, gentlemen,” she began, • hut I am very anxious to see the younger Bertram Meade.” “He has Just gone iato the office,” answered Itodney respectfully. The girl ralsi*d her hand to knock. "A moment, please; perhaps you had ti' :ter understand the situation. The International bridge—” The girl came to a sudden determi natiou. She could not declare herself too soon or too publicly. "My name is Illingworth," she said, nd as tlie hats of the surprised report ers ctime off. she continued. "I am the daughter of the president of the Xlart !■ t Bridge company, which was erect ing the International." “Yes. Miss Illingworth." answered Rodney, “and did you come here to represent him?" *'I am Mr. Bertram Meade. Jr.’s, promised wife, and 1 am here because i» is the place where I ought to be. W hen the man I love is in trouble. I must he with him." She raised her hand again, but Rod ney w as t*m> quick for her. He knocked ! lightly on the door, and then struck it heavily several times. The sound rang hollowly through the corridor, as it always does when the d<M>r of an empty riMitn is beaten upon. There was no answer for u moment. "Oh. I must get in,” said the wom an. Itodney knocked again, nnd this time the door was opened. Shurtllff stood in the way. He luul been white and shaken before, but now so anguished and shocked was liis appearance that everybody start'd. Shurtllff moistened 111* lips and tried to speuk. He could not utter a word, but he did manage to point toward the private office. "Perhaps I would better go first,” said Ilodney, as the secretary stepped back and gave them passage. Helen Illingworth followed, and then the rest. Young Meade was standing erect by his father's chair. The great hulk of the old engineer was slouched down, his body bent over, his head on the desk, face downward. One ■ gTcnt arm. hl« left, extended, shot straight across the desk. His fist was clenched, his right arm hung limp by his side. He was still. There was something unmistakably terrible in bis motionless aspect. They had no need to ask what hud hap pened. A sharp exclamation from the woman was the only sound that broke the silence, as she stepped to her lov er's side. “You can't question my father now. gentlemen,” said Meade; “he is dead.” In the outer office they heard Sliurt 1 iIT brokenly calling the doctor on the telephone and asking him to notify the police. “Did lie—” began one. hesitatingly. “He was too big a man to do himself any hurt. I know,” answered Meade proudly, as he divined the question. “The autopsy will tell. But I am sure that the failure of the bridge has broken his heart.” “And we can't fix the responsibility now," said Rodney, who for his friend’s sake was glad of this consequence of the old mail’s death. “Yes, you can,” said the young man. He leaned forward and laid his right hand on his dead father’s shoulder. Helen Illingworth had possessed her self of his left hand. She lifted it and belli it to her heart. The engineer seemed unconscious of the action, and still it was the greatest thing he had ever experienced. Meade spoke slowly and with the most weighty delibera tion in an obvious endeavor to give his statement such clear definiteness that no one could mistake it. "Here in the presence of my dead father," he began. “I solemnly declare that I alone am responsible for the de sign of the member that failed. My father was getting along in years. He left a great part of the work to me. lie pointed out what he thought was a structural weakness In the trusses, but I overbore his objections. I alone am to blame. The Martlet Bridge company employed us both. They said they wanted the benefit of my father's long experience and my later training and research." "Do you realize. Meade," said Rod- 1 ney, us the pencils of the reporters I flew across their pads, “that in assum- ! ing this responsibility which, your fa- i tlier being dead, cannot be—" “I know it means the end of my ca- ' reer," said Meade, .forcing himself to speak. “My father's reputation is dearer to me than anything on earth.” | “Even than I?" whispered the j woman. “Oil. my God!” burst out the man. { and then he checked himself and con tinued with the same monotonous de- j liberation as before, and with even i more emphasis, "I can allow no other interest in life, however great, to pre- i vent me from doing my full dutv to my father.” lie had been fully resolved to pro tect his old father's fame had the fa ttier survived the shock. The appeal of the dead man was even more power ful than if he had lived. Meade could not glance down at that crushed, broken, impotent figure and fail to re spond. It was not so much love—never bad he loved Helen Illingworth so much as then—as it was honor. The obligation must be met though his heart broke like his father's; even if it killed him, too. And the woman! How if it killed her? He could not think of that. He could think of nothing but of that in ert body and its demand. “Have you no witnesses, no evidence to substantiate your extraordinary statement?" asked Rodney. “I can substantiate it,” said Shutt lin'. coming into the room, having fin ished bis telephoning. "The doctor ana the police will be here immediately, but before they come—" and he drew himself up and faced the reporters boldly. “Gentlemen, I can testify that everything that Mr. Bertram Meade has said is true. I happened to lie here when my dead friend and employer got the telegram announcing the failure of the bridge and, although he knew it was his son's fault, he bravely offered to assume the responsibility and he told me to go to the newspapers and tell them that it was his fault and that his son had protested in vain against his design.” “Why didn't you do it?" asked one of the reporters. “I couldn’t, sir,” faltered the old man. "It wasn’t true. The son there was to blame.” He sauk down in his seat and cov ered liis face with his hands and broke j into dry. horrible sobs. It was not easy for him either, this shifting of responsi j bility. “You see,” said young Meade, “I guess that settles the matter. Now you have nothing more to do here." “Nothing,” said Rodney at last, “not in this office at least. We must wait for the doctor, hut we can do that out side." One by one the men filed out. leav ing the dead engineer with his son, the secretary, and the woman in the room. “Bert,” said the woman, laying her : hand on his shoulder, “why or how I | feel it I cannot tell, but I know in my '• heart that you are doing this for your father's sake, that what you said was not true. Things you have said to I me—" “Did I ever say anything to J’ou," began Meade in fierce alarm, while Sliurtliff started to speak but checked himself, “to lead you to think that 1 suspected any weakness in the bridge?” The woman was watching him keen ly and listening to him with every sense on the alert. Nothing was es caping her and she detected in his j voice a note of sharp alarm and aux iety as if he might have said some thing which could be used to discredit his assertion now. “Perhaps not in words but in little things, suggestions,” she answered quietly. “I can't put my hand on any of them, I can hardly recall anything, | but the impression is there." Meade smiled miserably at her aud again her searching eyes detected re lief in his. “It is your affection that makes you say that,” he said, “and as you admit there is really nothing. What I said just now is true.” It was much harder to speak the lie to this clear-eyed woman, who loved him, than to the reporters. He could scarcely complete his sentence, and in the end sought to look away. “Bertram Meade,” said the woman, putting both her hands upon his shoul der, “look me in the face and tell me that you have spoken the truth and that the blame is yours.” Meade tried his best to return her glance, but those blue eyes plunged through him like steel blades. He did not dream in their softness could be developed such tire. He was speech less. After a moment he looked away. He shut his lips firmly. He could not sustain her glance, but nothing could make him retract or unsay his words. “I have said it,” he managed to get out hoarsely. “It's brave of you. It’s splendid of you,” she said. “I won’t betray you. I don't have to.” “What do you mean?" asked the man. But the woman had now turned to Shurtliff. In his turn she also seized him in her emotion and she shook him almost eagerly. "You, you know that it is not true. Speak 1” But she had not the power over the older man that she had over the young er. The secretary forced himself to look “He Will Point Out Some Way—” at her. He eared nothing for Miss Il lingworth. but he had a passion for the older Meade that matched hers for the younger. “He has told the truth.” he cried al most like a baited animal. “Xo one is going to ruin the reputation of the man I have served and to whom 1 have given my life without protest from me. It's his fault, his, his, his!” he cried, his voice rising with every repetition of the pronoun as he pointed at Meade. Helen Illingworth turned to her lover again. She was quieter now. "I know thnt neither of you is telling the truth,” she said. “Lying for a great cause, lying in splendid self-sac rifice. You are ruining yourself for your father’s name and he is abetting. Why? It can't make any difference to him now. But it makes a great differ ence to me. Have you thought of that? I'm going to marry you anyway. Only tell me the truth. Bert. By our love I ask you. If you want me to keep your secret I'll do it. But if you won't tell me I'll get that evidence, I will find out the truth, and then I shall publish it to the whole world and then—” “And you would marry me then?” asked Meade, swept away by this pro found pleading. "I will marry you now, instantly, at any time,” answered the girl. “Indeed you need me. Guilty or innocent, 1 am yours and you are mine.” “Listen,” protested the engineer, “nothing will ever relieve me of the blame, of the shame, of the disgrace of this. But I am a man. I have youth still, and strength and inspiration. Un til I can hold up my head among men I am nothing to you and you are free.” There was a tiuality in his tone which the woman recognized. She could as well break it down as batter a stone wall with her naked fist. She looked at him a long time. “Very well,” she said at last, “unless I shall be your wife I shall be the wife of no man. I shall wait confident in the hope that there is a just God, and that he will point out some way.” CHAPTER IX. The Unaccepted Renunciation. The doctor and the officers of the law entered the outer office. In spite of the brave words that had been spoken by the woman, the man could only see a long parting and an uncer tain future. He realized it the more when old Colonel Illingworth entered the room in the wake of the others. After he had recovered himself he had hurried to the station in time to catch j the next train and had come to New York, realising at once where his daughter must have gone. “My father is dead,” said Meade as the doctor and the officers of the law examined the body of the old man. The son had eyes for no one but the old colonel. “The failure of the bridge has broken his heart; my failure. Id better say.” “I understand," said Illingworth. “He is fortunate. I would rather have died than have seen any son of mine forced to confess criminal incompe tency like yours.” “Father.” said the girl with a reso lution and firmness singularly like his own. “I can’t hear you speak this way, and I will not.” “Do you go with him or do you not?” thundered the colonel. It was Meade who answered for her. “She goes with you. I love her and she loves me, hut I won’t drag her down in my ruin.” “I am glad to see honor and decency are in you still,” said the colonel, “even if you are incompetent.” “If you say another word to him I will never go with you as long as I live," flashed out Helen Illingworth. “I deserve all that he can say. Your duty is with him. Good-by,” said Meade. “And I shall see you again?” “Of course. Now you must go with your father.” Helen Illingworth turned to the colo nel. “I shall go with you because he bids me, not because—” “Whatever the reason.” said the old soldier, “you go.” He paused a mo ment, looking from the dead man to the living one. “Meade,” he exclaimed at last, “I am sorry for your father, I am sorry for you. Good-by, and I never want to see you or hear of you again. Come, Helen.” The woman stretched out her hand toward her lover as her father took her by the arm. Meade looked at her a moment and then turned away delib erately as if to mark the final sever ance. With bent head and beating heart, she followed her father out of the room. There he had to fight off the reporters. He denied that his daugh ter was going to marry young Meade. She strove to speak and he strove to force her to be quiet. In the end she had her way. “At Mr. Meade’s own request,” she said finally, “our engagement has been broken off. Personally I consider my self as much bound as ever, but in deference to his wishes and to my fa ther’s—” “Have you said enough?" roared the colonel, losing all control of himself at last. “No, I will not be questioned or Interrupted auother minute. Come.” He almost dragged the girl from the room. Within the private office the phy sician said that everything pointed to a heart lesion, but only an autopsy would absolutely determine it. Meanwhile the law would have to take charge of the body temporarily. It was late at night before Bertram Meade and old Shurt liflf were left alone. Carefully seeing that no one was present in the suite of offices Meade turned to Shurtliff. “Get me that memorandum I wrote to my father. You know where he kept It” “Yes, sir, separate from the other papers concerning the International, In the third compartment.” He turned the big safe door slowly. The third i compartment was empty. “It’s gone,” he said. Meade went to the safe, a small one, and examined it carefully and fruitless ly. His letter was not there with the other papers, where it should have been if it were in existence. It was not anywhere. “Father told me he was going to de stroy it. but I rather thought he was keeping it to have some fun with me when the bridge was completed," he said at last. “Yes, sir. that was his intention. In fact, I know he did not destroy it at first. He told me to file it with the plans. He must have destroyed it later. I haven't looked in this com partment for weeks.” “I’ll never forget the lie you told to back me up. Shurtliff. I can see you loved him as much as I." “No one will ever know the truth from me, sir. You saved your father’s name and fame.” “I think we had better search the office now. I wouldn't have that paper come to life for the world,” said Meade. Shurtliff was the most orderly of men. The care of the old engineer’s papers and other arrangements had de volved upon him. The search was soon completed. “I guess he must have destroyed It,” said the young man, “but to be sure I will examine liis private papers at home. Good night. You will be going yourself?” “In a few minutes, sir.” “Come to me in the morning after the autopsy and we will arrange for the funeral,” said the younger man as he left the office. Shurtliff waited until his footsteps died away in the hall. He waited un til he heard the clang of the elevator gate. Even then he was not sure. He got up and in his catlike way opened the door of the office and peered down the hall. It was empty. He stood in the door waiting, while the night ele vator made several trips up and down without pausing at that floor. He sat down at the dead man’s desk. From his pocket he drew forth a packet of pa pers. There were no legal proceedings, al though there were many inquests at the bridge. The cause of the failure was clear. It wns recognized by every one, whose opinion was worth consid ering, that the disaster had resulted from a mistake which any engineer could have made. As a matter of fact there was no experience to guide the designers. There never had been such a bridge before. Certain elements of empiricism had to enter into their cal culations. They had made the plan after their best judgment and it had failed. They could be blamed, even vilified as they were in the press, but that was the extent of their punish ment. The bitter weight of censure fell en tirely upon Bertram Meade. His ruin as an engineer was immediate and ab solute. He was the scapegoat. No one had any good to say of him except Kod ney, who fought valiantly for his friend and classmate, at least striving tc mitigate the censure by pointing out the quick and ready acknowledgment of the error which might have been ascribed to the dead man without fear of contradiction. An effort was made by competitors and stock speculators to ruin the Mart let Bridge company. By throwing into the gap their private fortunes to the last dollar and by herculean work on the part of their friends, the directors saved the Martlet company, although its losses were tremendous and almost Insupportable, not only in money, but in prestige and reputation. Colonel Illingworth came out of the struggle older and grayer than ever. The terrific combat had left him almost broken fot a time, and his daughter saw that it was not possible even to mention Bert ram Meade to him, then. The funeral of the great engineet had been strictly private. Only his confreres, men who stood high in scientific circles, certain people foi whom he had made great and success ful designs, a few others whose ties were personal, had been invited to the house for the services. The interment was in the little Connecticut town of Milford, in which the older Meade had been born, and from which ha had gone forth as a boy to conquer the world. The next Installment tells of young Meade’s big move, which leads to even more startling con sequences than the recent hap penings in his life. (TO BE CONTINUED.) MEN WHO TRAVELED CIRCUIT j Not the Least Famous of Noted Preachers Was Lorenzo Dow— Cautious in Lovemaking. Many were the famous characters produced on the circuits of early days, says Mr. Arthur \V. Spaulding in “The Men of the Mountains"—men fearless in danger, unwearying in labor, endur ing in privation, powerful in exhorta tion, ready in wit. and often prepured to use physical as well as spiritual muscle in their combats with the devil and his human agents. Among the most interesting of them ; was Lorenzo Dow, a roving preacher whose work was not confined to the mountains or the frontier: for although he labored from the high peaks of North Carolina to the banks of the Mississippi and from Georgia to Can ada. he was well known also along the Atlantic coast, and even in England and Ireland. Uestless and eager, he continually traveled; nor would he marry until he had found a young woman who would promise that she would spare him from home twelve months out of :hirteen. His proposal or marriage, a letter that is, I think, unique in the delib eration and caution with which it ap proaches the subject, ran as follows: "If I am preserved, about a year and a half from now I am In hopes of seeing this northern country again: and if during this time you live and remain single, and find no one that you like better than you do me, and would be willing to give me up twelve months out of thirteen, or three year* out of four, to travel, and that in for eign lands, and never say, Do not go to your appointment, etc.—for If you should stand in the way, I should pray to God to remove you, which I believe he would answer—and if I find no one that I like better than I do you. pep haps something further may be said upon that subject.”—Youth’s Com panion. Hearty Appetites of Birds. It is interesting to observe that hun gry birds—and birds are hungry all the time—are not content with full stomachs, but after stuffing the stom ach until it will hold no more, they eat until the crop or gullet also is cram med. It is an undisputed fact that birds have healthy appetites. To show the astonishing capacity of a bird’s stomach, and to reveal the indebted ness of man to birds for the destruc tion of noxious Insects, it is often the case that a stomach will contain two or three times as much material as the stomach should seem normallv to hold This is proved by the reports from examinations made by the assistants of the biological survey. A bank swal low In Texas devoured 68 cotton boll weevils, one of the worst insect pests that ever invaded the United States. A night hawk had eaten 340 grasshop pers, 52 bugs, three beetles, two wasps and a spider. How to Kill Ants. Ants may be driven away by taking a handful of tansy leaves, broken Into pieces and dropped Into boiling water. Dip a brush into this and wash where the ants frequent Do not let the steam get near your eyes, as It Is extremely painful. Another recipe Is: Mix one teaspoonful of tartar emetic and one teaspoonful of sugar and place on the floor. A sure remedy for red eats Is hot alum water, in proportions of two pounds of alum to three quarts of wa ter. Apply to crevices thoroughly Ants on the lawn may be killed by stlri ring up the holes and pouring In kero seoe and hot water. _ For Western Canada and the 160-Acre Homesteads. "In a war like this, they also serve and serve effectively who till the fields and gardens. “It cannot be repeated too often that the world needs every ounce of food it can produce this year, and that the growers of that food are sure of good prices. When men now of middle age were casting their first ballot, ‘dollar wheat’ was the farmer's ideal of pros perity. Today, we have two-dollar wheat, with other grains and meats and vegetables in proportion; and indi cations that any shift from these prices is as likely to be up as d a. “Every acre must work. The farm-r who increases his crops is performi: g a national service, as well as assuring prosperity for himself. There cannot be too much, and unless a united and consistent effort is made, there will not be enough.”—Chicago Journal. Now that the United States has joined with the Allies, the sentiment of the past has merged into the per sonal interest of the present. The duty of the loyal and patriotic citizen is to bend every effort to bring the great World’s War to a satisfactory conclu sion. to assist in all ways the forces that have been fighting at tremendous odds the giant power of autocracy. Victory is now assured; the union of the great fighting force of the United States navy, its military, its financial co-operation, its full and complete sym pathy, will eventually bring about a peace that will be solid and lasting. Canada, just across the border line, that has no mark of fortification, no signs of defense, welcomes the assist ance that the United States is render ing, welcomes this new partner into the arena that is battling for a disruption of the forces that breed and beget tyr anny and oppression, nn<i figluing for a democratic and free world. What a sight it will be to see the American and the Canadian, with the Stars and Stripes and the Maple Leaf of Canada emblazoned in one fold and entwined in their effort to rid the world of an incubus that has disregarded all laws— human and divine. There Is a necessity for the greatest ■ effort ever was made, not only on the | battlefields of Europe, not only on the mined and submarined seas, but in carrying out on the peaceful fields of agriculture, the plans so urgently requested by those at the head of the departments of resources. The recent reports by the Government show a great falling off in the amount of grain that may be expected from the crop as of recent date, being only a little over CO per cent. 16 per cent less than the average. Every patriotic American will bend all his effort towards increasing this. He may not shoulder a musket, but he can handle a hoe, he can drive a team and man age a plow. He will be doing yeoman service in this way, and assist in a wonderful manner the man who is fighting in the trenches. If he does not now own a piece of land, by all means get one—rent it, buy it—get it. There is lot of vacant land that will give ample return for his labor. The desire to possess a home, to im prove it and to prosper, is natural to every American, and today unprece dented offers are being made to secure the residence of the home-hunter. The war condition is drnining the continent of its foodstuffs and economists are endeavoring to meet the rapid deple tion of the nation's stores of grain and other farm products. Western Canada has proven her claim to being the natu ral producer of economically grown foodstuffs aud is endeavoring to over come a world’s shortage in necessities by offering her lands, practically free, to anyone who will take them and pro duce. Labor is scarce in Canada, and is now being bonused. Good wages are offered and the time a farm hand is drawing pay in 1917, is considered by the Canadian Government, the same as residence duties on one of the free 160 ncre farms, that this Government is giving away, in order to settle the fer tile prairies and bring about within a few years a half billion annual crop of wheat. The most conclusive evidence is available to any inquirer, that Western Canada farm lands will produce more wheat of a better quality and at a lower cost of production per acre than has heretofore been known in grain growing countries. It is no idle state ment to say, that yields of fifty bushels to the acre of wheat are grown in Can ada ; the statement is made in all seri ousness and is backed up by the let ters and affidavits of reliable farmers in Western Canada. These farmers are enjoying the same home comforts that their neighbors to the south par ticipate ; they have the same good houses, the same good horses and cattle, the same good roads and com munication, as well as the same good social conditions, and, best of all. they own their laud and what they earn they own for themselves, being a foun dation for greater wealth and Inde pendence.—Advertisement. Queer Things You Hear. The Small One (a benedict)—You should marry, old top. A bachelor is but hall a man. Allen's Foot-Ease for the Troops. The antiseptic powder to be shaken into the shoes or used in the foot-bath. Young men in i every community are using Allen's Foot.Ease in their drills for Military Preparedness. t'--d . by the Allied. French and Euglish troops be ! cause it rests the feet, takes the friction from the shoe and makes walking easy.—Adv. ; Inhe a day off occasionally and let j the rest of the crowd do the worry ing your duty before blaming others for not doing theirs. ! fiEwE! Murine is for Tired Eyes. 1 1 WiOYiOS Red Eyes — Sore Eye#—5 2 Granulated Bye lids. Reeti — = s Befreshes — Restores. Murine is a Favorite = 2 Treatment for Byes that feel dry and smart. 2 Z Give your Byes as much of your loving care z 2 at yoar Teeth and with the tame regularity. 2 E CUE FOR THEM. YOtt GAMUT BUY MEW EYES! z 2 Sold at Drug and Optical Stores or Dy Mail. = | Ask Hurst Ejrt Renefly Co„ Chicago. for Frtt Book = allUIUttlltUI IMIIU<miMIUIimiMIIMIMimiNIUIIIMMIlMi2
