Nebraska Newspapers

    The HILL
A Story About an Ex
periment With Life
By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
JOHN STRANGEWEY FEELS THE LURE OF LOVELY WOM
AN AND IS UNABLE TO BREAK THE SPELL
LOUISE HAS WOVEN
♦
Synopsis.—i »ti it trip through the Kn«lisli Cuiuherland country the
.m of her autoinohile force- Louise Maurel. it famous Loudon
tr.-» to sj*end the ni^lit sit the farm home of John and Stephen
> rsuj- At dinner Louise discovers that the brothers are vvomun
■i*e>. Nett tnornin. >li. discovers that John, the yomg«r
••roth*-r has recently come into a lame fortune. In company with him
i-t| ...re- the farm and is disturbed by evidence of his ri^id moral
prin. ip!. '. lie learns she is a friend of the prince of Sayre, a rich
and disreputable neighbor. Three months later, unable to shake off
tb*- trirl's memory. John goes to London.
CHAPTER V—(Continued.)
“Vot aren't letting your thoughts
dwell upon that woman?"
“I have thought about her sotne
(!in —- " John answered. almost defiant
ly. "What's the harm? I'm still here,
am I ietr
Sr.*phen rossed the mum. From the
drawer ..f the old mahogany sideboard
he produced an Illustrated |>al*er. He
•urn.-l buck the frontispiece fiercely
and held it up.
“I*o yidl see that, John?"
“r»e seen it already."
Stephen threw the paper upon the
table.
“She's going to act In another of
those confounded French plays." he
•aid; “translations with all the wit
•ak.-n out and all the vulgarity left
la"
"We knew nothing of her art." John
declared coldly. “We shouldn't under
stand It. ev.» If we saw her act. There
f.»re it isn't right for us to judge her.
The world has found her a great ac
•n-s, she is not responsible for the
p'ays sh.- a< ts In.”
Stephen turned away aad lit his
plj»- an. * He smoked for a minute or ■
two fur j-\. His thi.'k eyebrows
ca’ae closer and closer together. He
to t«- turning some thought
ever in hi* mind.
“John " he asked, “is it this cursed
®>.taey that is making you restless?" !
"I never think of it except when j
s-itueooe . » h«-ggitig. I promised a
thousand pounds to the infirmary to- j
day"
I n»-n what - wrong with you?
himself out. a splen
d t figure of healthy manhood. Hts
«heek» »i-i> sun-tanned. his ey*»s clear
■ad bright.
"Tlo- mutter? There's nothing on
nr'h the matter with me,” ho de
riind
"it mtir health I moan. There
are other things, as you well know.
You do your day's work and you take '
jour idensure. and you go through t>oth ,
as if 'our for' were oil a treadmill." ]
“Your fancy. Stephen!"
‘God grunt It! I vr had un urnvel- j
rotue visitor in your absence.”
John turned swiftly around.
“A visitor?" he repeated. "Who was
nr
S!e|4ien glowered at him for a ino- ;
metif.
• "It was -h,- prince.” he said: "the
pritiee of S« vre, as he calls himself,
though lie has the right to style him
self M:»»ter of Itayiihniu. It's only his !
foreign whlrti l akes him choose
what I regard as the lesser title. Yes,
I-<
"You Aren't Letting Your Thoughts
Dwell Upon That Woman?"
he rall.il .. ask you to shoot iinil stay
at the e»-tl. if you would, from the
sixteenth to the twentieth of next
mouth."
"W hat mi- • r did you give him?"
“I told hi: that you were your own
b i'tor. Y.*u must send word tomor
•|!e >hd hot mention I he names of
# t Ids other . its. I suppose?"
“lie mentioned ai. names at all."
J'dMi wa> sil. i,t • <r a moment. A
!>.-ntMeriujf th m^li' had taken hold of
h. S’iH«.isinK si*, .vt-re to he there?
st. t.bea. wati hina 1dm. read lus
thoughts. and fur a i. ■ .tent lost eon
awi of himself.
“Were you thinking u'uut that worn*
^n?’ he mkrtl sternly.
“What wotjian?"
"The mann whom we sheltered
h..re. the woma* wrbose s' am’eless jdc
ture is on the «i»ver of that !«ook.”
John swuns n»uud on his heel.
• that. Stephen!” he said men
a<dnel>.
•Win should I r the older man re
torted.’ “Take up that «f J«u
want to read a sketeh of the life of
Moure!. See the plaj she nmde
u*n»** Id—*Ln Giocooda !
“What about it?”
Stephen held the paper out to his
brother. John rend a few lines and
dashed It into a corner of the room.
“There's this much about It. John.”
Stephen continued. "The woman played
that part night after night—played it
to the life, mind you. She made her
reputation in It. That's the woman
we unknowingly let sleep beneath this
roof; The barn Is the place for her
and iter sort!”
John's clenched fists were held firm
ly to his sides. His eyes were blazing.
"That’s enough. Stephen!” he cried.
"No. It's not enough!’’ was the fierce
reply." “The truth's been burning in ray
heart long enough. It's better out.
^ ou want to find her a guest at Rayn
hani castle, do you?—Raynham castle,
where never a decent woman crosses
the threshold! If she goes there, she
goes— Well?"
An anger that was almost paralyz
ing. a sense of the utter impotence of
words, drove John in silence from the
room. He left the house by the back
door, passed quickly through the or
chard. where the tangled moonlight lay
upon the ground in strange, fantastic
shadows: across the narrow strip of
field, a field now of golden stubble; up
the hill which looked down upon the
farm buildings and the churchyard.
He >at grimly down upon a great
bowlder, filled with a hateful sense of
unwreaked passion, yet with a sheer
thankfulness in his heart that he had
escaped the miasma of evil thoughts
which Stephen’s words seemed to have
created. The fancy seized him to face
these half-veiled suggestions of his
brother, so far as they concerned
himself and his life during the last
few months.
Stephen was right. This woman who
hud dropped from the clouds for those
few brief hours had played strange
havoc with John's thoughts and his
whole outlook upon life. The coming
of harvest, the care of his people, his
sports. Tiis < rieket. the early days upon
the grouse moors, had all suddenly
lost their Interest for him. Life had
become a task. The echo of her half
pMaking, half-challenging words was
always in his ears.
Me sjit with his head resting upon
his hands, looking steadfastly across
the valley below. Almost at his feei
lay the little church with Its grave
yard. the long line of stacks anti barns,
the laborers’ cottages, the bailiff's
house, the whole little colony around
which his life seemed centered. The
summer moonlight lay upon the grotnd
almost like snow. Me could see the
sheaves of wheat standing up in the
most distant of the cornfields. Beyond
was the dark gorge toward which he
hatl looked so many nights at this
hour.
Across the viaduct there came n
blaze of streaming light, a serpentlike
trail, a faintly heard whistle—the Scot
tish express on its way southward
toward London. Mis eyes followed it
out of sight. Me found himself think
ing of the passengers who would wake
the next morning in London. He felt
himself suddenly acutely conscious of
his isolation. Was there not something
almost monastic in the secusion which
had become a passion with Stephen,
and which had its grip, too, upon him—
a waste of life, a burying of talents?
He rose to bis feet. The half-formed
purpose of weeks heW him now, defi
nite and secure. He knew that this pil
grimage of his to the hilltop, his rapt
contemplation of the little panorama
which had become so dear to him, was
in a sense valedictory.
• •••••*
After all. two more months passed
before the end came, and it came then
without a moment's warning. It was
a little past midday when John drove
slowly through the streets of Market
Ketton in his high dogcart, exchanging
salutations right and left with the
tradespeople, with farmers brought
into town by the market, with ac
quaintances of all sorts and condi
tions. More than one young woman
from the shop windows or the pave
ments ventured to smile at him, and
th** few greetings he received from the
wives and daughter of his neighbors
were as gracious as they could possibly
be made. John almost smiled once, in
the act of raising his hat, as he real
ized how completely the whole charm
• if the world, for him, seemed to lie in
one woman's eyes.
At the crossways, where he should
have turned to the inn, he paused while
a motorcar passed. It contained a
woman, who was talking to her host.
She was not in the least like Lou
is.-. and yet instinctively he knew that
she was of the same world. The per
fection of her white-serge costume, her
hat so smartly worn, tin* half-insolent
smile, the little gesture with which she
raised her hand—something about her
unlocked the floodgates.
Market Ketton had seemed well
enough a few minutes ago. John had
felt a healthy appetite for his midday
meal, and a certain interest concerning
a deal in barley upon which he was
about to engage. And now another
world had him in its grip. lie flicked
the mare with his whip, turned away
front the inn, and galloped up to the
station, keeping pace with the train
whose whistle he had heard. Standing
outside was a local horse dealer of his
acquaintance.
“Take the mare hack for me to I’eak
Hull, will you, Jenkins, or send one of
your lads?” he hegged. "I waut to
catch this train.”
The man assented with pleasure—it
paid to do a kindness for a Strange
wey. John passed through the ticket
office to the platform, where the train
was waiting, threw open the door of
a carriage, and flung himself into a
corner seat. The whistle sounded. The
adventure of his life had begun at last.
CHAPTER VI. .
The great French dramatist, dark,
pale-faced and corpulent, stood upon
the extreme edge of the stage, bran
dishing his manuscript in his hand. He
banged the palm of his left hand with
the rolled-up manuscript and looked at
them all furiously.
“The ouly success I care for,” he
thundered, “is an artistic success!”
“With Miss Maurel playing your
leading part, M. Graillot," the actor
munager declared, “not to speak of a
The Whistle Sounded. The Adventure
of His Life Had Begun at Last.
company carefully selected to the best
of my judgment, I think you may ven
ture to anticipate even that.”
Tlje dramatist bowed hurriedly to
Louise.
“You recall to me a fact.” he said
gallantly, “which almost reconciles me
to this diabolical travel y of some of
my lines. Proceed, then—proceed! I
will be as patient as possible.”
The stage manager shouted out some
directions from his box. A gentleman
in faultless morning clothes, who
seemed to have been thoroughly enjoy
ing the interlude, suddenly adopted the
puppetlike walk of a footman. Other
actors, who had been whispering to
gether in the wings, came hack to their
places. Louise advanced alone, a little
languidly, to the front of the stage. At
the first sound of her voice M. Grall
lot, nodding his head vigorously, was i
soothed.
Her speech was a long one. It
nppenrod that she had been arraigned
before a company of her relatives, as
sembled to comment upon her mis
deeds. She wound u> with a passion
ate appeal to her \usband, Mr. Miles
Faraday, who hud made an unexpected
appearance. !.L Graillot’s face, as she
concluded, was wreathed in smiles.
"Ah !" tie cried. “You have lifted us
all up! Now I feel once more the in
spiration. Mademoiselle, I kiss your
nand,” £e went on. “It is you who still
redeem my play. You bring back the
spirit of it to me. In you I see the em
bodiment of my Therese.”
Louise made no movement. Her
eyes were fixed upon a certain
shadowy corner of the wings. Over
wrought as she hud seemed, with the
emotional excitement of her long
speech, there was now a new and curi
ous expression upon her face. She was
looking at a tall, hesitating figure that
stood just otT the stage. She forgot the
existence of the famous dramatist who
hung upon her words. Her feet no
longer trod the dusty hoards of the
theater. She was almost painfully
conscious of the perfume of apple blos
som.
“Tou!” she exclaimed, stretching out
her hands. “Why do you not come and
speak to me? I am here!”
John came out upon the stage. The
French dramatist, with his hands be
hind his back, made swift mental notes
of an interesting situation. lie saw
the coming of a man who stood like n
giant among them, sunburnt, buoyant
with health, his eyes bright with the
wonder of his unexpected surround
ings; a man in whose presence every
one else seemed to represent an effete
and pallid type of humanity.
Those first few sentences, spoken in
the midst of a curious little crowd of
strangers, seemed to John, when, he
thought of his long waiting, almost pit
eously inadequate. Louise, recogniz
ing the difficulty of the situation, swift
ly recovered her composure, she was
both tactful and gracious.
“Mr. Faraday.” she said appealingly,
“Mr. Strnngewey comes from the coun
try—he is, in fact, the most complete
countryman 1 have ever met in my
life, lie comes from Cumberland, and
he once—well, very nearly saved my
life. He knows nothing about the
aters, and lie hasn't the least idea of
the importance of a rehearsal. You
won't mind if we put him somewhere
out of the way till we have finished,
will you?”
‘‘After such an introduction.” Fara
day snid in a tone of resignation, “Mr.
Strangewey would he welcome at any
time.”
“There’s a dear man!” Louise ex
claimed. “Let me Introduce him quick
ly. Mr. John Strangewey—Mr. Miles
Faraday, M. Graillot, Miss Sophy Ge
rard, my particular little friend. The
prince of Seyre you already know, al
though you may not recognize him try
ing to balance himself on that absurd
j stool.”
John bowed in various directions,
and Faraday, tnking him good-natured
ly by the arm, led him to a garden seat
at the buck of the stage.
“There!" he said. “You are one of
the most privileged persons in Loudon.
Y’ou shall hear the finish of our re
hearsal. There isn’t a press man in
London I'd have near the place.”
Twenty-four hours away from hfs
i silent hills, John looked out with puz
zled eyes from his dusty seat among
ropes and pulleys and leaning frag
f ments of scenery. What he saw and
heard seemed to him. for the most
part, a meaningless tangle of gestures
and phrases. The men and women in
fashionable clothes, moving about be
fore that gloomy space of empty audi
torium. looked more like marionettes
than creatures of flesh and blood,
drawn this way and that at the bidding
of the stout, masterful Frenchman,
who was continually muttering excla
mations and banging the manuscript
upon his hand. It seemed like a dream
picture, with unreal men and women
moving nbout aimlessly, saying strange
words.
i nen there came a moment which
brought a tingle into his blood, which
plunged his senses into hot confusion.
He rose to his feet. It was a play
which they were rehearsing, of course!
It was a damnable thing to see Louise
taken into that cold and obviously
unreal embrace, but It was only a play.
It was part of her work.
John resumed his seat and folded
bis arms. With the embrace had fallen
an imaginary curtain, and the rehear
sal was over. They were all crowded
together, talking, in the center of the
stage. The prince, who had stepped
across the footlights, made his way to
where John was sitting.
“So you have deserted Cumberland
for a time?” he courteously inquired.
“I came ap .ast night,” John replied.
“London, at this season of the year,”
the prince observed, “is scarcely at its
best.”
John smiled.
"I <3* »f.-uid." he said, “that I am
not critical. It Is eight years since I
was here last. I have not been out of
Cumberland during the whole of that
time.” * "
The prince, after a moment’s incred
ulous stare, laughed softly to him
self.
“You are a very wonderful person.
Mr. Strangewey," he declared. “I have
heart! of your good fortune. If I can
be of any service to you during your
stay in town." he added politely,
“please command iue.”
“You are very kind,” John replied j
gratefully.
J ytnse broke away from the little
group and or.;ue nrfoss toward them.
“Face at. '.381 ' 'he exclaimed. “Now
?er us go out and have some tea.”
They made their way down the little
passage and out into the sudden blaze
of the sunlit streets. Louise le.l John
to a small car which was waiting in
the rear.
“The Carlton.” she told the man. as
he arranged the rugs. “And now.” she
added, turning to John, “why have you
come to London? How long are you
going to stay? What are you going to
do? And—most important of ail—in
what spirit have you come?”
John breathed a little sigh of con
tentment. “I came to sec you," he con
fessed bluntly.
“Dear me!" she exclaimed, looking
at him with a little smile. “How down
right you- are!”
“The truth—” he began.
“Has to be handled very carefully,”
she said, interrupting him. “The truth
is either beautiful or crude, and the
people who meddle with such a won
derful thing need a great deal of tact.
You have come to see me. you say.
Very well. then. I will be just as frank.
I have beei hoping that you would
come!”
“You can’t imagine how good It is
to hear you say that.” he declared.
“Mind.” she went on, ,;i have been
hotting it for more regions than cue.
You have coni'- to realise, I hope, that
it is your duty to try to see a little
more of life than ton possibly can,
leading a patriarchal existence among
your docks and herds."
They were silent for several mo
ments.
“I thought you would come,” Louise
said at last; “and 1 am glad, hut even
in these first few minutes I want to
say something to you. If you wish to
really understand the people you meet
here and the life they lead, don’t he
like your brother—too quick to judge.
Do not hug your prejudices too tightly.
You will come across many problems,
many situations which will scorn
strange to you. Do not make up your
mind about anything in a hurry.”
“I will remember that,” he promised.
“You must remember, though, that I
don’t expect ever to become a convert.
I believe I am a countryman, bred
and born. Still, there are some things
that I want to understand, if I can.
and, more than anything else—I want
to see you!’’.
She. faced his direct speech this time
with mor.e deliberation.
“Tell me exactly why.”
“If I could tell you that." he replied
simply, “I should be able to answer
' for myself the riddle which has kff>l
me awake at night for weeks and
i months, which has puzzled me mort
1 than anything else in life has evei
: done.”
"You really have thought of me
! then?"
I “Didn’t you always know that 1
should?”
“Perhaps." she admitted . "Anyhow,
I always felt that we should meet
| again, that you would come to London,
j The problem is." she added, smiling,
I “what to do with you now you are
j here.”
“I haven’t come to be a nuisance.”
| he assured her. “I just want a little
help from you. I want to understand
because it is your world. I want to
feel myself nearer to you. I want—”
She gripped his arms suddenly. She
knew well enough that she had delib
erately provoked his words, but there
was a look in her face almost of fear.
“Don’t let us be too serious all at
once,” she begged quickly. “If you
have one fault, my dear big friend
from the country,” she went on, with
a swiftly assumed gayety, “it is that
you are too serious? for your years.
Sophy and I between us must try to
cure you of that I You see. we have
arrived."
He handed her out, followed her
across the pavement, and found him
self plunged into what seemed to him
to be an absolute vortex of human be
ings. all dressed in very much the
same fashion, all laughing and talking
together very much in the same note,
all criticizing every fresh group of ar
rivals with very much the same eyes
and manner. The palm court was
crowded with little parties seated at
the various round tables, partaking
languidly of the most indolent meal of
the day. Even the broad passageway
was full of men and women, standing
about and talking or looking for tables.
One could scarcely hear the music of
the orchestra for the babel of voices.
The prince of Sayre beckoned to them
front the steps. He seemed to have
been awaiting their arrival there—a
cold, immaculate, and. considering his
lack of height, a curiously distin
guished-looking figure.
“I have a table inside.” he told them
as they approached. “It is better for
conversation. The rest of the place is
like a bear garden. I am not sure if
they will dunce here today, hut if
they do. they will eome also into the
restaurant.”
“Wise man !*’ Louise declared. “I,
too. hate the babel outside.”
“We art- faced. " said the prince, as
he took up the menu, “with our daily
problem. What can I order for you?”
“A cup of chocolate,” Louise replied.
“Ami Miss Sophy?”
“Tea. please."
John. too. preferred tea; the prince
ordered absinthe.
“A polyglot meal, isn’t it. Mr.
Stmngewey?" said Louise, as the order
was executed: “not in the least what
that wonderful old butler of yours
would understand by tea. Sophy, put
your hut on straight if you want to
make a good impression on Mr.
Strangewey. I aai hoping that you two
will be great friends."
Sophy turned toward John with a
little grimace.
“Louise is so tactless!” she said. “I
am sure any idea you might have had
of riking me will have gone already.
Has it. Mr. Strangewey?”
“On the contrary,” he replied, a little
stiffly, hut without hesitation. “I was
thinking that Miss Maurel could
scarcely have set me a more pleasant
task.”
The girl looked reproachfully across
at her friend.
“You told me he came from the
wilds and was quite unsophisticated!" ,
she exclaimed.
"The truth.” John assured them,
looking with dismay at his little china
cup, “comes very easily to us. We are
brought tip on it in Cumberland."
“Don't chatter too much, child,” Lou
ise said benignly. “I want to hear
some more of Mr. St rangewey's ■ m
pressions. This is—well, if not quite
a fashionable crowd, yet very nearly
so. What do you thiuk of it—the .•.om
en. for instance?”
“Well, to me," John confess-.! can
didly. “they all look like doll= or man- t
1
I ?/ I
"I Want to Feel Myself Nearer to You.
I Want—"
ikins. Their dresses and their hats
overshadow their faces. They seem
:tll the time to he wanting to show, not |
themselves, hut what they have on.”
They all laughed. Kven the prince's
lips were parted by the flicker of a
smile. Sophy leaned across the table
with a sigh.
“Louise,” she pleaded, “you will lend :
him to me sometimes, won't you? You j
won’t keep him altogether to yourself? i
There are such a lot of places to take
him to!”
“I was never greedy,” Louise re
marked, with an air of self-satisfac
tion. “If you succeed in making a
favorable impression upon him, I
promise you your share.”
“Tell us some more of your impres
sions, Mr. Strangewey,” Sophy begged.
“You want to laugh at me,” John
protested g<tod-humoredly.
“On the contrary,” the prince as
sured him. as he fitted a cigarette into
a long amber tube, “they want to
laugh with you. You ought to realise
[ your mine ns n eoro> .»nlon In those
days. You are tlie only person who
can see the truth. Eyes and tastes
blurred with custom perceive so little.
I You are <juite right when you say that
| these women are like manikins; that
I their bodies and faces are lost; but
one does not notice it until it is point
ed out.”
“We will revert,” Louise decided, "to
a more primitive life. You and I will
inaugurate a missionary enterprise,
Mr. Strangewey. We will judge ihv
world afresh. We wilt reeiothe and re
habilitate' it.”
The prince flicked the ash from the
end of his cigarette.
“Morally as well as sartorially?’ he
|asked.
There was a moment’s rather queer
I silence. The music rose above ’ the
j hubbub of voices and died away again,
j Louise rose to her feet. The prince,
i with a skillful maneuver, made his
way to her side us they left the res
taurant.
“Tomorrow afternoon. I think you
said?” he repeated quietly. “You will
be in town then?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“You have changed your mind, then,
about—”
“M. Gruillot will not listen to my
leaving London,” she interrupted rap
idly. “He declares that it Is too near
the production of tilt play. My own
part may be perfect, J>ut lie needs me
for the sake of the others. He puts
it like a Frenchman, of course.”
They had reached the outer door,
which was being held open for them
by a bowing commlssionnaire. John
and Sophy were waiting upon the pave
ment. The prince drew u little back.
“I understand,” he murmured.
r
-I
John finds himself in the midst
of new city adventures, and he
succeeds in captivating more
than one handsome woman of
the stage world.
CTO BE CONTINUED.)
VALUE OF PETROLEUM SHOWN
War Develops Multitude of Uses for
What Were Formerly Regarded as
Merely Its By-Products.
“It has required this war to awaken
England to the importance of the pe
troleum industry to any and every civ
ilized country,” declared Prof. Charles
Greenway, president of the Institution
of Petroleum Technologists in Lon
don.
“The importance of the petroleum
industry to the civilized world develops
with the course of years, but in this
country it is so far only in its Infancy.
It is only now, as a lesson of this terri
ble war, that we are awakening to fhe
fact that petroleum, and the securing
of our own sources of supply of this
valuable commodity, are a national ne
cessity. not only for the great econom
ic struggle which will certainly take
place between the chief commercial
nations after the conclusion of this
war, but as a safeguard against this
country ever again )eing drawn into
such a barbarous a «d destructive con
flict as that in which we are now en
gaged.
“Until within the last few years pe
troleum was only regarded as being of
value for the production of artificial
light, lubricating oils and wax. but
later developments have shown that
its greater value lies in what were for
merly regarded as merely its by-prod
ucts—benzine and fuel for motive pow
«*. solvents for a host of chemical and
allied processes, dyestuffs in various
manufactures, unguents in pharmacy,
jellies and aromatic hydrocarbons for
high explosives. It is, I think no ex
aggeration to say that the demand for
these so-called by-products, and the
uses to which they will be put as time
goes on, are practically illimitable.”
Kitchen Cars Built for Troop Trains.
Kitchen curs thut are individually ;
of sufficient capacity to meet the needs
of a fair-sized hotel are being carried
with the long troop trains operated on
one of the Canadian railways between
military training camps and the seu
board. They have been constructed
to facilitate the dining service so that
meals can be prepared tor several hun
dred men anti served without confu
sion or delay, .y.ys the Popular Me
chanics Magazine. Each of these mo- j
bile kitchens occupies an entire car, !
is equipped with a 10-foot range,
steam-ircking apparatus, a spacious
refrigerator and other necessary par
aphernalia. This is all installed on
one side and inclosed by a long table
extending the full length of the car.
A passageway is provided between this
counter and unobstructed wall, so that
waiters can enter and leave the kitch
en without disorganizing the work of
tlie eight cooks and heljicrs.
Syllables Are Clipped.
But the American does love to save
his words! It was in the elevator of
a skyscraper the other day that the
newest device for clipping syllables
was noticed. The lift had just passed
the tenth ttoor when a morose looking
man spoke to its conductor. “Three,"
said he, meaning, of course, the thir
teenth. When he had been left at the
floor the bearded man grunted out j
“fiye,” and the chap next him said i
hurriedly “seven.” So they were de- |
posited at the fifteenth aud seven- |
teenth tloors, respectively, and then
the elevator boy spoke to the remain- j
ing passenger. “What’s yours?" he
asked. “Nineteen,” returned that j
g&itleman. “Great smoke, it has been ;
so long since I've heard a ’teen that I
hardly understand what you mean," !
said the elevator boy, but he stopped
at nineteen all right.—Exchange.
The Squirrel Dog.
There is no accounting for that uu- '
canny faculty that enables a homely,
long-legged, sad-eyed pup to go un
erringly to a lofty oak tree in whose
higher branches a bit of animated
brown fur Is, secreted. Another dog ]
of the same or more prepossessing ap
ponrnnee and of a better breed might
trot unconcernedly past that same oak
tree without so much as a casual sniff.
But not so with the real “squirrel dog.”
He’d pick out the right tree in the
densest grove a hunter ever penetrat
ed. And if that squirrel started leap
ing from tree to tree, that dog would
follow it over a square mile of tim
ber.
I
I
i
Was Laid Up la Bed]
Doan's, However, Restored Mrs. Vogt to ;
and Strength. Hasn’t Snifered :a.
“I had one of th* w i-.
ney complaint Imuionan
Wm. Vogt, 631+ Amir* y av
Mo., “and I was laid up in tK
at a tim
kidney s* ■ r*-U ■ ;:*
terrible pam
was In such
* that whin I
g I* .ins were lik
a :hru»t. I fir ; s
» couldn’t s' r
h*-ud just thr ■ ■
p«m. ii*ads «
ration w» • )«1 s'
TTiy t<*rr;;> . s.
would
•V* /T numb
^ "My
MRS. VOtiT. air- . I
I could n • ife# ax
breath. I got so nervn .*
I felt Hfc wasn’t worth
wished that I might ’ s
would he ended. Med’el ri
me and I waa discouraged
•"Doan's Kidney Pi;!.* •
ed to me and I could t : i
helped after the first f w d -
getting better ev« ry .
use cured me. My h-alth lv
- every way and best of . t
! been permanent. I f
saved my life ." Sw r»i
| HENRY B SCRKAMl’ N
Get Doan’s at Any Store, 60c 1B .1
DOAN’S Ki?AV\
FOSTER-MILBURN CO.. BUFFALO.
LOSSES SURELY MEYETEJ
DI irif i
GLmLA toCUTTER’S ILK^S ?s..S
gVHf Iwl 1 Low-priced,
WS vh irwh. reiiii. >le; {
■ preferred by
■ B| fm VI western stx k
men, because ttlfy ’
H W protect a her* otr.ar
vaccines fail.
fir Writs for booklet end test! mania!*.
" 10-dos« vk2.Bl2d(lsipm*, jl.OB
50-dtts pkz. Stick! cz Pill*. $4.08
Use any injector, but Cutter’s airrrpiest i- ’
The superiority cl Cutter products :ad r:
years ol spec ialixiny in VACCUSES A.' -
only. Insist on Cuttss*s> II uj-cc ■
order direct.
Ike Cittn UtintMT. Iirtitat. Cat., w tl ;m
C W A Yf P_ Ib not ree-omr
O tt Cairli everythin*; b_
O OAT have kidney
1 bladder trouble
' be found just the medicine ye .
druggists in fifty-cent and do: .
1 You may receive e sample size
I this reliable medicine by Par^e.
! so pamphlet telling: about it
Address Dr. Kilmer & Co Bine
N. Y.. and enclose ten cer.-~
tlon this paper.
4
ay
Kill All Flies!THEYSP i3
DISEASE
all
^acod anywnere,Delay Ply Klllwe attracta aadk.
flics. Meat, ciean. ornamental. coaveniect, aac
aisyFly Killer
IT
hmolo soma*, jao os kjub «*.. bbooiu . ■*.».
.. PARKER S ~—
HAIR BALSAM
▲ toilet preparation of n.
Helps to eratiie*.:#* «Ja.-uir . 3
For Rcitorinjr Color and
[ Beauty to Grey or Fade: Hair.
•c- a:.c il--JO at I r,. „ fa
W. N. U., OMAHA, NO. 32-191
ITALY TO LIMIT DOMINATION
Can Gain No Advantage by Urdu E
pansion on Eastern Shores of
Adriatic, Declares Writer.
It !b, of course, evident tl r Ir
has no advantage to gain frn;,i
<lue expansion of her territi'r !.• >«!
ings on the eastern shores . a<i
riutic. Gllglielmo Kerrero writes in -h
Atlantic. Here the Italian populi '
lives only on the coast, or near ir. : ;
for this reason Italy cannot spr.
her domination far into the Int* :
without incurring the risk of com .:
into serious and severe conflict
the subject Slavic population. or
those Slavic states which will i>.
position to intervene in their th ;
Italian mastery of the eastern
would therefore'he limited to
littoral strip of iand. and one t
be a: great strategist to undo -
what a disadvantage it would
Italy to have to defend a long
frontier a few dozen kilometers ;
the coast, behind which would lit
vast hinterland occupied by pt opt,
seething with discontent at being cu:
off from the sea.
If Italy, then, does not wish to be
come involved in long and arduou
wars for the conquest of this hint.r
land, her purposes will he best served
by reducing to a minimum her terr:
torial annexation on the further sin
of the Adriatic.
Fault ef the Light.
James had been playing late an .
was just about hi wash his hands, .is
he was required to do before coming
to the table, when he saw ids father
filling his plnte Had. ns he was par
ticularly hungry, he looked at his
hands dubiously and decided they
might pass muster; so he took his
place, determined to run the risk of
banishment.
His sister Mar? observed the omis
sion almost at once and said: “Why.
James, look at your hands! They’re
pot clean.”
“Oh, yes, they are, Mary," la? replied.
He considered them a moment. “If
they look dirty it’s just the way the
light strikes them on this white taNe
floth.”
Light, but Congenial Work.
‘‘I don’t see you on the messenger
force now, Billy.” said the lad with
the envelope in his hand.
“No; I’ve got a good job with a dog
fancier.” replied Billy, as he puffed *
cigarette.
“With a dog fancier! What, do y«3
feed the dogs?”
“No. When a kidy comes in and buys
a pet dog, I teaches ’er ‘ow to w histle.”
—Stray Stories.
Retort Vigorous.
Husband—This pic is stale. I won’t
eat it. It is yesterday’s.
Wife—Yes. dear, and if you don’t eat
it today it will be tomorrow’s.—Indian
apolis News.
A Poser.
“Nature abhors a vacuum.”
“’1 hen why is the inside of the pump
kin hollow?”
SAYS
Try a dish of
Post Toasties
tv with cream
for lunch )
on hot days