Black Is White
GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON
ILLUSTRATIONS by RAY WALTERS
(Copyright, 1814, by Dodd, Mead & Company)
CHAPTER I.
—1—
The Message From the Deep.
The two old men sat in the library
eyeing the unresponsive blue envelope
that lay on the end of the long table
nearest the fireplace, where a merry
but unnoticed bed of coals crackled
fiercely in the vain effort to cry down
the shrieks of the bleak December
wind that whistled about the corners
of the house.
There was something maddening in
the fact that the envelope would have
to remain unopened until young Fred
erick Brood came home for the night. j
They found themselves wondering if
by any chance he would fail to come
in at all. Their hour for retiring was
ten o’clock, day in, day out.
Up to half-past nine they discussed
the blue envelope with every inmate
of the house, from Mrs. John Des
mond, the housekeeper, down to the
voiceless but eloquent decanter of port
that stood between them, first on the
arm of one chair, then the other. They
were very old men; they could solilo
quize without in the least disturbing
each other. An observer would say,
during these periods of abstraction,
that their remarks were addressed to
the decanter and that the poor decan
ter had something to say in return.
But, for all that, their eyes seldom left
the broad, blue envelope that had lain
there since half-past eight.
They knew that it came directly or |
indirectly from the man to whom they
owed their present condition of com
fort and security after half a century
of vicissitudes; from the man whose
life they had saved more than once !
in those old, evil days when comforts
were so few that they passed without
recognition in the maelstrom of
events. From midocean James Brood
was speaking to his son.
Twenty years ago these two old cro
nies had met James Brood in one of
the blackest holes of Calcutta, a dere
lict being swept to perdition with the
swiftness and sureness of a tide that
knows no pause. They found him
when the dregs were at his lips, and
the stupor of defeat in his brain, j
Without meaning to be considered
Samaritans, good or bad, they dragged
him from the depths and found that
they had revived a man. Those were
the days when James Brood's life
meant nothing to him, days when he
was tortured by the thought that it
would be all too long for him to en
dure, yet he was not the kind to mur
der himself as men do who lack the
courage to go on living.
Weeks after the rescue in Calcutta
these two soldiers of fortune and an
other, John Desmond, learned from
the lips of the man himself that he
was not such as they, but rich in this
world’s goods, richer than the Solo
mon of their discreet imagination.
What Brood told them of his life
brought the grim smile of appreciation
to the lips of each. He had married a
beautiful foreigner—an Austrian, they
gathered—of excellent family, and had
taken her to his home in New York
city, to the house in lower Fifth ave
nue where his father and grandfather
had lived before him—the house in
which two of the wayfarers after
twenty years, now sat in rueful con
templation of a blue envelope.
A baby boy came to the Broods in
the second year of their wedded life,
but before that there had come a
man—a music master, dreamy-eyed,
handsome, Latin; a man who played
upon the harp as only the angels may
play. In his delirious ravings Brood
cursed this man and the wife he had
stolen away from him; he reviled the
baby boy, even denying him; he
laughed with blood-curdling glee over
the manner in which he had cast out
the woman who had broken his heart
and crushed his pride; he wailed in
anguish over the mistake he had made
in allowing the man to live that he
might glcfet and sneer in triumph. This
much the three men who lifted him
from hell were able to glean from lips
that knew not what they said, and
they were filled with pity. Later on.
in a rational weakness, he told them
more, and without curses. A deep,
silent, steadfast bitterness succeeded
the violent ravings. He became a way
farer with them, quiet, dogged, fatai;
where they went he also went; what
they did, also did he. Soon he led, and
they followed. Into the dark places
of the world they plunged, for peril
meant little to him, death even less.
They no longer knew days of priva
tion—he shared his wealth with them;
but they knew no rest, no peace, no
safety. Life had been a whirlwind be
fore they came upon James Brood; it
was a hurricane afterward.
Twice John Desmond, younger than
Danbury Dawes and Joseph Riggs,
saved the life of James Brood by
acts of unparalleled heroism; once in
a South African jungle when a lion
ess fought for her young, and again
In upper India, when single-handed,
he held off a horde of Hindus for
days while his comrade lay wound
ed in a cavern. Dawes and Riggs,
in the Himalayas, crept down the
wall of a precipice, with five thou
sand feet between them and the
bottom of the gorge, to drag him from
a narrow ledge upon which he lay un
conscious after a misstep in the night.
More than once—aye, more than a
dozen times—one or the other of these
loyal friends stood between him and
death, and times without numbers he,
too, turned the grim reaper aside for
them.
John Desmond, gay, handsome and
still young as men of his kind go, met
the fate that brooks no intervention.
He was the first to drop out of the
ranks. In Cairo, during a curious pe
riod of inactivity some ten months
after the advent of James Brood, he
met the woman who conquered his ven
! turesome spirit—a slim, calm, pretty
English governess in the employ of a
British admiral’s family. They were
married inside of six months. He took
her home to the little Maryland town
that had not seen him in years.
Ten years passed before James
Brood put his foot on the soil of his
native land. Then he came back to
the home of his fathers, to the home
that had been desecrated, and with
him came the two old men who now
sat in his huge library before the
crackling fire. He could go on with
life, but they were no longer fit for
its cruel hardships. His home became
theirs. They were to die there when
the time came.
Brood's son was fifteen years of age
before he knew, even by sight, the
nr 1 whom he called father. Up to
t! j time of the death of his mother,
in the home of her fathers, he had
been kept in seclusion.
There had been deliberate purpose
in the methods of James Brood in so
far as this unhappy child was con
cerned. When he cast out the mother
he set his hand heavily upon her fu
ture. Fearing—even feeling—the in
fernal certainty that this child was not
his own, he planned with machiavellian
instinct to hurt her to the limit of his
powers and to the end of her days.
He knew she would hunger for this
baby boy of hers, that her heart could
be broken through him, that her pun
ishment could be made full and com
plete. He sequestered the child in a
place where he could not be found,
and went his own way, grimly certain
that he was making her pay! She
died when Frederic was eight years
old, without having seen him again
after that dreadful hour when, protest
- -
The Patient Butler, Jones, Had Made
Four Visits to the Library.
ing her innocence, she had been
turned out into the night and told to
go whither she would but never to re
turn to the house she had disgraced.
James Rrood heard of her death
when in the heart of China, and he
was a haggard wreck for months 1
thereafter. He had worshiped this
beautiful Viennese. He could not
wreak vengeance upon a dead woman;
he could not hate a dead woman. He
had always loved her. A fewr years
after his return to New York he
brought her son back to the house
in lower Fifth avenue and tried, with
bitterness in his soul, to endure the
word “father” as it fell from lips to
which the term was almost strange.
The old men, they who sat by the
fire on this wind-swept night and
waited for the youth of twenty-two to
whom the blue missive was addressed,
knew the story of James Brood and
his wife Matilde and they knew that
the former had no love in his heart
for the youth who bore his name.
Their lips were sealed. Garrulous on
all other subjects, they were as silent
as the grave on this. They, too, were
constrained to hate th'e lad. He made
not the slightest pretense of appreciat
ing tlieir position in the household;
to him they were pensioners, no more,
no less; to him their deeds of valor
were offset by the deeds of his father;
thdre was nothing left over for a bal
ance on that score. He was politely
considerate; he was even kindly dis
posed toward their vagaries and
whims; he endured them because
there was nothing else left for him to
do. But, for all that, he despired
them—justifiably so, no doubt, if one
bears in mind the fact that they signi
fied more to James Brood than did
his long-neglected son.
The cold reserve that extended to
the young man did not carry beyond
him in relation to any other member
of the household so far as James
Brood was concerned. The unhappy
boy, early in their acquaintance, came
to realize that there was little in com
mon between him and the man he
called father. After a while the eager
light died out of his own eyes and he
no longer strove to encourage the in
timate relations he had counted upon
as a part of the recompense for so
many years of separation and loneli
ness. It required but little effort on
his part to meet his father’s indiffer
ence with a coldness quite as pro
nounced; he had never Known the
meaning of filial love; he had been
taught by word of mouth to love the
man he had never seen, and he had
learned as one learns astronomy—by
calculation. He hated the two old men
because his father loved them.
The patient butler, Jones, had made
no less than four visits to the library
since ten o’clock to awaken them and
pack them off to bed. Each time he
had been ordered away, once with the
joint admonition to "mind his own
business.”
“But it is nearly midnight,” pro
tested Jones irritably, with a glance
at the almost empty decanter.
"Jones,” said Danbury Dawes, with
great dignity and an eye that de
ceived him to such a degree that he
could not for the life of him under
stand why Jones was attending them
in pairs, “Jones, you ought to be in—
hie—bed, d—n you—both of you. Wha'
you mean, sir, by coming in—hie—
here thish time o’ night dis-disturb
ing—”
"You infernal ingrate,” broke in Mr.
Riggs fiercely, “don’t you dare to touch
that bottle, sir. Let it alone!”
“It’s time you were in bed,” pro
nounced Jones, taking Mr. Dawes by
the arm. Mr. Dawes sagged heavily
in his chair and grinned triumphantly.
He was a short, very fat old man.
"Take him to bed, Jones,” said Mr.
Riggs firmly. “He's drunk and—and
utterly useless at a time like this.
Take him along.”
“Who the dev—hie—il are you, sir?”
demanded Mr. Dawes, regarding Mr.
Riggs as if he had never seen him
before.
"You are both drunk,” said Jones,
succinctly.
The heavy front door closed with a
bang at that instant and the sound of
footsteps came from the hall—a quick,
firm tread that had decision in it.
Jones cast a furtive, nervous glance
over his shoulder.
“I’m sorry to have Mr. Frederic see
you like this,” he said, biting his lip.
"He hates it so.”
The two old men made a commend
able effort to stand erect, but no ef
fort to stand alone. They linked
arms and stood shoulder to shoulder.
“Show him in,” said Mr. Riggs, mag
nificently.
“Now we'll find out wass in tele
gram off briny deep,” said Mr. Dawes,
spraddling his legs a little farther
apart in order to declare a stanch
front.
“It's worth waiting up for,” said Mr.
Riggs.
“Abs'lutely,” said his staunch friend.
Frederic Brood appeared in the
door, stopping short just inside the
heavy curtains. There was a momen
tary picture, such as a stage director
would have arranged. He was still
wearing his silk hat and top-coat, and
one glove had been halted in the
process of removal. Young Brood
stared at the group of three, a frank
stare of amazement. A crooked smile
came to his lips.
“Somewhat later than usual, I see,”
he said, and the glove came off with a
jerk. “What’s the matter, Jones? Re
bellion?”
“No, sir. It’s the wireless, sir.”
“Wireless?”
“Briny deep,” said Mr. Dawes,
vaguely pointing.
“Oh,” said young Brood, crossing
slowly to the table. He picked up the
envelope and looked at the inscrip
tion. "Oh,” said he again, in quite
a different tone on seeing that it was
addressed to him. “From father, I
dare say,” he went on, a fine line ap
pearing between his eyebrows.
The old men leaned forward, fixing
their blear eyes upon the missive.
“Lie’s hear the worst, Freddy,” said
Mr. Riggs.
The young man ran his finger under
the flap and deliberately drew out the
message. There ensued another pic
ture. As he read his eyes widened
and then contracted; his firm young
jaw became set and rigid. Suddenly
a short, bitter execration fell from
his lips and the paper crumpled in his
hand. Without another word, he
strode to the fireplace and tossed it
upon the coals. It flared for a sec
ond and was wafted up the chimney, a
charred, feathery thing.
Without deigning to notice the two
old men who had sat up half the night
to learn the contents of that wonderful
thing from the sea, he whirled on his
heel and left the room. One might
have noticed that his lips were drawn
in a mirthless, sardonic smile, and
that his eyes were angry.
“Oh, Lordy!” sighed Danbury
Dawes, blinking, and was on the point
of sitting down abruptly. The arm of
Jones prevented.
"I never was so insulted In my—”
began Joseph Riggs, feebly.
"Steady, gentlemen,” said Jones,
“Lean on me, please.”
CHAPTER II.
Various Ways of Receiving a Blow.
James Brood’s home was a remark
able one. That portion of the house
which rightly may be described as
“public" in order to distinguish it
from other parts where privacy was
enforced, was not unlike any of the
richly furnished, old fashioned places
in the lower part of the city, where
there are still traces left of the Knick
erbockers and their times. This was
not the home of men who had been
merely rich; it was not wealth alone
that stood behind these stately invest
ments.
At the top of the house were the
rooms which no one entered except by
the gracious will of the master. Here
James Brood had stored the quaint,
priceless treasures of his own peculiar
fancy—exquisite, curious things from
the mystic East, things that are not
to be bought and sold but come only
to the hand of him who searches in
lands where peril is the price.
Worlds separated the upper and
lower regions of that fine old house;
a single step took one from the sedate
Occident into the very heart of the
Orient; a narrow threshold was the
line between the rugged West and the
soft, languorous, seductive East. In
this part of the house, James Brood,
when at home for one of his brief
stays, spent many of his hours in se
clusion, shut off from the rest of the
establishment as completely as if he
were the inhabitant of another world.
Attended by his Hindu servant, a
silent man named Ftanjab, and on oc
casions by his secretary, he saw but
little of the remaining members of
his rather extensive household. For
several years he had been engaged in
the task of writing his memoirs—so
called—in so far as they related to his
experiences and researches of the past
twenty years.
His secretary and amanuensis was
Lydia Desmond, the nineteen-year-old
daughter of his one-time companion
and friend, the late John Desmond,
whose death occurred when the girl
was barely ten years of age.
Brood, on hearing of the man’s
death, immediately made inquiries con
cerning the condition in which he had
left his wife and child, with the result
that Mrs. Desmond was installed as
housekeeper in the New York house
and the daughter given every advan
tage in the way of education. Des
mond had left nothing in the shape of
riches except undiminished love for
his wife and a diary kept during those
perilous days before he met and mar
ried her. This diary was being incor
porated in the history of James
Brood's adventures, by consent of the
widow, and was to speak for Brood
in words he could not with modesty
utter for himself. In these pages John
Desmond was to tell his own story, in
his own way, for Brood’s love for his
friend was broad enough even to ad
mit of that. He was to share his life
in retrospect with Desmond and the
two old men as he had shared it with
them in reality.
Lydia’s room, adjoining her moth
er’s, was on the third floor at the foot
of the small stairway leading up to
the proscribed retreat at the top of
the house. There was a small sitting
room off the two bed chambers, given
over entirely to Mrs. Desmond and her
daughter. In this little room, Frederic
Brood spent many a quiet, happy hour.
The Desmonds, mother and daughter,
understood and pitied the lonely boy
who came to the big house soon after
they were themselves installed. His
heart, which had many sores, expand
ed and glowed in the warmth of their
kindness and affection; the plague of
unfriendliness that was his by absorp
tion gave way before this unexpected
kindness, not immediately, it is true,
but completely in the end.
By nature he was slow to respond
to the advances of others; his life had
been such that avarice accounted for
all that he received from others in the
shape of respect and consideration.
He was prone to discount a friendly
attitude for the simple reason that in
his experience all friendships were
marred by the fact that their sincerity
rested entirely upon the generosity of
the man who paid for them—his fa
ther. No one had loved him for him
self; no one had given him an unself
ish thought in all the years of his
boyhood.
At first he held himself aloof from
the Desmonds; he was slow to sur
render. He suspected them of the
same motives that had been the basis
of all previous attachments. When at
last he realized that they were not
like the others, bis cup of joy, long
an empty vessel, was filled .to the brim
and his happiness was without bounds.
They were amazed by the transforma
tion. The rather sullen, unapproach
able lad became at once so friendly,
so dependent, that had they not been
acquainted with the causes behind the
old state of reticence, his very joy
might have made a nuisance of him.
He followed Mrs. Desmond about in
very much the same spirit that in
spires a hungry dog; he watched her
with eager, half-famished eyes; he
was on her heels four-fifths of the
time. As for Lydia, pretty little
Lydia, he adored her. His heart be
gan for the first time to sing with
the joy of youth, and the sensation
was a novel one. It had seemed to
him that he could never be anything
but an old man.
It was his custom, on coming home
for the night, no matter what the hour
may have been, to pause before Lyd
ia’s door on the way to his own room
at the other end of the long hall.
Usually, however, he was at home
long before her bedtime, and they
spent the evenings together. That she
was his father’s secretary was of no
moment. To him she was Lydia—his
Lydia.
For the past three months or more
he had been privileged to hold her
close in his arms and to kiss her good
night at parting! They were lovers
now. The slow fuse of passion had
reached its end and the flame was
alive and shining with a radiance that
enveloped both of them.
On this night, however, he passed
her door without knocking. His dark,
handsome fuce was flushed, and his
teeth were set in sullen anger. With
his hand on the knob of his own door,
he suddenly remembered that he had
failed Lydia for the first time, and
stopped. A pang of shame shot
through him. For a moment he hesi
tated and then started guiltily toward
the forgotten door. Even as he raised
his band to sound the loving signal,
the door was opened and Lydia, fully
dressed, confronted him. For a mo
ment they regarded each other in
silence, she intently, he with astonish
ment not quite free from confusion.
‘Tm—I’m sorry, dearest—” he be
gan, his first desire being to account
for his oversight.
“Tell me what has happened? It
can't be that your father is ill—or in
danger. You are angry, Frederic; so
it can't be that. What is it?"
He looked away sullenly. “Oh, it’s
really nothing, I suppose. Just an un
expected jolt, that’s all. I was angry
for a moment—”
"You are still angry,” she said, lay
ing her hand on his arm. She was a
Tell Me What Has Happened.”
tall, slender girl. Her eyes were
almost on a level with his own.
‘'Don’t you want to tell me, dear?”
‘‘He never gives me a thought,” he
said, compressing his lips. “He thinks
of no one but himself. God, what a
father!”
“Freddy, dear! You must not
speak—”
"Haven’t I some claim to his con
sideration? Is it fair that I should be
ignored in everything, in every way?
I won’t put up with it, Lydia! I’m not
a child. I'm a man and I am his son.
Gad, I might as well be a dog in the
street for all the thought he gives to
me.”
She put her finger to her lips, a
scared look stealing into her dark
eyes. Jones was conducting the two
old men to their room on the floor
below. A door closed softly. The
voices died away.
“He is a strange man,” she said.
“He is a good man. Frederic.”
“To everyone else, yes. But to me?
Why, Lydia, I—1 believe he hates me.
You know what—”
“Hush! A man does not hate his
son. I’ve tried for years to drive that
silly notion out of your mind. You—”
“Oh, 1 know I’m a fool to speak of
it, but I—I can’t help feeling as I do.
You’ve seen enough to know that I’m
not to blame for it either. What do
you think he has done? Can you
guess what he has done to all of us?”
She did not answer. “Well, I’ll tell
you just what he said in that wireless.
It was from the Lusitania, twelve hun
dred miles off Sandy Hook—relayed, I
suppose, so that the whole world
might know—sent at four this after
noon. I remember every word of the
cursed thing, although I merely
glanced at it. ‘Send the car to meet
Mrs. Brood and me at the Cunard pier
Thursday. Have Mrs. Desmond put
the house in order for its new mis
tress. By the way, you might inform
her that I was married last Wednes
day in Paris.’ It was signed ‘James
Brood,' not even ‘father.’ What do
you think of that for a thunderbolt?”
“Married?” she gaspedj “Your fa
ther married?”
“ ‘Put the house in order for its new
mistress,’ ” he almost snarled. “That
message w-as a deliberate insult to me,
Lydia—a nasty, rotten slap in the face.
I mean the way it was worded. Just
as if it wasn’t enough that he has
gone and married some cheap show
girl or a miserable foreigner or heaven
knows—’’
“Freddy! Tou are beside yourself.
Your father would not marry a cheap
show girl. You know that. And you
must not forget that your mother was
a foreigner.”
His eyes fell. "I’m sorry I said
that,” he exclaimed, hoarsely.
Lydia, leaning rather heavily
against the door, spoke to him in a
low, cautious voice.
“Did you tell Mr. Dawes and Mr.
Riggs?”
He stopped short. "No! And they
waited up to see if they could be of
any assistance to him in an hour of
peril! What a joke! Poor old beg
gars! I’ve never felt sorry for them
before, but, on my soul, I do now.
What will she do to the poor old
chaps? I shudder to think of it. And
she’ll make short work of everything
else she doesn’t like around here, too.
Your mother, Lydia—why, God help
us, you know what will just have to
happen in her case. It’s—”
“Don’t speak so loudly, dear—please,
please! She is asleep. Of couree,
we—we shan’t stay on, Freddy. We’ll
have to go as soon as—”
His eyes filled with tears. He seized
her in his arms and held her close.
“It’s a beastly, beastly shame, darling.
Oh, Lord, what a fool a man can make
of himself!”
“You must not say such things,” she
murmured, stroking his cheek with
cold, trembling fingers.
“But why couldn’t he have done the
fine, sensible thing, Lydia? Why
couldn’t he have—have fallen in love
with—with your mother? Why not
have married her if he had to marry
someone in—”
“Freddy!” she cried, putting her
hand over his mouth.
She kissed him swiftly. Her cheek
lay for a second against his own and
then, with a stifled good-night, she
broke away from him. An instant
later she was gone; her door was
closed.
The next morning he came down
earlier than was his custom. His
night had been a troubled one. For
getting his own woes—or belittling
them—he had thought only of what
this news from the sea would mean
to the dear woman he loved so well.
No one was in the library, but a huge
fire was blazing. A blizzard was rag
ing out-of-doors. Once upon a time,
when he first came to the house, a
piano had stood in the drawing-room
His joy at that time knew no bounds;
he loved music. For his years he was
no mean musician. But one evening
his father, coming in unexpectedly,
heard the player at the instrument
For a moment he stood transfixed in
the doorway watching the eager, al
most inspired face of the lad, and
then, pale as a ghost, stole away with
out disturbing him. Strange to say,
Frederic was playing a dreamy waltz
of Ziehrer's. a waltz that his mother
had played when the honeymoon was
in the full. The following day the
piano was taken away by a storage
company. The boy never knew why
It was removed.
He picked up the morning paper
His eyes traversed the front page rap
idly. There were reports of fearful
weather at sea. The Lusitania was
reported seven hundred miles out and
in the heart of the hurricane. She
would be a day late.
He looked up from the paper. Mrs.
Desmond was coming toward him, a
queer little smile on her lips. She
was a tall, fair woman, an English
type, and still extremely handsome.
Hers was an honest beauty that had
no fear of age.
"She is a stanch ship, Frederic,” she
said, without any other form of greet
ing. “She will be late but—there’s
really nothing to worry about.”
“I’m not worrying,” he said con
fusedly. "Lydia has told you the—
the news?”
/’Yes.”
"Rather staggering, isn’t it?” he said
with a wry smile. In spite of himself
he watched her face with curious in
tentness.
“Rather,” she said briefly.
“I suppose you don’t approve of the
way I—”
"I know just how you feel, pbor
boy. Don’t try to explain. I know.”
“You always understand,” he said,
lowering his eyes.
“Not always,” she said quietly.
“Well, it’s going to play hob with
everything,” he said, jamming his
hands deep into his pockets. His
shoulders seemed to hunch forward
and to contract.
“I am especially sorry for Mr. Dawes
and Mr. Riggs,” she said. Her voice
was steady and full of earnestness.
“Do they know?”
“They were up and about at day
break, poor souls. Do you know,
Freddy, they were starting oft in this
blizzard when I met them in the hall!”
“The deuce! I—I hope it wasn’t on
account of anything I may have said
to them last night,” he cried, in genu
ine contrition.
She smiled. “No. They had their
own theory about the message. The
storm strengthened it. They were
positive that your father was in great
peril. They were determined to char
ter a vessel of some sort and start off
in all this blizzard to search the sea
for Mr. Brood. Oh, aren’t they won
derful?"
He had no feeling of resentment
toward the old men for their opinion
of him. Instead, his eyes glowed with
an honest admiration.
“By George, Mrs. Desmond, they are
great! They are men, bless their
hearts. Seventy-five years old and
still ready to face anything for a com
rade! It does prove something,
doesn't it?” .
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
WHY A DOG WAGS ITS TAIL
Italian Scientist Declares Animal Per
forms Action for Conversa
tional Purposes.
Why does a dog wag its tail? No,
this isn’t Foolish Question 41144 Far
from it. It is a sober, solemn prob
lem which has been given long, care
ful scientific investigation, and which
Is now submitted to us with answer
attached so that we needn’t worry our
into the slightest degree of
thoughtfulness over It. Prof. Gius
eppe Renato of Rome, Italy, has de
voted a lot of attention to this ques
tion. So you see there must be some
weight somewhere about it. Profes
sor Renato very kindly and solemnly
tells us that the dog wags its tail for
conversational purposes—and if this
is true, we all know dogs that are
great aonversatlonalists, don’t we?
Professor Renato says great injustice
has been done in the past by scien
tists in not giving animals’ tails a pro
found study sooner. The tall, he sol-|
emnly pointed out, from the stand
point of antiquity, is much older than
other organs of the various animals,
and therefore entitled to be investi
gated first. Biology demonstrates, he
says, that in the gradual development
of animal life the tail was perform
ing various important functions and
working like a Trojan possibly cen
turies before the animal ever began
to dream that it might also be nice to
have paws, or Jahrs or legs. He hopes
his present exhaustive and profound
treatment of the subject will sort of
square matters with the animals or
rather with their tails, on behalf of
past neglectful scientists generally.
And yet, in spite of the arguments of
Professor Renato, some of us will con
tinue to exhibit far more interest in
the dental development and profi
ciency of the dog than in the conver
sational ability shown in tail-wagging,
won’t v.e?—Detroit Free Press.
The Practice of Kicking.
Kicking, like charity, should begin at
home. It ought to be the duty of every
body ut home to object, persistently
and effectively, to the specific over
crowded street car, the badiy paved
road, the encroaching doorstep, the
neglected yard, the malodorous cess
pool, the irresponsible motor car and
the reckless railroad—especially if he
have any personal part in the main
tenance of similar abuses. If the ten
dency1 of these erils were rightly ap
prehended, it a part only of the ef
fort that is expended, presumably, in
objecting to generalized, foreign and
futile subjects were bestowed on spe
ciflc and tangible details, If we would
forego the emotional pleasure of the
impersonal "muckrake'’ to assail the
evil at our very feet—especially if
each one of us were careful to avoid
offense in matters of the same kind—
our country would surely be a much
fairer one.—Unpopular Review.
An Ideal Man.
An ideal husband is one who re
mains unconscious of the fact that
Capita^8 18 gr0WlDS Bt«opeka
Mealtime
Should always tind you waiting
with a hearty appetite—
And your condition should en
able you to enjoy your food.
A “don’t care” or a “no thank
you” disposition indicates—
A lazy liver, clogged bowels or
impaired digestion.
HOSTETTER’S
STOMACH BITTERS
Will tone and sweeten the
stomach and bowels—
Regulate the appetite, assist
the digestion—
Help Nature in every way to
wards improving your general
health.
Try a bottle today, but be sure
you get Hostetter’s.
Some fellows are as quick as light
ning, and just about as flashy.
Happy is the home where Red Cross
Ball Blue is used. Sure to please. All
grocers. Adv.
A Mean Man.
“Does your husband anticipate your
every wish?”
“Yes, and then he says 1 can't have
it."
Taking Chances.
“I'm afraid that filibustering speech
I've been making will subject me to
a great deal of criticism,” exclaimed
Senator Sorghum.
"It’s a good speech.”
“Yes. But it's clearly in violation
of the eight-hour law.”
The Collision.
Two friends had acquired automo
biles, honestly, and were swapping
experiences as whiz navigators.
“I ran into a party on the street
Sunday and had to get off and help
him,” said one.
“I ran into one yesterday," said the
other.
"Did you get off?”
“You bet I didn’t. The judge fined
me $10 for reckless driving.”
FRUIT LAXATIVE
“California Syrup of Figs” can’t
harm tender stomach,
liver and bowels.
Every mother realizes, after giving
her children “California Syrup of
Figs” that this is their Ideal laxative,
because they love its pleasant taste
and it thoroughly cleanses the tender
little stomach, liver and bowels with
out griping.
When cross, irritable, feverish, or
breath is bad, stomach sour, look at
the tongue, mother! If coated, give a
teaspoonful of this harmless “fruit
laxative,” and in a few hours all the
foul, constipated waste, sour bile and
undigested food passes out of the bow
els, and you have a well, playful child
again. When its little system is full
of cold, throat sore, has stomach-ache,
diarrhoea, indigestion, colic—remem
ber, a good “inside cleaning” should
always be the first treatment given.
Millions of mothers keep “California
Syrup of Figs” handy; they know a
teaspoonful today saves a sick child
tomorrow. Ask at the store for a 50
cent bottle of “California Syrup of
Figs,” which has directions for babies,
children of all ages and grown-ups
printed on the bottle. Adv.
That's So.
“Golf is a good game, but it has its
limitations.”
“How so?”
“You never see a golfing story
where the hero saves the game in the
last three minutes of play."—Kansas
City Journal.
Sprains,Bruises
Stiff Muscles
Sloan’s Liniment, will save
hours of suffering. For bruise
or sprain it gives instant relief.
It arrests inflammationand thus
prevents more serious troubles
developing. No need to rub it
acts at once, instantly
relieving the pain, however
severe it may be.
Here’s Proof
Charltt Johnson, P. O. Box 106, Law
ton » Station, .V. >' , write*: "I sprained
my ankle and dislocated my left hip by
falling out of a third story window six
months ago. I went on crutches for four
months, then I started to use some of
your Liniment, according to your direc
tions. and I must say that it is helping
me wonderfully. I threw mv crutches
away. Only used two bottles of your
Liniment and now I am walking quite
well with ons cane. I never will bo with
out sloan s Liniment,”
All Dealers, 2Sc.
Send four cenU in stamps for a
TRIAL BOTTLE
^ Earl S. Sloan, Inc.
Dept. B. Philadelphia, Pa.
SLOAN'S
liniment
Kills R
Pain I