Gloucester County Democrat., November 09, 1893, Image 1

About Gloucester County Democrat. (Woodbury, N.J.) 1878-1932

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I’RICE-*1.E0 I’ER YEAR IN ADVANCE THE CONSTITUTION—THE BASIS OP ODE LAWS AND LIBERTIES. SINGLE COPT FIVE CENTS
VOLUME XVI ' WOODBURY, N. J., THURSDAY, NOVEMBER S, 1893. • =~= NUMBERTs
Fine Cabinet Photographs
$2 PER ZDOZHEJST
By presenting this advertisement.
REOFLAR PRICK-93.M.
DON’T FORrtFT _
That You can find at Starr's the best assortment of
MEN’S and BOY’S wear.
GLOVES of all prices.
SHIRTS and DRAWERS of all prices.
SHIRTS, White and Colored of all kinds,
COLLARS and CUFFS of the best quality.
STOCKINGS at verv low prices.
BED BLANKETS of all colors.
HORSE BLANKETS of all weights.
And to Cap All at the Very LOWEST PRICES.
G. "W_ STARR
Greens Block.
198 Broad street,.Woodbury, N. J.
THEY SPEAK FOR THEMSELVES.
-H. KAYSER——
ONE PRICE HATTER,
10 SOUTH SECOND ST. (twoMarkctBct'ow) PHTLA.
J\J0 HORE COLD FINGERS
O’Connor’s Patent Harness Fastener
EASILY ADJUSTED, WON’T BREAK, CHEAPER
than Leather at i cent a pair.
Agents—Good live hustlers, wanted in Salem, Cumberland and
Cape May Counties. Address
WOODBURY MANFG. CO. - WOODBURY, N. J.
C. SELDEN JOHNSON
Justice of the Peace,
Real Estate, Insurance and Collection Agency,
No. 6 Cooper St., Woodbury, N. J.
Telephone No. 36. Notary Public
Books and Accounts Settled. Money to Loan on First Mortgages
Legal Papers carefully prepared in type-written form.
Sales made or clerked
On Reasonable Terms.
Real estate for sale or to
Rent in Various Localities.
RENTS AND CLAIMS COLLECTED,
And prompt returns of same duly made.
Insurance Effected in First-Class Companies.
H.G.GREEN.Berkley.N.J.
Begs to call the attention of the public that in connection with the
COAL AND LUMBER BUSINESS
-lie has opened up a
Saw, Planing and Feed Mill.
All kinds of Feed ground on Tuesday’s and Friday’s. A large stock
of rough and manufactured Lumber constantly on band
for building and repairing purposes
PORE LEHIGH GOAL.
Call and Examine my Stock
P. O Address Clarksboro.
One Hundred Presents
WILL BE GIVEN TO II
H THE FIRST ONE HUNDRED #
II PERSONS WHO GUESS IN
OUR NEW CONTEST JUST OPENED.
Send for blank and instructions.
GLOBE ASSOCIATION, - SEWELL, H. J.
3D. IRa ZHZ-ADSTTIEiOIR/IET
-DOES THE
Best Cemetery Work !
Yards on Cooper Street,
"W'oodbnry, 1ST J.
^©“Examine His Work and Get His Prices.
LAUB'S BOOT AND SHOE HOUSE
The Spring opening at LAUB'S BOOT AND SHOE HOUSE is the largest ever before held
When you enter Laub’s Shoe House you think you step in a large city store. Everything in that
line is kep' there. An immense stock to select from—over $12,000 worth of the latest styles. A
new stock every Spring. The prices are lower and lower every year.
Men’s fine Dress Shoes from $1.25 up to $5.00. Any price that suits your pocket book. I have
Boy’s Shoes from $1 up. 19 styles of Men s. Boy's and Youth’s. Remember we keep no shoddy
goods. All solid leather and warranted. Our Ladies’, Misses’ and Children’s line is always com
plete, 18 different styles, plain or tip, square or opera toe, at any price from $1.25 uo to fine ladies
hand sewed $4.00 Shoe. All widths from B. to EE All our fine shoes are manufactured expressly
for us. WE KEEP NO AUCTION GOODS.
If you can’t get fitted in a regular shoe, you can, in our Custom Department, for only 50c extra,
have your foot fitted and shoe made to order. We make from 12 to 15 pairs per week to order. Our
working Shoeefor Men and Boys are the best and cheapest in the country. Our Men’s heavy oi
grained Bluchers at $1.25 reduced from $1.50. Our two-buckle Plow Shoe is the best in the mar
ket, reduced from $1.50 to $1.25. Our Boys’ Working Shoe at $1.00 beats all. Our Men’s light
working boot at $2 00, soft and durable. Guaranteed to give satis faction. A look at our windows
will show the latest styles in foot wear and the low prices to which our goods are marked.
CUSTOM WORK AND REPAIRING a SPECIALTY. We sell 15 per cent below
city prices.
188 SOUTH BROAD STREET, - WOODBURY, N. J.
Caterer and Restauranter
A. W. CLAPHAM,
255 S. Broad Street, Woodbury, N. J.
WEDDINGS AND SOCIAL GATHER
INGS Catered for and supplied with delicacies
of all kinds. My long experience enables me to
guarantee efficient service In this line.
-MEALS AT ALL HOURS
At my restaurant. A trial respectfully solicited
Jan. 19, 1893.-1 . W. A. CLAPHAM
WOODBURY PRIVATE SCHOOL,
RE-OPENS SEPTEMBER 5tL
For Circulars address CURTIS J. LEWIS,
WOODBURY, N. J.
June 29, ’93—4m.
IFOIR, S-A^LIE!
A house and lot on Dare street, Woodbury, N.
j J., in fust class order, newly painted and paper
ed. Also house and lot on Lincoln Sl, nearly
new. These are both very desirable properties,
and will be sold at a bargain.
A number of other desirable properties for sale
-(o)-(o)
RENTS, INTEREST, Etc., Collected.
Real Estate Sold, Rented or Exchanged.
Fire insurance effected in the most advantageous
Companies by
William M. Carter,
SURVEYOR AND CONVEYANCER,
127 S. Broad fix., WOODBURY. N. J
American...
...Watches!
R. Gr. PORTER,
132 Broad St.,
Opp. Court House. Woodbury, N. J.
DR. A. GROFF’S
CELEBRATED
XXX
Pennsylvania - dutch
HORSE, CATTLE and
Poultry Powder.
Thousands who have used it indorse it as the
best in the market. For HEAVES it has no
equal. By the use of this Powder nog Cholera
has been kept away. An excellent blood puri
fier. Sold by grocers and druggists.
WM. S. CATTELL CO.
Sole owners and Manufacturers
WOODBURY, - NEW JERSEY.
Etchings,
Pastels,
Steel
Engravings,
Water
Colors,
Paintnigs,
Etc., Etc.
I
Easels,
Picture
Frames,
Parlor
Mirrors
IN ALL THE
Modern and
Antique Styles.
GEO. C. NEWMAN. ADOLPH NEWMAN.
D. W. Conway
Undertaker & Embalmer
No. 297 S. Broad Street,
WOODBURY, N. J.
PROMPT ATTENDANCE AT ALL HOURS
As I am going to establish here in Woodbury,
I want to say that I am prepared to furnish all
kinds of Caskets and Coffins at short notice.
Also to do all kinds of repairing and cabinet
work in all its branches.
Trusting that 1 may prove a true and faithful
servant to the public, I am respectfully,
1). W. CONWAY.
B. P. SWEETEN. F. B. SWEETEN.
B. F. SWEETEN &. SON,
BRIDGE BUILDERS
And General Contractors.
Steam Pile Driving, Culverting
Grading and Paving.
Is. 6 and 8 North Second Street
CAMDEN, N J.
Engines and Pumps to Eire.
^ J. RICE,
Practical Steam & Gas Fitter,
WOODBURY, N. J. (Next door to Newton’s
Hotel.
FIRST-CLASS PLUMBING A SPECIALTY
House-Draining,
-and Ventilation.
ALL WORK GUARANTEED.
June 17 ’87
pSTABLINHED IN 1857.
Newell & Ridgway,
(.Successors to Newell & Bro.) importeis of
WINES AND LIQUORS
AND DEALERS IN
FINE OLD WHISKIE8,
Stores No. II and 13 N. Front St.,
PHILADELPHIA.
A choice selection for family and medicinal
use. PURITY GUARANTEED.
jpOR REST.
For information in regard to renting the Store
Property at 196 South Broad Street, inquire of
W. A. WILSON & CO.,
July 6, ’93-tf. Woodbury. N. J.
^OTICJE OF NETTLEMEKT.
Notice is hereby given that the account of
Maurice Hayes, surviving Executor of the estate
of Morty Hayes, deceased, will be audited by the
Surrogate and reported for settlement to the
Orphans’ Court of the County of Gloucester, on
Friday, November 24th, 1893.
MAURICE HAYES,
^ A Surviving Executor.
Dated Surrogate’s Office, 8ept. 26th, 1893.
mmwiuwMMj. a-nns&v jmesaaotauKr/u
Mr. David M. Jordan
of Edmeston, N. Y.
Colorless, Emaciated, Helpless
A Complete Cure by HOOD’S
SARSAPARILLA.
This is from Mr. D. M. Jordan, a re
tired farmer, and one of the most re
spected citizens of Otsego Co., N. Y.
“ Fourteen years ago I liad an attack of tha
gravel, and have since been troubled with my
Liver and Kidneys
gra^ially growing worse. Three years ago I
got down so low that I could scarcely walk.
I looked more like a corpse than a living being.
I had no appetite aud for five weeks 1 ate
nothing but gruel. I was badly emaciated
and had no more color than a marble statue.
Hood’s Sarsaparilla was recommended and I
thought I would try it. Before I had finished
the first bottle I noticed that I felt better, suf
fered less, the iuflammatioa of the blad
der had subsided, the color began to return to
my fate, and 1 began to feel hungry. After
I had taken three bottles I could eat anything
without hurting me. Why, I got so hungry
that 1 had to eat 5 times a day. I have now
fully recovered, thanks to
Hood’s Sarsaparilla
I feel well and am well. All who know
me marvel to see me so well.” D. M. Jordan.
HOOD’S PlLLS are the best after-dinner Pills,
assist digestion, cure headaelie aud biliousness.
Professional and Business Cards
c. ( ATT*: 1.1.
Surveyor, Conveyancer
REAL ESTATE and Insurance Agent
P. O. Box 6 WENONAH,
Oct 12.1893.ly N. J.
JJR. STEINBOCK,
DENTIST.
1630 N. 12th Street, Philadelphia, Pa.
Painless extracting teeth with nitrous oxide
gas, 50 cents. Artificial teeth and gold fillings a
specialty. All work guaranteed. Red cable car,
foot of Market St., takes you to the door.
June 29,1893—lyr.
JQR. THOMAS LEE,
Physician and Surgeon,
Corner Delaware and Harrison Sts., Woodbury
( 8 to 10 A. if.
OFFICE HOURS-J 2 to 4 p.m.
(and evenings.
Special treatment of Stomach and Nervous
diseases. Feb. 9,1893—tf.
^ H. RICHARDS.
Attorney-at-Law,
OFFICE-106 Market Street,
Camden, - - New Jersey.
Residence, Bridgeport, N. J, 6-92-y
^yiLMER B. HAINES.
Contractor and Builder.
(vlassborO' IV- J
Plans and Estimates furnished on application,
nov. 19, ’91-ly
JUSTIN H. SWACKHAMFR,
Counsellor-at-Law,
And Blaster In Cbaneery. Green’s New
Building, No. 6 Cooper Street, Woodbury, New
Jersey. June 2, ’87
J^R. €. T. BENNETT,
Dentist, Woodbury, N. J.
OFFICE on Broad St. opposite the Court
House, second floor. Office hours from 8 to 12
A. M. anil 1 to 5 P. M. every week day except
Tuesdays. Residence on Newton Ave. first door
on the right from Broad St.
jg FRANK 8ICKLEK,
Auctioneer,
TURNERVILLE. NEW JERSEY.
JP F. REYNOLDS,
Carpenter and Builder,
WOODBURY, N. J. Estimates and plans
furnished.
g VTttINGER,
Auctioneer and Contractor.
Bridges and Wharves built and repaired, by
contract or day work. P. O. address,
BRIDGEPORT, N. J.
Jan. 23, ’90. 1\ O. Box 67.
gUBD’8 NEW
Livery and Peed Stables,
Ncwton'N Hotel, Woodbury, N. J.—
New Carriages and elegant driving horses always
ready for use. A trial respectfully soli
cited. July 21,’89.
JOSEPH F. SITLEY'S
Real Estate Agency,
WBSTVH.LE AND NEWBOLD.
Properties cared for, Rents Collected, Insurance
Placed, prompt returns made.
Feb. 23, ’93-ly
PHILADELPHIA IMMIGRANT
Employment Bureau.
Notice to Farnien.
All kinds of help, male or female always on
hand, direct from the steamers, English, Irish,
Scandanavians. Germans, Poles and Hungarians.
Apply at the office of
KNOLL & 8EIVERTT,
943 SOUTH 2nd St. Philadelphia. 4-27 93-ly.
-ESTABLISHED 18.55_
Charles Fichtel & Son,
W JEWELERS
Nr. 516 S. Second St., Philadelphia.
Dealers in Watches, Clocks, Jewelry, Silver
and Plated ware.
Special attention paid to repairing, and ALL
WORM GUARANTEED.
QHA». E. TON STECIE,
Carpenter and Builder,
WOODBURY, N. J.
Plans and specifications furnished. Mover of
buildings. Jack screws to hire. Buildings hois
ted and raised. May 18, fflMm
JOHN H. CARPENTER,
Plain and Decorative Paper Hanger.
Calls attention of all who need work In his line
that he will promptly attend to all orders by mail
or otherwise, and guarantee satisfaction.
WINDOW SHADES of all kinds on hand and
all kinds of Wall Decoration attended to prompt
ly. Trial order respectfully solicited.
POPULAR PRICES.
Estimates given. P. O. Box 74. Residence, 23 Oak
Street, North Woodbury.
JOHN H. LUPTON,
-FLORIST
GROVER OF PLANTS & CUT FLOWERS
Woodbury Greenhouse,
WOODBURY. (4-17,’90-y) NEW JERSEY
Look at This
SHEPP’S WORLD’S FAIR
Photographed. THE FINEST VIEWS of the
“ W bite City’ ’ ever published. Bound in a hand
some and serviceable volume.
ALFRED S. MARSHALL,
BOARD STREET PHARMACY GREEN’S BLOCK.
CHAPTER X.
A year went by unmarked for Virginia
by a single incident out of tho common,
gray as the wastes of a sea uuruffled by
a storm, unmarked by the approach of a
saiL
Another year came, and when the opu
lent sunlight of early summer was del
uging with its gold the dusty Btreets a
coupe stopped one day at the door of the
house in Chelsea square, and a man, a
stranger, asked for Virginia Kent.
Crossing the threshold of her home, he
had entered her life. Looking into her
eyes, full of nnforgotten days, something
of his lost youth had awakened in his
heart that could only die with death.
This man was Richard Monklow. Vir
ginia had often heard her father speak of
him, especially of his meeting with him
in the auction room the day he had pur
chased “The Masker.”
The first glance at him gave an im
pression that forever remained. He had
followed the sea and followed it as a
commander. His straight, powerful
shoulders had a fearless poise. His glance
was level, soft; his face, its first youth
faded, brown as sere grass, under the
shorn, glittering frost of his hair. His hu
manity was deep, strong, farreaching,
as one could see who looked into his
eyes, and his smile had a warm, bright
sympathy. There were times when he
looked startlingly youthful with his
white hair. There were unguarded mo
ments of sadness when the chronicle of
his years flared eloquently—a confession
in every deepened lino. Then one knew
he had lived the full life of a man in a
crowded 40 years, in the sowing and har
vest time, had garnered barren hopes and
pain, yet without bitterness had tied tho
sheaves.
Ho had come to bring V lrginia to her
father’s bedside. The tremors against
which the old man had struggled so long
had culminated after an excessive de
bauch in a paralytic stroke resembling
death. He had drifted to Monklow’s
rooms and lay where he had fallen.
As she drove away with him that day
Virginia did not dream that the summer
would be past ere she returned to live
again at Chelsea square, but so it was.
In Richard Monklow’s home, where the
softness and fragrance of modern luxury
were more caressing than the breath of
the perfect summer mornings, she nursed
her father to a semblance of health.
Her lonely heart won back a little of
its freshness in these surroundings. Her
lips again voiced joyous laughter.
Friendship that rang like gold had been
generously poured into her life. Her
gratitude went out with equal strength
to Richard Monklow, and to his sister, a
soft voiced, sympathetic woman, who
made her dimly realize what her moth
er’s love might have meant to her.
Then she came home again, and the
days settled back to their wonted placidi
ty, but with this difference—that a bent
and shrunken figure lay limply in a
great chair, and the energy and pride in
her father's still stubborn heart could
only be read now in tho hollow, morose
eyes flashing beneath the puckered
brows.
She stood beside the window one Sep
tember morning, a letter crushed be
tween her hot hands. A mild rain was
drifting like tangled skeins through the
gray air. Beyond lay the college grounds,
a vista of damp greenness.
She opened the crumpled sheet, smooth
ing cut its creases almost tenderly. Her
lips quivered like a child’s.
“You know what I am going to say,”
she read again. “During the summer
that has been lijce no other to me, many
times the words' I longed lo t-peak have
trembled upon my lips, but something in
your eyes always silenced me. Virginia.
I can be silent no longer. I love you sol
The years are dark before you, dear, but
I would keep you safe. No harm, no
pain, should touch you. Too old and
sad, perhaps, you think me. The years
have left their ashes on my hair. I am
asking too much when I ask for your
youth. Yes, yes, I know. But, oh! child,
your eyes lured me to dream again. You
woke my poor, chilled soul, and it is
yours. It but responded to your uncon
scious call. Turn from me, if you must,
and I will put away my dream, but my
soul is forever yours. You possess it,
and I would not have it back. But, oh,
if you would come to me, Virginia!”
Howtho words awoke all the old pain!
She drew her breath in hard, the lips fell
over her heavy eyes, and reading Rich
ard Monklow’s letter she thought of
Tom. These words of searching strength,
quivering with the rejuvenating breath
of love, had been the lever that rolled
the stone from the old grave, and she
stood looking at memories she had be
lieved were crucified.
“My soul is forever yours. I would
not have it back.”
The words were in her mind. She
seemed speaking them in the darkness to
that other who had not listened. Was
it so always? Must one speak and one
not hear? One live, the other wait?
‘Won have a very interesting letter
there, Virginia. You haven’t made a
sound for half an hour.” And at her
father’s voice, reduced now to a petulant
piping that anger made shrill, she start
ed guiltily and thrust it iu her pocket.
• W: -.
“So you’ll be a fool, will youf’
“It’s from Monklow. He's asked you
to marry him. There, there, I know.
When a man is robbed of almost every
faculty but sight and speech he nses
them to advantage. Of course you’re
going to marry him. Of course you are.
He is genuine. He is stanch. He has a
few more years than n novelist would
allow an impatient lover—what of it?
He is younger than half the emasculated,
juvenile dudes floating around this town.
He is the most picturesquely handsome
man I have ever seen and in the meri
dian of his frrfngth. He is a gentleman
by birth. The blood of ladies and gen
tlemen for generations flows in his veins.
Ah, ha! lots of girls in his own set would
stay at home and chase no more the pov
erty stricken dnke if they thought there
was a chance of catching Richard Monk
low. I have no objection to him. He is
everything I admire and commend. I
give my consent, Virginia.”
Since his illness Virginia had grown
accustomed to treating her father like a
pettish child. Sho went to him, laid
both her warm palms on his bald crown,
and smiling looked tenderly at him.
“No, daddy. 1 don't want to marry,
ril stay with you yet awhile.”
The sudden fury of his gaze was like
the leaping of an. unlooked for flame
from a dead fire.
“So you’ll be a fool, will yon? You’ll
say no? You’ll fling away wealth that
could give me, in my last accursed days,
a few of the luxuries I was accustomed
to? And why? Oh, you fool I” and his
blue, quivering lips seemed to spit out
the words, “and why? Because you are
still thinking of that fellow, that scamp,
that Murray, who gave yon the go by.
Don’t I know? You sentimental idiot,
he had no romantic memories to hold
him back! He has looked to it that his
bread will be plentifully buttered. Read
today’s paper. After a splurge in Eu
rope, a courtship on the steamer coming
home, he’s going to marry General Bau
dome’s widow—a woman worth mil
lions. Do you hear? Refuse to marry
Monklow, and I’ll never forgive you."
He was a terrible sight in this sudden
spasm of rage—repression, his lifelong
habit, fallen from him like a garment
loosed by his palsied fingers.
Virginia straightened her young figure,
her arms hanging loosely at her sides
and as white as “The Masker” laughing
beside her.
The patience and silence of the past
fled away like shades, and resistance,
fully armed, took their place.
“Then you’ll never forgive me, for X
do refuse,” she said steadily, but scarce
ly louder than a breath. “What sort of
life have I lived here at your very side?
Will you hear, now, at last? You flung
away your money while you could. Yon
thought wholly of your pleasures. Yon
gave mo nothing. You didn’t think.
You didn’t care. And I havo worked
with my hands, my brain, at anything I
could find to do—yes, often while you
slept. Now you have said all you could
to wound me,” and there was an angry,
sobbing break in the accusing voice. “I
could bear even that. But you shall not
take all, father—not my body, my soul.
They are my own.”
Everything was dark as sho went
blindly from the room. Sho had a faint
intention of going out in the rain—a
sense of supremo and awful loneliness.
The door closed upon her, and sho would
have stumbled bad not strong anus
caught her. She looked up and saw
Richard Monklow. One glance at his
face, drained of the line of life under
neath the brown, the lips contracted, the
kind eyes sad, and she saw he had heard
all.
“1 asked for tuo much. Forget my
words, Virginia,” he said when he could
speak. “Forget all save these—that I
can only live if yon will let me serve
you, see yon sometimes, be near you. I
am yours. Use me as yon will.”
CHAPTER Xi.
Delatole was dressing to dine out. As
hestruggled with a collar button ho
turned his head to listen to the lazy lilt
of a song coming from a room across the
hall. His face wore an ill humored
frown. It was very evident that the
song and the singer impressed him with
equal unpleasantness.
“Do stop that humming, for God's
sake!” he cried out at last. “It’s enough
to drive one mad.”
There was no reply, and a few mo
ments later Tom lounged across the hall.
He was very different from the waver
ing, tempted roan who rushed from Vir
ginia’s presence that snowy night almost
two years before. His face had lost the
flashing earnestness that rose from an
ecstatic heart. It had taken on resolute
lines and an expression of worldly sub
tlety. The cheeks were slightly hol
lowed, the eyes placidly heavy, cold,
showing the haggard lines of dissipation.
“Was I singing? I swear I didn’t know
it,” he said languidly.
Delatole surveyed him with a cold, un
changing glance.
“Still in yonr blonso and slippers.
Won’t you look in upon the theater par
ty at all?”
“I don’t care a hang about it.”
“Aren’t you afraid Mrs. Baudoino will
send out a search warrant for you?”
“Let her send.”
“Cool for a prospective bridegroom.”
“Prospective idiotl” And Tom set
tled himself very comfortably on his
back on a low divan. “I’ll never marry
Mrs. Bandoine. As the girl in the song
says, ‘Something tells me so.’ Couldn't
yon, with your managerial tactics, help
me out of that scrape? You know she
did all the running—not L”
Delatole drew on his gloves in silence.
He grew white, and when he caino to
the foot of the divan and let liis eyes
travel slowly over Tom's supine length
a rage only half controlled made his lips
tremble.
“In my opinion,” he said slowly, with
emphasis, “you’ll bo in a fair way to
need the material help of Mrs. Ban-,
doine’s money very soon.”
“Really? Oh, then there are times
when marriago seems good unto you?”
And a burning glance was flashed at
him from beneath Tom’s lowered lids.
“My opinion about marriage has not
altered in the least. But if a man can
only fail, if he can’t even support him
self, the most practical thing is to find
some woman silly enough to shoulder
the responsibility.”
“Go on. Your English grows more
vigorous day by day. It’s really a lib
eral education to bo allowed to hear you.
Surely you haven’t finished yet. You
said more than this yesterday.”
“No, I haven’t finished. I want to re
mind you once more that you owe me
money. More than that, I want it. Tm
sick of your spiritless languor. I never
knew a man let himself drop as you
have done. Because you go at a rapid
pace is no reason why you should die
mentally. I haven’t. But you can’t
drink at all without drinking too much
and keeping it up too long. In fact, you
axe an extremist in everything There’s
a genius in moderation.”
“Don’t stop for breath. I am a-thirst
for the rest. More—more,” said Tom
without moving an eyelash.
“You shall have it all. The time has
come for plain talking,” and there was
a savage snarl in the words. “I want
my money. It seemed there was some
hope of getting it from this Baudoine
marriage, as I don’t believe you’d write
another word.”
“Don’t yon':”
"No. It may be you’ve tried and
can’t—it may be you don’t care. In
either case I’ve been bitterly disappoint*
,ed in you. You’re the last embryo genius
111 put on a pedestal. Genius? By heav
en! that’s rich. Why, you’ve fallen in
to psychical ruin. You exhausted your
self in ‘The World’s Way.’ ”
An unwilling, dusky red started up
in Tom’s hollowed cheek. It ebbed slow
ly away as, opening his eyes wide, he
smiled at Delatole with an expression of
positive hatred.
“That is one of those charmingly
soothing speeches we must learn to ex
uect from thoso we live with. But you
are wrong. me ironoie ues uere. l
unfortunately must still lie sincere and
must put something of myself into ev
erything I write. When one believes in
and cares for so little, it is very hard. I
have not yet matched your stride, you
see—you who with one arm around your
neighbor’s wife could write an essay on
the beauty of morality.”
Tho door banged, and Delatole’s foot
Bteps grew fainter in the echoing pas
sage. In the silence that followed Tom
still lay motionless, his wide open eyes
fixed upon the coiling, the small unob
trusivo sounds of a quiet room flutter
ing the loneliness that settled around
him. '
“How I hate him!’1 and though the1
words were but a whisper their reality
was intense.
He thought of the past.
That year in Paris—every detail of it
returned to him as he toy there—that
crowded, riotous, unholy year. His first
taste of pleasure, his exuberant appre-1
ciation of life carrying him along with
the rush of a laughing stream going
down hill; the new, fevered atmosphere;
tho days spinning by in a sort of moral
vertigo; the crowd that called him to
follow where it was brightest, that
brightness lining the sheer descents of
vice.
And now? Now he was back in famil
iar New York, bound by honor by a wo
man who wearied him, inclined to rid
himself of tho obligations ho had as
sumed in the beginning through sheer
disinclination to the trouble of resisting,
following pleasure with a foreknowledge
of weariness, in debt to Delatole while
straining at the woruout cord tliat bound
them, struggling against the maddening
inactivity that palsied his faculties in
the art still dear to him.
A sharp, quivering breath came from
his lips.
Delatole had spoken truly. Some
thing had withered within him, or in
the degradation of his life ho had lost it
forever. He had striven to write and
always in vain. His ideas were no long
er vivid, stirring, flowing lu ;i logical
sequence, but dim, abortive—a haze of
tangled threads. Heaps of closely writ
ten paper, upon which tho best efforts of
his brain had been expended with the
feverish intensity a man feels in running
a race, had been cast aside as worthless.
The day was surely coming when his
world would know the truth and likon
him to a plant that puts forth radiant
blossoms once and withers in a night.
How miserably he had failed! Was
there no escape from social annihila
tion except by trading on the infatua
tion of a woman 10 years older than
hinielf? And once—once—when he had
thought like one inspired, and honor was
a shining reality in his life, he liad be
trayed love for a chimera. But he must
not remember that, and least of all to
night, in the silence, when liis thoughts
were like knives in his heart.
He stood up, shivering, and from habit
turned to tho sideboard. He half filled
a goblet with brandy and laughed aloud
as the decanter clinked against the glass
in his hand, a laugh that subsided to a
chuckle and rose again, beating upon the
stillness like the wings of a caged bird.
“It wouldn’t be out of order to drink
a toast to my own defeat.”
When ho re-entered his studio a few
months later, liis eyes were flaming,
though the smile—a hideous contortion
—lingered on his lips.
An open letter on his disordered desk
faced him as he sat down. The closing
lines caught his eye:
I will finally withdraw “The World’s Way”
from tho road in a fortnight. Now that four
act society drama is what I’m waiting for. In
two years I’ve iiad only two curtain raisers
fromyou—rags of things that only drew at ull
because your name was to them. If I can’t rely
on you, I must look elsewhere. If yiftii'e not
going to write nny more, for God’s sake say bo.
Geohoe PiksKirr.
Ho read it ami toro it to bits. f There j
was a sob in his throat as liis eager hands
went searching through the mass of pa
pers for half sketched plots and notes of
ideas not worth tho leaves they were
scrawled upon. He would not even
leave a scrap. All should bo destroyed.
And theso crowded, dusty drawers,
they, too, must be emptied, lest some
day when ho had suifk into’comfortable
apathy, with only a profound respect
for tho well being of the body, he might
open them and hear each fluttering leaf
whisper how he had once dreamed a
dream.
He worked with an eager intensity, as
if following his heart’s desire, even went
on his knees and scattered the scrawled
sheets right and left, then paused, ab
ruptly and looked with puzzled eyes at
what ho had dragged ont—a long roll of
manuscript, dusty and tied with gray
tape. He did not remember it, had nev
er seen it before. Yet, wait. Now that
it lay unfolded before him, a fully writ
ten play, he did recall tho title, “Doctor
Fleming.”
Just before his departure for Europe,
a distinguished looking man in the tra
ditional shabbiness of unrecognized gen
ius had called on him with this play,
asking in a shy, embarrassed way that
he, the splendidly prosperous yonng au
thor, would read it and tell him what its
merits were. His papers were never
touched by his servant. It had lain for
gotten in his desk for more than a year.
And the man who had bronght it—where
was he?
Still kneeling among the mass of dusty
papers, ho turned the leaves. A letter
fluttered to the ground:
Dear Sir—1 inclose this note, as it may not
be possible to have an interview with you. The
play “Dr. Fleming,” which I beg you to read
a? a favor to me, lias for Its basis Incidents In
my own life. Tl»e seono in Russia particu
larly accurate, and I think presents a dramatic
situation distinctly new. Your respectfully,
Felix Dawson, No. — lied ford street.
P. S.—If you can find time to look it over,
you will be doing me an Inestimable favor. 1
beg that you will be c-arfe^ul of it, as I have no
copy, and even though commercially worth
less it is very dear to mo.
“Very dear to you,” Tom said slowly.
“I know just how yon felt, Mr. Felix
Dawson, when yon wrote those words,
‘Very dear to yon.’ You shall have your
treasure back.”
-■‘If il were mine!”
He turned the first page wun a puy
ifig, half languid interest, but only the
first. After that ho knelt amid the de
struction of his own work, paying trib
ute with enraptured senses to the genius
of another man. The manuscript flut
tered to the floor when the last climax
was reached—a climax that made every
nerve vibrate and awoke his senses like
a trumpet call—and with strained, hot
hands he crasced the chair..
He looked arouuu tue auent room amt
down at the bundle •£ half furled papers.
Oh, that imagined life pictured there
through laughter and sighing, like gems
through dust and tears! It was more
precious than a magician’s wand.
“If it were mine—if it were mine!” he
said aloud, and a woman’s laugh drifted
np from the street, as if she had heard
that cry and inockedhim.
He sprang Up and turned tne Key m
the door. Then he stood listening. The
action was guilty, almost before the
thought:
“No one will know if I make it mine."
It was foolish to tremble bo, of course.
The cold drops on his forehead were
foolish, too, and his fast beating heart.
“No one will know,” he said again,
and there was a note of defiant joy in
the breathless cry as he picked up the
play.
A sound attracted his attention. It
was the faraway throbbing of ■». street
band; the air, a German battle march.
It was long since he had heard its heavy,
rolling sweetness, with tliat flowing nn
derbeat of sadness creeping in like a
lccell for many of the multitude who
marched onward to its swing. A flicker
of pain crossed, his uneasy eyes. He
knew that march. Virginia had often
played it, and it pulsed through the
warm night with a wake of memories.
Her face in its diurnal beauty rose be
fore him; then a slim, white robed body
floated to join the face, an arm, a hand,
with finger pointing at the play, crushed
in Ms grasp. Yes, her very voice was in
his ears.
“You will not—you will not steal it,
Tom! You could not fall as low as that!”
He dropped into a chair, hiding his
face upon his clinched hands. A sud
den nostalgia weighed sickeningly upon
him.
“You will not steal it, Tom,” rang the
voico in Ms souk
Ent ho looked up again after awhile.
Tho face was, gone. Tho German march
had dwindled to an echo.
“Yes, I will,” ho said steadily, as if
defying an invisible mentor. “I’ll take
it. I’ll not be a fool. It’s a chance to
redeem myself, and I cannot let it go. I
can’t. The man who wrote it must Ire
dead—he is dead—and—there’s no copy
of it. I can choke down Delatole’s
sneers—I can pay my debts—I can start
afresh. It will be life, hope, bread to
my soul. I'm not going to let a fancy
befool me. If it had fallen from heaven,
it could not have come more opportune
ly. Conscience? Bahl”
But for all Ms bravado the violence of
the temptation made Mm stand petrified
peering into the shadowy corners. Every
creak in tho silent liouso appalled Mm as
he mentally weighed the chances for and
against detection. He passed bis hand j
across Ms trembling lips, his narrowed I
eyes upon the locked door.
“I’ll do it,” he whispered.
All night ho bent over tho pages, copy- j
ing the play, here and there touching it
with wit that came to Mm then with ,
diabolical readiness. His heart warmed
over it. It seemed to become Ms own
by the mere changing of the names of
places and people.
He left no chance fragment of the
original play to betray Mm nor of the i
letter and oven tried to forget the man’s
name. By morning all was done and
done well.
As he stood np, a wan and haggard
ghost, a crimson haze swept in, envelop-!
ing him like a blur of blood, and the i
lamps of a new day were lit in the east.
[TO BE CONTINUED. ]
CONFUSED WITH HYDROPHOBIA.
How the “Acute Mania” Hoseiuliles Oue
of tlie Most Dreaded of All Diseases.
' “There has been an nnusual number
of deaths recently from alleged hydro
phobia," said an insanity expert to a
Star reporter yesterday. “However, we !
‘mad doctors’ do not share the popular
belief respecting tliat complaint.
“I was called in the other day to at
tend the case of a yonng woman who
was dying with all the symptoms of so
called hydrophobia. She was in convul
sions. When offered water m a tin re
ceptacle, she bit right through the sheet
metal. She barked now and then like a
dog and frothed at the month.
“The average general practitioner
would have diagnosed the’case as hydro
phobia off hand. But there was oue ob
jection to that theory—the pat.Unit lmil
never been bitten by a dog or by any
other animal unless it were an insect.
Not only was t here no question of mail
dog,- but there was no dog at ail in the
‘history’ of the disesise. The latter Was
nothing more nor less than what the
insanity specialist terms ‘acute mania.’
“Acute mania is 4 complaint wlffch
manifests itself in all of the symptoms
which are commonly attribsfed to hy
drophobia. The patient is thrown into
convulsions at the sight not ouly of
water but of food, such manifestations
varying in different cases. Barking like
a dog, frothing at the month and biting
at whatever is within reach are quite
usual. Tlio unfortunate must be served
with both food and Water in tin recepta
cles to avoid danger. In nine cases ont
of ten death ensues. -
“Is there no danger, then, in being bit
ten by a rabid dog?. Certainly there is—
very great danger. What is the matter
with such a dog? Ho is attacked by a
disease—the familiar complaint called
‘septicaemia,’ or* blood poisoning. His
bite is likely to communicate blood poi
soning to the person bitten. It is a seri
ous and often fatal complaint. Some
times it happens that the individual bit
ten receives so severe a shock from the
fright that the nervons system is upset
"In sncn a case acute mama may set
in. To bring that abont the dog need
not be rabid. To speak more accurately,
it need not be suffering from blood poi
soning. It may bo perfectly healthy,
and yet the fright occasioned by its bite
may induce tho dangerous nervous trou
ble of which I speak. I think that I have
made myself clear. Take i(articular no
tice of tho fact that acute mania may be
brought on by a variety of causes inde
pendent of tho canine species. But if
tho patient has happened at any time
previous to lie bitten by a dog the trouble
is at once attributed to that, and the cry
of hydrophobia is raised.
“Now, I will venture to say that one
person Oaf of. every three receives at
some titne m his -or her life a wound,
slight, or otherwise, from the teeth of a
dog. Frequently such injuries are in
flicted by playful puppies or otherwise
accidentally. When you consider that
this animal is the intimate friend and
constant companion of man, it is hardly
surprising tnat such should lie the fact.
You say. that you yourself have been
slightly bitten on two occasions: Sup
pose, as is quite possible, that yon were
taken with acute mania, barking like a
dog, foaming at the mouth and exhibit
ing a disposition to bite. Would not.
your afflicted relations refer the symp
toms to one of those dog bites! Of course
they would. If you died, you- would be
advertised in the newspapers as a victim
of hydrophobia.
“What I 1 ell yon i i nut merely a theory
of my own. It in mints the belief of
experts in nervous diseases generally.’’—
Washington Star.
THE'PHILOSOPHY OF N61SE.
Aversion to Disturbance Is a Symptom ot
Neurotic Degeneration.
A woman suffering from neuralgia sta
tions her son to keep boys from making
a iioiso in front of the house. A boy
comes by whistfing—a petformatace in
which we must recognize a natural,
wholesome and boylike act,, whereupon
there ensues a short, sharp fight between
the pair, in which one is accidentally cut.
The upshot is not important; the origin
of it is.
It has long been usual to acoord spe
cial privileges to invalids in relieving
them against noise. Formerly straw
would be strewn in the street, and thou
sands of persons who werfe not sick
would bo inconvienced to ease the pains
of one who was. In part, this custom
was one of ostentation. It coulfi be
practiced only by the influential who
were exalted by making themselves a
nuisance. When death ensued, a hatch
ment was set up in the same Bpirit of
vainglory. All the windows in the
house were closed for a term, the dota
tion of which was fixed by custom, but
which bore a relatien to the estate of the
deceased and the consequent degree of
exaltation descending upon his heirs.
All healthy animals delight in noiae.
The description includes barbarous folk
and children. Dogs bark (cars only
sneak off), birds scream, boys shont,
girls clap hands to their ears in sweet
confusion, horses paw, all animate na
ture responds to the exhilaration of noise.
The sick do not. In every form of sick
ness the nervous function is deranged.
As we have seen above mankind has
shown its appreciation of this fact by its
customs. Excessive sensibility to noise
is thus one symptom of neurotic degen
eration. It is the mark of one broad dis
tinction between the state of civilization
and its opposite. It testifies to one part
of the price which that state exacts from
man on his physical side.
Within civilization itself indifference
to noise is one of the distinctions of a
system rudely healthful, both in body
and mind. The converse of this propo
sition is equally true. Whenever a per
son displays peculiar sensitiveness to
noise we may know that the case is one
of an unwholesome mind in an unwhole
some body. From the fact that the dis
turbance is essentially a neurotic one it
follows that it is controllable to a great
extent by the will. Much of the dis
turbance that is experienced from noise
can be put completely aside by exercise
of tho will. A barking dog may keep
one person awake while his healthier or
wiser neighbor sleeps the sleep of the
just. Under the pinging of the cable
car bells a valetudinarian subsides into
frenzy while his younger clerk is lapped
in dreams of tho equally unconscious
typewriter on the next floor. The con
trast here need not be ono of relative
strength of mind merely; one of the two
minds is sick.
in such a case the will power is im
paired. It would probably be found that
the complaining person is also irritahle,
passionate, perhaps consumed by self
contemplation. In many cases of this
order relief could no doubt be gained
through treatment by suggestion. But
in vastly the greater number the patient
is competent to minister to himself. He
is still capable of exerting the will, and
in this exercise lies complete and per
manent cure. Furthermore, the cure
does not apply alone to the particular
noise that may have called for it. It will
be found to have influenced the mind
permanently. .The injurious effects at
tributed to noise do not proceed from
without, but from within. They do ifot
inhere in the aerial vibrations, but in the
mental response made to them.
Finally it ought to be observed that
the disease is one that increases by be
ing yielded to. The noise that is first
noticed os an annoyance in some mo
ment of irritation*anxiety or other nerv
ous disturbance can be nursed into an
object of horror. Time.was when folks
thought sensitiveness to noise- to be evi
dence of high strung character. They
were rather proud of it and trotted it
forth in public. The world knows bet
ter now. It erects hospitals for the Mrs.
Wittitterlys, whom it rather admired
in Nicholas Nickleby’s time. It no
longer holds poor Tom of Bedlam for in
spired, and since it has learned how
much sickness is either a fruit or a phase
of ignorance it is getting a little sick of
those sick folks, at least of whom it has
a right to look for something better.—
New York Evening Sun.
A milking experiment is thus reported
in a London paper:
“Five cows were milked two weeks
each by two competent milkers. One
knew the milk was being weighed and
did his best to geftvery drop. The oth
er milked us usual. The one aware of
the experiment got 267 pounds the more
milk."’
A “competent" milker leaving nearly
a half a pound of milk in every cow he
milkecf! How lunch would he have to
leave to lie called incompetent?
In milking a heifer the first year I
want her milked rapidly to the end
and stop. I do not want her stripped
much. A lieifer loves to lie stripped if
she is satisfied with her milker, and she
soon learns to hold back the milk so aa
to make a long job of it. When she'finds
there is to be no puttering, she lets the
milk come down to the end.
Rapid milking satisfactory to the cow
is wliat'gets the milk. A cow that has
been quickly milked often refuses to give
half her milk to a slow milker.
Many dairymen forbid any talking
during milking. It is a pretty hard rule
to enforce. Any talking or noise that
cows are perfectly familiar with does no
hann, providing the milker does not
slack his milking. Hold! I mean any
noise that means no harm to the cow. I
believe with a herd of 40 good cows it
would pay to expend $2 a day for some
good music, both vocal and instrumental,
at milking time, and let the milkers join
in. The tunes of course should be lively,
It has been proved to me that cows have
an ear for good music. I can sing:
"IH1 chase the D—7- round a stump.
And give liim a kick at every jump,"
and my cows will just poor out the
milk, so I sing it lively, and my hands
keep good time. A cow will never do
her best for a slow milker even if he
claws out the milk.
A rapid milker may also be a poor
milker, if be milks with a jerking mo
tion or brings liis lingers upon her teats
in a manner disagreeablo to her. Not
one in a score who claim to be good
milkers really is.
I have been milking half a century
about as regularly as I have eaten my
supper and breakfast and claim to be
an ■ expert. An excellent milker who
treats the cows kindly is what I always
am ready to employ at big wages. The
difference in the milking of 12 cows one
season by a fair milker or an excellent
one will almost pay his wages.
Milk with dry bands. I would not
have my herd of cows milked one season
with their teats wet with milk for flO a
cow. In one case only do I ever wet a
cow’s teats with milk. When a cow
leaks her milk badly, wetting with milk
thoroughly after milking her will some
times stop it.—A. X. Hyatt In Breeder’s
Gazette.