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News/lb. Behind®! thb'Nwp By PaulMalioiO^ Released by Western Newspaper Union. TARIFF REDUCTION BILL CALLED BLOW AT INDUSTRY WASHINGTON.—’Twas said upon the airwaves and in print, Mr. Tru man won his greatest victory over congress on the tariff cutting pro gram. It seems to me someone should have smelled something, if not a mouse, when 15 sen aa t e Republican* ocratic Tariff bill. Republican accepts where their fore father fought, bled Pres. Truman collected. Men have won the President’s chair (and lost it also) for their stand upon this one ques tion alone. Nothing, including the civil war (which was a phase of the tariff dispute between the foreign free-trading cotton growers and the New England textile manufacturers desirous of protection) has so deep ly torn the political hearts of Ameri cans. But this time congress, with Republican votes, authorized a further slashing of 25 per cent by the President singlehanded (making 75 per cent in all from the old high tariff rates) with out advice or consent of con gress or the Republican Na tional committee. Yet, even Republican Senator Smith of industrial New Jersey voted for it, changing his mind in the last few days from his previous ly announced repugnance to such a threat to American industrialist, farmer and laborer from cheap for eign competition. Victory For Enigmatism. Indeed, the senate did not change the bill one whit from the house version, which caused revival of all the partisan fighting of ages, but it just said “Yea” in a loud voice and sent it on to the President’s desk, where he could victoriously find it upon his return from San Francisco. The hint of these strange doings should have been sufficient warn ing that something was wrong, but if anyone reported it, I have not seen the report. Any analyst, however, will be forced to conclude the victory was for enigmatism, more than for Truman. Just be fore the slashing authority passed the house (and in order |l-„ ' J to get it through), Mr. Truman sent a H W billet to his friend <,-?/SC3 Speaker Sam Ray bum saying: “I have had drawn to my attention H statements to the effect that this in creased authority Cordell Hull might be used in such away as to endanger or ‘trade out’ segments of American industry, American agriculture, or American labor. No such action was taken under President Roosevelt and Cordell Hull and no such action will take place under my presi dency.” The only reason for a tariff rate, of course, is to protect some American industry, farm or worker from cheap produc tion costs coming in competi tion from abroad. There are no tariffs on non-competitive prod ucts, no reason for any. If there is to be no “danger” to domestic interests from tar iff cutting, how can there be any tariff cutting in fact, why was the subject ever men tioned, or the law passed? To this question, no senator I have found has even a private an swer. The only suggestion approach ing an explanation is that Mr. Tru man expects to horn in someway on toe German and Jap trade by some magic yet undisclosed, and it will have to be big magic because the Nazi and Jap cost of production was what made this trade possible (in cluding electric light bulbs in our 10 cent stores for half our cost of production). Why would not a Republican vote for a Democratic tariff proposition like that? Indeed, the administration went compromisingly further and an nounced fiwnly that an escape clause would be adopted to its fu ture tariff-cutting treaties, one like the provision of toe Mexican treaty. But we have been told by the ad ministration, the leftwingers and even Republicans that quotas are horrible; in faet, were the cause of the war. And Mr. Truman’s people have advertised his new tariff slashing powers as a beautiful bonanza of the bountiful postwar world, the one “indispensable leg” of the Roosevelt postwar program, including also the Bretton Woods bank and exchange matter and the >San Francisco agreement. The indispensable leg apparently has rheumatic quotas and non-com petitive arthritis. i £|gj|gg / MAavjstoAaA THE STORY THUS FAR: Flicks’* colt, lons overdue, 1* born on Goose Bar ranch, hlrh In the Rockies. Ken Me- Lanshlin, Flieka’s 12-year-old owner, is startled to Me that the colt is white, and evidently a throwback to the Albino, a wild horse that is Filcka’s grandsire. Rob McLaughlin, Ken’s father, rides ont to brine in Banner, the stallion. With him go Colonel Harris and Charlie Sar gent, millionaire horse breeder. Colonel Harris rets a wUd ride. Later the party rets Its first glimpse of the white colt. Nobody like* It but Ken. His mother, who names the horses, first calls It the Goblin, but later changes to Thunder head for Ken’s benefit. Ken tries ta keep faith In his horse. CHAPTER VI They went down to dinner. “And now,” said Rob genially, “Ken’s got something to tell us. He’s going to tell us who is really the sire of that white foal up in the corral.” Ken had thought he was prepared for it, but it was a shock all the same, and unpleasant feelings went through him. He couldn’t find words. His mind was in a fog. “The sire!” exclaimed Harris, astonished, “Why, what’s this? I thought'Banner was the sire of all your foals.” “Not that one,” grinned Rob. “Your mare is perfectly safe, Mort. You’ll have a fine little sorrel-colt —dead ringer for Banner—when she foals next summer. I told you, Ban ner breeds true. Sorrels. Like as peas in a pod.” “Hah!” exclaimed Charley. “You’re crawling. Just because you’ve got a throwback, you’re go ing to disown it! Didn’t think it of you, Rob!” “Come on, Ken,” said Rob, “who is the sire of that little goblin up there?” Ken, without turning arqpnd, jerked his head and elbow in the direction of Charley Sargent. “That ibig black stud of his!” “Whose?” “Mr. Sargent’s.” “Ouch!” shouted Sargent. Then, “Do you let him tell whoppers like that, Rob? Or is he given to pipe dreams?” Rob was as astonished as anyone. “Appalachian, Ken?” “Yes, sir.” “Why, he doesn’t even know Ap palachian,” shouted Sargent. “Ken —did you ever see him? He’s never been off my ranch, and that’s twenty miles away.” “Ken answered, “He’s that big black stallion with three white socks and a white star between his eyes. He hangs out in that little draw by the quakin’-asp and the box elder where the fence crosses your line. Twenty miles away by the high way, but about eight miles of straight riding across country. Only one gate to go through, and your buck fence to take down.” There was a shocked silence. Then, as Ken’s words sank home, Charley Sargent jumped to his feet. His long brown face was serious for once, his big hat a little awry, a frown between his brows. “I don’t believe it! It couldn’t be! Why—that little misbegotten pup up there—son of Appalachian!” In two strides he reached Ken, seized him by the shoulder and yanked him up. “Stand up here.” He set the boy on the low wooden table facing them all. Ken’s face was a little pale, but his dark blue eyes looked at his father without flinching. “Come on, Ken,” said Rob, "let’s have the story. I’ll begin it for you. A year ago last spring we decided Flicka should be bred.” “No, sir, it was the fall before that. About Thanksgiving time. You and mother said we’d breed Flicka as soon as she was old enough and get a foal.” “That’s right. I remember now. You and Howard were home from school for the Thanksgiving week end.” “Yes. And when we went back to school, all winter long I was think ing about that. And when I came home for the spring vacation at Eas ter, you remember you let me start working with Flicka and riding her a little, because she was just exact ly two years old and strong and well-grown. And you said I was light enough so it wouldn’t hurt her back any. And I worked her out with the blanket and surcingle and began to ride her. And during that vaca tion do you remember the time you took me in to town with you and we met Mr. Sargent and had dinner with him at the Mountain Hotel? And he was talking about his stud, about Appalachian. And bra—well, praising all the colts he had had from him—” Ken paused, looking interrogative ly at his father, and Rob grinned. “Yes, I remember. He praised ’em. It's a habit he’s got.” Harris laughed and Sargent’s hand pinched Ken’s shoulder a little harder and he said, “Get on with your story, young man.” “Well, so you see—when I went back to school after that Easter vacation I was thinking about Ap palachian.” Rob groaned. “And when Ken be gins to think about something, I don’t mind telling you, it’s a single track mind.” “So,” said Ken doggedly, “when I got home in June that’s what I was thinking about. I rode over sev eral times on Cigarette to look at Appalachian.” MIDLAND JOURNAL. RISING SUN. MD. "The hell you did!” mid Charley. "Well—” with some eagerness, "what did you think of him?” "Oh," Ken’s voice rose in enthusi asm, “just what you did! I agreed with all the proud things you said about him!” “Thank you for son!” “And what then, Ken?” asked Rob. “Well, that was about the time to breed Flicka. And you told me to see to it.” Rob’s eyes narrowed and glanced away as he tried to remember. Nell nodded. “I remember that, Rob. You had moved Banner and the brood mares up onto' the Saddle Back. There were just the saddle mares in—Flicka and Taggert. And you told Ken it was his responsi bility, and that when she came around he was to take her to the stallion.” Rob nodded. “I remember. Well, Ken?” Ken’s words came with a strug gle. “Well you see, I, had been think ing and thinking about Appala chian, because we wanted Flicka’s foal to be a racer, and Banner was never a racer. And when I remem bered 'all Mr. Sargent had said about him, and every colt he had got by him, why then—why then—” “Well?” prompted Charley. “Well, when she came in heat, l just rode her over there one day—it took me most of the day—and put her in the pasture with Appalachian —and when she was bred I rode her home again. That’s all.” There was silence for a moment as Ken finished his recital. Sudden ly Harris burst out laughing. How ard stared in open-mouthed awe at his younger brother. The stunt itself was nothing to the secrecy with which it had been concealed for more than a year. It was a faculty "Flicka to Appalachian, 12:30 p. m. June 28.” Howard was envious of—to do un usual things—and then keep them entirely to yourself. Rob said, “You took that long, six teen-mile ride on your mare?” “Yes, sir. I got off and rested her now and then. You were letting me ride her because you said she had grown so well and I hadn’t.” It was true. Ken was still no larger than he had been at ten. Rob thought again. “You must have been away most of the day. I don’t remember it.” Ken said, “It was a day when you and mother had been in town. And you fetayed there for lunch and you didn’t get home until late in the afternoon.” Ken was keeping his biggest punch to the end. “Anyway, I can prove it to you, dad,” he added. “How?” Ken stepped down from the wit ness stand and vanished into the house. They heard his steps going upstairs. He returned holding out a paper, foldfed and wrinkled and soiled. He handed it to Rob who opened it with a mystified air and read it silently, then passed it to Charley. * Sargent stared at it a long time, then read aloud slowly, “FLICKA TO APPALACHIAN, 12.30 P. M. JUNE 28th. Sargent flung down the Raper, sprang to his'feet and shouted, “I don’t believe with one long leap over the flower border, turned his back and went striding up to the corral. “This beats me,” said Rob. “I didn’t dream it was Appalachian. I knew it wasn’t Banner. What I thought was that the Albino was somewhere in the neighborhood again and that he had got to the mare —or perhaps that Ken’s mind had been working overtime and cooked up some crazy scheme and that he had taken her out to him.” Charlie came striding back. “Gimme a drink, Rob—if this is true, it’s a terrible blow.” “It’s true all right,” said Colonel Harris. “I watched Ken’s face when he told it. His face was straight and the story’s straight” Charley gulped down the drink Rob poured for him and as Rob filled the other glasses, held his out again. “Hope this won’t make you take to drink, Charley,” said Harris dry ly. "Brace up! Lots of people have family secrets to hide!” “We won’t give it away, Char ley,” chuckled Rob. Charley didn’t, even hear them. He threw off his hat and ran one hand distractedly through his hair. “May be it didn’t take,” he exclaimed sud denly. “Maybe, later on in the sum mer she was bred by some other stallion. That’s it!” he said excited ly, ‘You said the colt came months later than you expected!” But Ken shook his head. “She was never out on the range again. You see, that was the first summer I had been able to do much with her or ride her at all. She was a two year-old. And I had her down here in the stable or the home pasture all summer so that she would be weH schooled by the time I had to leave the ranch in the fall. And there weren’t any other stallions around.” Nell nodded. “That’s true. She was underfoot all summer. Ken did ev erything but have her in the kitchen.” “I did have her in the kitchen, Mother! Remember the time you put the oat bucket in the kitchen sink, and I called her in, and she walked right in and went all around the kitchen, looking at everything and smelling it, and' then ate her oats at the sink?” “Look here, Ken,” said Rob, “do you realize that you stole that serv ice? You heard what Mr. Sargent said at dinner—that the stud fee for Appalachian is $250.00.” “I’ve always told you, Ken,” his father rubbed it in, “that you cost me money every time you turn around.” “Cost you money!” "Well—you owe that money to Charley here and you can’t pay it, “No, sir.” “Someone’s got to pay it.” “I should say-ay-ay not!” ex claimed Charley. “If that’s the Ap palachian’s foal, you owe me for nothing. On the contrary, I owe Ken an apology. And the nice little mare too.” Ken began to breathe again and glanced at his father to see if there were to be any penalties from that quarter. “If Mr. Sargent forgives you the debt, Ken, I’ve got nothing to say.” “Here comes the Goblin nowl” exclaimed Howard. Gus had let the horses out of the corral to pasture and Flicka and her foal and Taggert and the geld ings were coming to water at the round stone fountain in the middle of the Green. The men and boys went down to look at them more closely. “That’s a beautiful mare,” said Charley, looking at Flicka’s glossy golden coat, her full, flaxen tail and mane, and the gentleness and intelligence in the golden eyes she turned to them. She mouthed the cool water, letting streams of it run from her muzzle, then turned her head to her foal again. “Dad,” said Ken miserably, “is he—really—so awful?” Rob hestitated. “Well, Ken, no body could say he has good con formation. He is shaped like a full grown horse, a bronc at that. He’ll have to change a good deal.” “But he will, dad! He’ll grow!” “He’U have to grow in some spots and shrink in others. That jug head!” Ken looked at the head. It was certainly too large. It had a ter ribly stubborn look. “Hi, fellah” said Charley to the foal, then turned to Ken. “Well, you win, Ken. I believe your story. Your Goblin is by my Appalachian, and if you want papers, you can have them.” “I can only have half papers,.sir, because Flicka only *-has half pa pers.” ‘“You oughtn’t to have any papers at aIL with a stolen service, Ken,” said his father. “I’ll waive that,” said Charley. “Do you realize, Rob, that this little Goblin has Appalachian for a sire,' Banner for a grandsire, and the Albino'for a great grandsire? That ought to be enough T.N.T. to bust..him wide open.” Winter again. Blizzards. Wild storms. Days of terrible loneliness and fear with Rob out in weather when a man should be safe beside his own fire— perhaps on the high ways hauling feed in the truck, and the day passing—hours crawling past with no sign of him return ing. Then night coming on. She’d be standing by the north window at the far end of the house looking out into the darkness, watching. For what? What could you see in the inky blackness? Or even if it was daylight what could you see but snow falling and falling, white as a winding sheet? You could see the lights. The two big headlights of Rob’s truck coming, way off on the ranch road. You could catch them soon after the truck left the Lincdln Highway, lose them when they curved in near the woods, then catch them again before they came down the hill. Lights boring through the darkness coming slowly down the hill with a load of oats or baled hay. (TO BE CONTINUES) Novelties to Crochet In Pineapple Design T IKE to crochet the pineapple design? Here’s a group of small pieces—just right for a gift —each made of odds and ends of cotton. • • • Novelties you’ll love—crocheted basket, handkerchief case, sachet, pincushions, edging and corner. Pattern 732 contains directions. Due to an unusually large demand and current war conditions, slightly more time is required in filling orders for a few of the most popular pattern numbers. Send your order to: Sewing Circle Needlecraft Dept. 82 Eighth Ave. New Xork Enclose 16 cents for Pattern No Name Address Ripe tomato juice will remove fresh ink stains. —•— Yellow ochre dissolved in boil ing water makes a lovely dye for muslin curtains. —•— When making pies that are like ly to be juicy, cut the lower crust larger than the upper and fold over like a hem to prevent leak ing at the edges. —•— Sprinkle a stubborn ribbon knot with talcum powder. Unties eas ier. —•— Grease the spout of the pitcher when you use it for muffin or waffle batter. It will make pour ing smoother. —•— When the point of a steel wire brush wears down, saw off the worn end and the brush will be as good as new. —•— Saw off the legs of an old wobbly card table to about 18 inches long, and use it as a play table for the children. It can be moved easily from room to room and taken also on trips. —• — As soon as you notice frayed or worn spots in garments, mend them. Small holes are easier to hide than large ones and worn spots can be kept from tearing if reinforced with mending in time. —• — In buying scissors, choose the best you can afford or can find. If you can have only one pair, those about 8 inches in length will be satisfactory for most uses. Small er scissors are handy for ripping seams, snipping, or cutting but tonholes, if you can possibly man age to have them. If you do much sewing, better invest in dress maker’s or pinking shears. —• —- A skillet that has become en crusted with a rough coating which cannot be easily scraped off, may be put into a hot fire or bed of hot coals and the crust burned off. In this way the skillet is left smooth and like new and is not injured. tt&eVTdW*’ illiy I Baking Powder... Jj||| ■ SS& awsSg&B 1 1 Mt*** . wkf&*LS 1 ~i||nurtr ~IJa "for year* and years, a favorite, yet modem as tomorrow" ... that describes Clabber Girl Baking Powder ... balanced double action... tested and proved in both mixing bowl and oven ... the natural choice for the modem baking recipe. i ~ -1g'■ 1 —* mi aSaKffltmß /Mfl SNAPPY FACTS afatil/ [ RUBBER L Although rubber is ordinarily considered non - conductive, B. F. Goodrich has perfected an electrically conductive rub ber used in the form of a "shoe" for de-icing airplane propellers. Bathing suits that won’t get wet even when the wearer goes In swimming are a good possibility. 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