The Idaho Springs siftings-news., November 14, 1914, Image 2

About The Idaho Springs siftings-news. (Idaho Springs, Colo.) 1905-19??

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The LAPSE of
ENOCH WENTWORTH
by ISABEL GORDON CURTIS
Author of "The Woman from Wolvertons"
ILLUSTRATIONS 0 ELLSWORTH YOUNG -
copyright; om- by r c prowhe uco- ♦ ♦ ♦
8YNOPSIS.
KnoHi Wentworth. n<*w»p»ip»T man, and
Andrrw Merry, actor, after ih** gue*t* at
a |K>ker i>arty have departed, play a Anal
hand (tie Maker, of which give the win
ner absolute control over the future of
the lojs-r. Wentworth win*. They decide
«•» ke«p (he matter aecret Wentworth’s
eister. Oorcas. t*«-es Merry depart and l»
Interested tu her brothcr’a atory of the
a< (or
CHAPTER III—Continued.
Andrew pulled the soft hat over his
eyes and sprawled out on the rock
ledge.
Dorcas began with a nervous laugh.
"It sound*; like presumption. 1 know
so Utile of the world, only I have been
studying you—"
Am 1 worth the trouble?” he inter
rupted
Worth the trouble! I don’t believe
you know yourself yet. You nave a
wonderful imagination and such kuowl
edge of human nature. You could write
a great play, many of them powsibly.
You know men and women. You have
laid hare the souls or some of them
when you talked with me. After you
bring a being into life, think how you 1
could make dim live again on the
•tage!”
Dorcas jumped to her feet. “An
drew Merry, go to work! Show them
what you can do. if for nothing else
than to please me and prove that I
haven’t made a mistake ”
Miss Dorcas, sit down.”
The girl looked at her companion
curiously.
Let ine shake hands on a bargain,”
he laughed. "That's a foolish little '
ceremony I used to go through with j
mother when I was a boy. If I prom-j
ised faithfully I would do anything. I j
shook hands on It.”
Dorcas held out her hand cordially.
Her clasp was magnetic
“Sit down again and listen,” he !
begged. “Dor years and years and ;
years I've had n play crystallizing in :
my mind. It's all blocked out. Let me |
Jell you about it ”
Dorcas sat leaning forward, her face
between her hands, her eyes glowing!
with interest.
■ My hero is cashier In a bank, a
young fellow of good family, jovial,
happy-go-lucky, generous, democratic.
He has married the bank president’s
daughter, who is exactly hie opposite—
cold blooded, haughty, selfish and fond
of luxury. There Is a sweet, tender
little daughter. The love between the
father and the child is beautiful. The
man, trusting to luck to see him
through, steals for years, covering his
defalcations in the cleverest way. He
had to get money, for his wife denies
herself nothing. The father in law dis
covers the crime, exposes It to hiB
daughter, then drops dead. She gives
her husband up to public justice. His
trial comes off and he is sentenced to
twenty years. The child is told that
she is fatherless. The wife takes her
father’s fortune and goes West. When
the second act opens she has divorced
the husband and married again. The
child Is a lovely, true-hearted woman.
She is engaged to the young mayor of
the city, and preparations are afoot for
the wedding, when she receives a let
ter from the one man who remained
loyal to her father- an old janitor at
th" bank. He tells her the story which
had been hidden from hei. The father,
penniless, broken down, hopeless, la
to leave prison in a few weeks. She
confronts her mother, who denies the
story, but later confesses. The girl
breaks her engagement, leaves home,
and goes East. The old Janitor takes
her to live near the prison until her
father is released. Every day she
watches the convicts at their lock
step tramp and sees her father. The
closing of that act, when she meets
him leaving prison, can be tremendous
in human interest.”
He turned to look at Dorcas.
“Go on,” eke said.
“The last act is laid in a New Eng
land village, among simple country
people. The girl and her father are
living on a little farm. Her lover
comes, having searched for her every
where. She tells him the story. He
marries her and takes the father home
with them.”
Merry paused. The sun had dropped
below the horizon and the western sky
glowed in red. gold and purple.
’•When.” cried Dorcas in a flush of
enthusiasm, “when will you begin to
write ?”
"At once, tomorrow. I’ll go away
somewhere; I can't do it here.”
“Go to Enoch,” she said, “He will
be delighted. He has such faith in
you and he loves you. Besides, you’ll
have his sympathy. Poor Enoch, the
one ambition of his life is to be a
famous dramatist.”
“No?” said Merry Incredulously.
“Don’t tell him you know it. 1 dis
covered it by accident. I was tidying
bis desk one day. I came on a pile of
manuscript. There were dramas,
comedies, tragedies, even domic
operas. He has beep writing that son
of thing for years and years.”
“Queer he never told me! What
were they like?**
“Don’t think me disloyal, but they
are awful! Some day, when he get* a
great plot, he thinks he will succeed.
Be won't. U was cruel to tell h\m so.
He's nothing but an expert newspaper
man.”
“Dear. good, generous old Enoch!”
"You will never xell him —never?”
”! won’t.” said Merry.
They sat for a few minutes in
silence. The flush of the sunset began
to fade from the sky. Seagulls wheeled
above their heads
“We must go home,” said Andrew.
"Crossing these rocks in the dusk
would be perilous."
Dorcas rose and followed him, clasp
ing his outstretched hand When they
leaped down from the sea wall to the
beach, the girl asked "This is our
last evening here?”
”1 imagine so. You go to New
Haven next week, don’t you?”
Dorcas nodded.
"Think of me working with all the
courage and energy you have awak
ened. When the play is written I will
bring it straight to you. "
There was eager anticipation in her
eyes, j “When you come l will ask a
favor] May I play the daughter of the
convict?”
“You!” Andrew stopped and looked
down at her intently. “You you dear
child, you sweet, gracious woman!"
Dorcas lifted her cool hands to her
blazing cheeks.
“Listen' You don't think I could do
it. I could. I have loved Shakespeare
since I was a little girl 1 know Juliet
and Desdemona and Rosalind, but I've
lived with Cordelia, I've loved her. I've
seen into her soul. Your girl is Cor
delia. I could play the part even if
I have never been on the stag* . Re
sides I can work; oh. you ought to see
how 1 can work when I have to!"
“It is not that," Andrew protested.
“You could play Cordelia- we’ll call
the girl ’Cordelia’ now—as no one I
know. It is not that. It is such a
hard life—the one you would choosp,
and it is so different from anything
you know.”
Dorcas spoke impatiently. “Enoch
said that. If I should go on the stage
I would be no different from what I
«im today."
“Let us go home. There's Mrs.
Hutchins’ supper horn.”
They walked on in silence. That
evening Merry sat for half an hour
with an idle pen in his hand. At last
he pulled a sheet of paper toward him
and wrote in feverish haste:
Dear old Enoch —Send rne SIOO to
the Broadway today, please. Don't
ask questions, don't try to find me; I'll
turn up when I've finished some work.
Your slave,
MERRY.
CHAPTER iv.
The Play.
Euoch Wentworth sat before a table
littered with sheets of manuscript
when a knock sounded on the library
door.
“In a second!” he cried. Then he
tried to gather the pages* together in
numerical order.
’ All right.” cried a cheerful %oic*».
"Lord, lt> Merry*” whispered
Enoch. He swept the sheets of paper
into a drawer of his desk, then he rose
and opened the door. Merry stepped
into the room with a dancing light
hearted gaiety that Enoch had seen
him don with his stuge garb. Still it
was accompanied by a dignity of man
ner odd to the comedian, a dignity
which had self-respect behind it. Went
worth put an arm about him affection
ately.
"Have you come Into a fortune,
boy?” he asked with a laugh.
"Better than that —I'm on the verge
of making a fortune.”
"Good!” Enoch pushed him into a
comfortable chair and stood looking
down at him. “Let's have the news,
boy.”
”1 will,” answered Merry slowly.
"I’ve got to —I want your advice and
help. I need it as I never needed it in
my life before. Only—l’m not going
to trot out a word of it until we are
sure of a couple of hours clear. I can't
stand a solitary interruption—today.”
Wentworth shut and locked the door,
then he opened a small cupboard.
“What’ll you have?” he asked, lift
ing down a couple of glasses.
"Nothing." Andrew pulled a large
envelope from hio pocket and sat
down beside the Are. Wentworth faced
him with an expectant look upon his
face.
“You never guessed, I suppose, that
I’m an incipient playwright?”
“Never!” Enoch’s tone was em
phatic.
"Well,” Merry laughed hilariously,
“well, I am. I’m the coming dramatist.”
”1 take off my hat to you. boy.”
Enoch swept him a pantomime bow.
"Wait a minute.” The comedian’s
face grew unusually resolute. “Wait,
old man. you’ve got to take this seri
ously, or I won’t tell you a blessed
word about it.”
Merry rose and laid his hand on
Enoch's shoulder with an imploring
gesture. "Dbfir old man, I want your
heffr dhd guidance. I’m such a blamed
unbusinesslike chump. If ypu hadn't
been head and right hand and mother,
father and brother to me for years, as
well ae the truest friend a man ever
ha*, I** • hmve’yheen j n the gutter.
Enoch.” MertT* face flushed. "It I win
THE IDAHO SPRINGS SIFTINGS-NEWS.
[ out, it means more to mo than fame or
| w eaith —it means the happiness of a
! lifetime.”
I “Andrew! A woman at last.”
[ The actor nodded gravely. “Yes, a
: woman at last.”
“Not Lrusilla?”
“Oh, curb your curiosity,” he
laughed lightly; “you can’t have every
thing at once. Now I'm going to read.”
Wentworth lit a cigar, leaned back
In a leather chair, and turned his eyes
steadfastly upon the man opposite
him. Merry wa* a singularly dramatic
reader. Across his face flashed each
human emotion as he put It into words.
Enoch forgot the outer world when
Merry leaped into the words with
which he had clothed a daughters
greeting to her outcast father--a
father disqualified, hopeless, timid,
stunned, dumb after the long separa
tion from his fellows.
Wentworth's cigar went out and he
forgot to light another. He sat in
utter silence, a silence which was half
critical, although at moments he was
deeply stirred, partly by surprise,
partly by unconscious emotion. He
j breathed a half stifled sigh. This task,
i such a splendid achievement, had cost
Andrew Began to Pace the Room Im
patiently.
one man a month's labor! He remem
bered the years of ardent toil he had
spent on what, as he realized sadly, *
was poor It was worse than poor—-it !
was lutile. Even Lorcas had sadly but i
truthfully acknowledged its impos
sibility.
When Merry spoke the laet word
and the curtain fell, he looked up with
triumph and joy shining in his eyes.
Then he waited in silence, as if for
ardent hands to clasp his own. It was
an actor’s pause for the thunder when
he knows he has won his audience.
Enoch's fingere lay clasped together
oa his knees, his eyes bent on the
glow ing caves of the coal fire. As this
actor spoke his voice had a chill, shiv
ering note in it.
“Say, old man, isn't it good? Tell
me —don’t you like it?”
“Like it?” echoed Wentworth He
turned hla eyes straight on Merry’s
questioning face. "Why, boy, it's mag
nificent. You’ll pull Broadway to its
feet with that. Merry, you've done a
tremendous piece of work. That will
live lor —it ought to live for years.”
“Thanks, old man, thanks with all
my heart. You can’t imagine how
hard it was to wait for your verdict.”
“It's wonderful,' mused Wentworth,
"it's a corker!”
"Now, old man," Andrew jumped to
his feet and began to pace the room
impatiently, ”1 want to rush it on the
stage —quick! Quick, I say. Hecht
will take it, I know.”
“I suppose you'll play the convict?"
“Good God, what else could I play?"
Andrew stopped suddenly and looked
down at Wentworth.
"You'll kill your reputation as a
comedian."
“Perhaps you'll be interested in
knowing that I've thrown up my part
in ‘The Left-over Bachelor.' No more
doddering idiots for me! Why. it will
be easy sledding to get this on.”
'Andrew, you’re a steam engine.”
"Did you think 1 was a steam
roller?”
“Well, it's waked you up. That’s
dead certain. Who did it?”
"The woman—l told you.” Merry
turned aside and stood with his back
to Enoch, running his eyes .over a vol
ume he had lifted from a bookshelf.
"Say, old man.” suggested Went
worth, “leave that with me over night.
You’ve given me a lot to think about.
I want to read it again—when I'm
alone." x
The closely written sheets fell re
luctantly from the comedian’s hand.
He fondled the paper as if it were a
beloved child.
"You'll be careful of it, won’t you,
Enoch?” he said anxiously. “It's alf I
have. My first draft was a garbled,
dirty mess; I threw it away.”
“Bless your soul, I’ll be careful.
When I’ve finished I’ll put it in my
safe. HI have it typewritten tomor
row."
Merry laughed. “Good night, old
pard; I’m grateful for your faith in
me.”
' Good night, boy." Enoch grippe*
his hand. "I’m terribly glad to have
you make good. Your play is wonder
ful."
Merry went down the stairs whis
tling. A few seconds later he turned
back. He put his head in at the dodt
and said in a melodramatic whispers
| "Rush the business, my lord. I’m owing
! thee a hundred and much else. It shall
( be paid with compound interest from
I the first night's returns.” Then he
laughed and shut the door.
"A hundred!’* whispered Wentworth.
; He dropped into the chair beside the
fire and covered his face with his
i hands. The room had grown dark and
i it was so silent that when a cinder fell
from the grate it made him start to his
feet. He searched for a small brass
key on his ring, huixied into the
library, and unlocked a drawer in the
desk. He took a slip of paper from
a yellow envelope and stood staring at
it for several minutes. His brows
wrinkled and a curiously startled ex
pression came into his eyes. He drew
a long breath, put the paper back in
the envelope, laid it In the drawer, and
turned the key in the lock. He walked
to a window, which looked down on
the square, and stared at the life of
the city. It was a habit of his. He
has solved many a knotty problem
with his eyes fixed unconsciously upon
the busy street.
The thought-spell lengthened out
indefinitely, then ended abruptly. He
hurried to his den, lifted Andrew’s
manuscript, and seated himself before
the desk. From a lower drawer he
took a heap of paper, filled the ink
well almost to overflowing, and tried
several pens before he found one that
suited him. Then, switching on the
electricity under a green-shaded bulb,
he began with steady laboriousneßS to
copy Merry’s play. The clock struck
three before his task was ended. He
gathered the manuscript into two neat
piles. One iu placed In his safe, the
other he locked !a the drawer which
held the bit of paper ke had studied so
intently.
He returned to his chair beside tbe
ghost of a fire, laid his face between
his palms, and fought a battle between
two antagonists, his conscience .and
temptation. He felt as if his soul Vas
in shackles.
CHAPTER V.
The Forfeit of the Bond.
The telephone in Enoch Wentworth’s
room rang insistently. He had gone
to bed three hours before, and he
struggled to shake off sheer, stupid
drowsiness. He rushed to the tele
phone. Its ring had become per
emptory.
“Hullo,” he called briskly.
‘‘Hullo, old chap," Merry answered
him gaily. “The top o' the morning to
you.”
“Good morning.” Wentworth’s alert
ness died in a second. Something
flashed back to his mind, something
unpleasant, and an ugly frown corru
gated his brow.
"Grouchy this morning?” cried
Merry with a laugh. “Or say, did I
wake you from your beauty sleep?”
“You certainly did."
“Old man, I’m sorry, blamed sorry.
Some day I'll show you I’m grateful. I
couldn't sleep last night, I lay think- I
lng of something I can do for you
when my production begins to pay.
I’m going to drag you away from the
everlasting grind. We'll go to Switzer
land next summer and carry out your
dream. We'll sit on mountain tops,
crane our necks over the edge of a
crevasse, and skid down a glacier.”
”I’d rather go back to bed,” growled
Wentworth.
“You lazy old duffer, you may go in
a second, only I want to talk to you
about the luckiest sort of accident.
Last night I ran across a fellow who's
rolling In money. He's crazy to get in
on a theatrical venture. We can catch
him, I know. I want you to have a
big share, to manage the thing and
make all you can out of it.”
“Did you tell him it was—your
play?” Enoch’s tone was brusque.
“No, I thought I'd break that gently. '
He thinks now I’m a devil of %n actor;
he might imagine I couldn't have so
mufch versatility; that my play might
be of the brand some actors turn out." j
"Good,” cried Enoch, warmly. “You
have more sense thaq 1 gave you credit '
for.”
“Really? Now, old pal, go back to !
bed. But tell me first when I can see j
you. I want a long talk with you.”
“Make it four. I’ve a pile of work I
to do before that time.”
“All right, four o’clock. Good-by.”
Wentworth hung up the receiver and
passed a hand across his forehead; it
was cold and damp. He did not re
turn to bed, but dressed hurriedly,
pausing once or twice to stare at him
self in the mirror. His face looked un
familiar. It seemed to have aged.
There were lines about the clean
shaven mouth he had never noticed
before.
At four o'clock Enoch sat In his
library. He was so absorbed that he
did not hear & step in the hall. When
he lifted his eyes Merry stood before
him. Wentworth stared for a second
before he took the outstretched hand.
Merry had changed. He looked
young, handsome and vivacious—he
was better groomed. A few stems of
Roman hyacinths sat jauntily in his
buttonhole. His trimneßs seemed odd
in contrast to the old whimsical care
lessness, as if he had already achieved
fame and was living up to it, dressing
up to it. These were the thoughts
that flashed through Wentworth’s miftd
while Merry took his hands affection
ately between his own. Andrew was
only a few years younger than Enoch,
but occasionally he fell into fond, dem
onstrative ways which were boyish.
Wentworth drew his hand away sud
denly and pointed to the low chair op
posite. His friend sat down half per
plexed, half anxious.
“Say, old man, aren’t you well? Ton
look groggy.”
“I’m well enough.”
“You’re working too hard, yon al
ways did!”
Wsntworth did ant answer. His nyas
were studying a pattern in the rug be
neath his feet.
"Say, Enoch, you’m going to tend to
the whole business, aren't you?”
The newspaper man lifted his eyes.
“Yes, I’m going to tend to the whole
business. I’ll make it the finest pro
duction that New York has seen In
years. The House of Esterbrook* is
going to win money and —fame.”
“Good!” Merry jumped up and
flung his arms around the shoulders of
the older man.
“Sit down,” said Enoch. “We’re go
ing to talk business.”
He rose, walked to his desk, and
emptied a drawerful of papers on the
table. Merry watched him with a pux
zled expression. ,
“You never guessed. Andrew, that
your ambition was mine?” Enoch did
not lift his eyes or pause for a reply
"For years and years and years I have
dreamed Just one dream, only one—
,that some day I might produce a great
play. See how I worked!” He swept
the manuscript Into an untidy heap.
There were thousands of sheet*. He
had written on paper like onion skin.
It looked like toll —one had a feeling
of years of toil —after a glance at the
laboriously interlined and reconstruct
ed sentences. Wentworth crushed it
mercilessly into loose bunches and be
gan to lay the pages by handfuls upon
the reviving fire. A little flame climbed
up and kindled them into a wavering
blaze.
“Here, here, Enoch, old fellow,”
cried Merry, "don’t!” There was a
thrill of compassion In his voice. “Say,
don’t —this is a wicked thing to do.”
Wentworth paid no heed to him. He
gathered the sheets together with
quiet deliberation, crushing them as
one would crush some hated, despised
living thing, and burned them with
stolid satisfaction.
"That funeral’s over," he said ab
ruptly. “Now I’m In a mood for —
business.” He turned to his desk.
Merry's eyes followed him. They were
dim with unspoken sympathy, but he
knew the man well enough not to put
it Into words.
Wentworth pulled out his key-ring,
opened a drawer, and took the slip of
paper from the yellow envelope. He
stood staring at it for a moment. A
wave of crimson swept across his face,
then hie mouth straightened into a
cruel, inexorable line. Merry’s eyes
were still fixed on him. Enoch did not
speak, but crossed the room with the
paper in his hand and laid it on the
table beside Merry. Andrew’s eyes
took it In with one sweeping glance;
it was the bond he had signed when
they played that last hand of poker.
“Do you remember this?” asked
Wentworth abruptly.
"Of couree. Say, old chap, what
has that to do with our business? Oh,
1 know.” He lifted his eyes with a
relieved glance. “Of course it’s an
understood thing you’re to run things,
and as for money. Lord, I don’t care
for money. Take all you want of it
It’s fame my heart’s set on; I've a
grand ambition and a thirst for great
ness —as I told you—but It runs In
only one direction; to win a name as
When He Lifted His Eyes Merry
Stood Before Him.
a dramatist, a lame that will live
when my capering days are over. 1
want a halo; not such an aureole as
Shakespeare’s,” his eyes Bparkled and
a smile lighted his face, “but a halo—
I demand a halo. I’ll be satisfied with
nothing smaller than a cartwheel.”
He roee and went prancing buoy
antly about the room on his toe tips,
humming a fantastic waits from “The
King at Large.” Wentworth sat With
a grim, brooding look in his eyes. An
drew stopped to stare at him.
“Why so mum, sweet SirrahT’ he
asked blithely.
“Merry,” Wentworth spoke in an ex
pressionless voice, “read that bond
through—carefully. Read It aloud.**
The actor picked up the eheet of
paper and read it with dramatic ges
tures, bowing almost prostrate at each
pause.
To Enoch Wentworth.
I hereby pledge myself to you until
desth —to do your every bidding—to
obey your every demand—to the ex
tent of my physical and mental ability
—you to furnish ms with support,
ANDREW MERRY.
He dropped lightly upon his knees In
front of Wentworth when he finished.
T await thine orders, most grave
and reverend seigneur.” Then he laid
his fingeiw upon Wentworth's arm and
looked up with an expectant smile.
CTO U OOMTKKUKDJ
WESTERN
MINING NEWS
IN BRIEF
Western K«F«D*D«r Union News Service
The Metal Markets.
Ixmdon.— Bar silver, 23d per ounce.
New York. —Copper, $1 l.lOfa 11.30.
St. Louis.—Lead, |3.35@3.40; spel
ter, $4.35.
CRIPPLE CREEK OUTPUT GAINS.
October Production 10.000 Tons in Ex
cess of September. •
Cripple Creek. —Mines of the J
pi" Creek district produced during
month of October a total of $1,168,4Hi
in gold, an increase of more than SIOO,-
000 above the production of Sep
tember.
October’s total output of ore was
10,000 tons greater than in September.
Tbe October gross values are nearly
the highest for any month of the pres
ent year, although the average value
of the ore per ton was about the same
as that in September.
October’s material increase in gross
valuation and tonnage indicates a big
advauce in general mining activity in
all parts of the camp.
The Neville mill, which is a new one
erected during the last eight months,
only ran for a few days in September,
but will be operated regularly at max
imum capacity. The Vindicator com
pany's concentrator plant, one of the
most complete in the state, has also
been started for steady operation and
will make a good addition to the
monthly gold output. October’s pro
duction In detail, as reported from the
mills and smelters, follows;
Ton- Average Total
nage. Value. Returns.
Smelters ... 4.050 $55.00 $222,750 00
Stratton Ind .10.828 2.80 30.318.40
Neville Free
Coinage. .. 1.000 4.00 . 4.000.00
Gaylord 1,400 2.75 3,850.00
G. Cycle
(Colo. C.)..31.000 20.00 620,000.00
Portland
(Colo. C.).. 10.020 20.00 200,400.00
Portland
(district) ..18.050 2.71 48.915.50
Ajax 4.305 6.85 29.489.50
Wild Hors*.. 1,200 3.00 3.600.00
Joe Dandy .. 1.060 2.05 3,280.00
Isabella .... 900 2.00 1.800.00
Totals 84.353 $1,168,403.40
Colorado.
Colorado closely approximates Cali
fornia in the production of gold.
Since July 1, when the annual re
port was issued, the Isabella Gold
Mining Company has paid off the toftal
debt of $12,000, and has $4,000 deposit
ed in the bank at present.
The European Avar has, for the pres- *
ent at least, totally closed the Euro
pean market to American radiurt ores.
As is well known, the uranium ores of
Colorado and Utah are sold exclusively
for their radium content, so little use
being known for the uranium that the
ores can not be sold for their content
of that element. The condition of the
European market leaves the miners
without a buyer, so that while the war
lasts, and probably for some time aft
erward, the market will be restricted
and without the benefit of competition.
Wyoming.
The value of the mineral products
Wyoming, according to the Ur
States Geological Survey, incr
from $13,374,088 in 1912 to sl3
in 1913. ,
It is reported at Basin
Peoples Oil Company, of wV
Barbee of Colorado Sprln; ;
ager, is bringing in maJ
use in sinking a well for
creek. An outfit capabb
down a 2,000-foot hole wiy
Suit has been filed r
Court of Natrona count!
mlng Oil Fields Compa
county treasurer from
assessed against tha.
petition recites that
Fields Company has
ed against in the fil
of oil. /
New I
As an outcome I
of high-grade ore I
Pacific mines atJ
pany has organic
tion of $250,000#
seven claims in w
The mining®
meet at Phoenn
and to which def
pointed by Go\j
take up the mat
aid for the scho(
ous sections of th
The molybdemm
Vegas, operated bj
have an order for {
Philadelphia concei
demand for the orl
to be the principal \
States for the outpil
The value of the \
of New Mexico, ac(
United States
creased from $14,391)
$17.8(52.309 in 1913. $
1913 are more than £ -
two years ago, the Inm£
principally to activity i.
tion of copper.
Arizona. ■
Charles Da\’les, pioneer
gineer of Arizona and one
settlers In the Salt river v
at his home two miles nor*
fair grounds at Phoenix at the
seventy-three years. Death was 'V
to a complication of diseases.
Applications for mining patents %
pouring in at the Arizona land ofl at
in a steady strpayi. Many claim cw 1$
ers are hurrying to obtain patents b> %
tore the first of next year, in oNsr t‘%
avoid dafng assessment work fo* 14U. 1
-■ st 1