WEEKLYa
N eN Mai. N: - (r A Z E 'E T E'
._‘.a
THE LEAD PENCIL.
If my wife has a failure it is lack
of reverence. She doesn’t recognize
those property rights which shoulc
inhere to the personal belongings of a
husband.
I think that I was mildly reprimand
ing her at the time for mislaying the
gimlet. ' I’m the most particular fel-
low you ever saw about keeping every-
thing in its place.
It isn’t alone gimlets. it
and screw-drivers, and knives, and
Lord knows what all. Why. she has.
even tampered with my razn“ !
\Vell, now that you lllldt‘leialld my
wife‘s failing—I’ll admit it's ' or great
est one—I‘ll go on with the :igr'y with
which it is connected. 7
One day last July, Jim (‘uthwick
tame into the station just as I was
closing up to go to supper. Jim is
the pa‘ymaster at the Vulcan mills,
and a right good fellow.
“Hello, Joe,” he says; “all alme?"
“Yes,” I said; “what’s up?"
is hammers
He flung a canvas grip on the table .
and said.—
“I must go down the road tfhnlght‘ to
Ashville. There’s talk of a strike"
among the miners, and I’ve got to be
on hand first thing in the morning. PM
to offer to pay off the disaffected one:
and make a big show of money. That‘s
a bluff that generally goes. ’i‘ he boys‘ll
make up their minds the company
can’t be scared, and they‘ll get into
line again. There's twenty-six thous-
and dollars in that bag, Joe.”
I looked at the bag on the table an
looked at Jim.
“'VVhat do you bring it here for?" I
said. .
“That’s easily explained,” he
'swered.
“I got word to start for Ashviile just
half an hour ago. The money was
:made up in a hurry, and I didn’t have
time to go home. I couldn’t very well
stay at the mill, and I wouldn't go to
the tavern. .So I just thought I'd come
down here and get you to stay 'with
:me until the -.night freight comes along.
.She’s due at nine-thirty, isn’t she?"
“Nine-thirty-five,” I answered. “But
I‘m just OK for supper.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” he said. “I
feel safe enough here. I’m armed to
the teeth. you know. and there
wouldn’t be any danger until after
‘dark. But you’ll come back and keep
me company, won’t you?"
“I will if Minnie lets me off,” I said.
"‘I’m booked for cribbage with her af-
‘ter supper.” ,
“You tell Minnie I’ll bring her the
‘prettiest cribbage board in Ashviile if
‘83-
:she‘ll lend you for a couple of hours,”
.laughed Jim. '
There was a stout old safe in the cor-
ner of the office that had nothing in it
but blank way bills and reports. I
"unlocked it and tossed the canvas bag
'inside.
“There,” I said, as I thrust my
i'bunch of keyg in my sack coat pocket,
“that. makes‘ it a little safeff’ ‘
I thought Jim looked a bit dubidiis
over this precaution, but he laughed
and said: “All right, my boy. I’ll
make myself comfortable until you
come back.”
Minnie didn't want me to go out one
bit, but I told her Jim counted on me.
I didn’t say a word about the money,
however; I knew it would worry her,
and, to tell the truth, it worried me a
little. I was sorry Jim brought it
there, and I didn’t like his talk about
precautions.
Well, after supper I went out to see
if the dog was all right—I’ve got the
finest mastiff in the state—and when I
came back Minnie called to me from
the sitting-room,—
“Just a minute, Joe;
note for Hattie.”
Hattie is the wife of the telegraph
operator, and I knew that Minnie
wanted me to leave it at the station
where he could get it in the morning.
It was quite a number of minutes,
however, before she came out with the
note, and my vest and coat. It was so
warm I had left them off before sup-
per. -
“lIadn’t you better let the dog go
with you, Joe?" she asked, as she
helped me with my coat.
"No, no,” I said, laughing, “he‘ll stay
home and take care of you. I’ll put
the lamp in the window, though, so
you’ll know I'm all right.” That was
a great joke of ours, but Minnie didn't
laugh as she usually did.
"Mind,” she said, "I’ll watch for it,
and if it isn’t there, I’ll come down af-
ter you.”
I'm station master at Y .. Our
road is what’s called the old line
and travel ,on it is light, mostly
freight. At night the station is de-
serted, there being no business for
either telegraph operator or ticket
agent. This leaves the station practi-
cally deserted after sundown. It is
only a few rods from our home, how-
ever. and I feel that it’s under my eye
all the time. I thought of this as I
walked back to the station and I didn‘t
I’m writing a
half like the idea of all that money be-
ing about.
I found Jim with his heels on the
desk, puffing away at a good cigar.
“Not an alarm,” he said, in his jok-
ing way. “Not even a mouse.”
We chatted away for an hour or
more, when Jim suddenly put down
his feet and yawned heavily.
“Joe.” he said, “if you don’t mind I’ll
go out and take a little stroll.”
"Go ahead,” I said, “but mind you’re
not gone long.”
After he had stepped out I was Sorry
I let him go. The thought of being alone
with all that money was disquieting.
I followed him to the door and looked
out. It was a bright night and I saw
Jim sliparound the corner. I knew
he was after a drink. That was Jim’s
failing. That ant gambling.
1 went back and sat down. The
more I thought about that money the
more I didn’t like the idea. What
business had Jim to go away and leave
all the responsibility with me. 03'
course, he didn’t leave it all with me‘,
but he left altogether too big a share
As I sat there grumbling a low tap on
the window overlooking the platform
attracted my attention. I looked up
The side of the building was in the
shadow, but I could see a man’s face
against the pane.
“Joe,” said somebody outside. I sup:
posed it might be one of the section
hands and stepped across the room.
“What is it?” I called.
“Open the window, Joe,” said the
voice.
I pushed it up a little.
“It that you, Jerry?” I called.
There was no response. I put my
head through the opening and looked
up and down the line. Nobody was in
sight. Just then I heard a slight noiSe
behind me. I drew in my head. Some-
thing seemed to crash into my brain.
Then all was dark.
When I came to I was tied in my
chair, my head was sore and wet, and
two men with strips of black cloth
across their faces were looking down
at me.
“I-Ie"s all right,” said the
man. The tall man nodded.
“Get the keys,” he said in a. queer,
hoarse voice.
The shorter man felt in my pockets.
“Not here!” he cried. ,
“They must be,” said the tall man,
in his hoarse voice.
“I tell you they are not.
lamp.”
The tall man took the lamp from the
window ledge and came closer tome.
But their search was in vain. The
tall man placed the lamp on the table,
while the other man put a revolver to
my ear.
shorter
Bring the
“Come!” he said, “where are those
keys?”
My head was beginning to clear a
little. I saw it all. My wife had
taken the keys from my pocket be-
cause it was her way, and because she
thought I had no further use for them
until morning.
“He must have left the keys at
home,” said the tall man hurriedly.
“I-Ier‘e, give him a. sheet of paper and
let him write a note to his wife, ask-
ing for them. The short man looked
up sharply.
“l’ll get them.’ said the tall man.
They pulled the table up to me and
spread out a scrap of paper. The short
man loosened the rope and let my
right hand free. I reached to my vest
pocket half blindly and drew out my
pencil. Still in a daze, I tried to put
my wife’s name on the sheet. The
pencil refused to make a mark. I
looked at it. It was dull and horribly
haggled about the point. I pride my-
self on the fine point I put to my pen-
cils. Again I comprehended that my
wife had borrowed that very pencil
to write the note to the operator‘s
wife. I tried to scribble with the
Situated thing.
f(furse you: hurry!"
short rutfian.
I showed the pencil point. With an
exclamation of anger the short man
drew out a heavy-handled knife and
swiftly sharpened the pencil. As he
passed it back my wandering vision
was caught by the lamp on the table.
Heavens! It was no longer in the win-
dow! As this thought struck me I
looked towards the ledge and saw
there a. white, scared face pressed
against the pane. It as my wife.
“Write!” growled the short rufiian.
.My only thought was to gain time.
I knew my wife was there. I knew
she would bring help.
I took the pencil in my nerveless
fingers. As I did so a low growl
caught my ear. It caught the ears of
the villains, too. The short man
dropped his knife on the table and
turned towards the door with his re-
volver extended. The tall man drew
himself up against the wall.
“It’s the dog.” he hoarsely whisp-
ered. “Shoot to kill, Jack.”
I saw the door tremble a little, I
saw the short villain’s arm raised and
my fingers closed on the handle of the
knife he had just dropped. Then as
the door slowly opened I drew back
my arm and thrust wildly at the man
in front of me. Something yellow flew
through the doorway, there was a
wild scream, a heavy fall and I
lapsed into unconsciousness again.
When I came around I was in bed
at home, with Minnie bending over
me.
“It’s all right, Joe,” she murmured,
‘they’ve got them both locked up safe
lind sound and the money is all right
and the mill directors have given you
one thousand dollars of it.”
“And Jim?" I asked.
“Jim?” she cried. “Why, Jim was
the tall man. It was all his plot to
steal the money and throw the blame
on you. And if I hadn't taken the
l{eys—don't scold—they’d have had the
money, and if it hadn't been for the
lead pencil I dulled—the man you
stabbed told the whole story—l would-
n’t have got there in time with Hec-
tor. The dog almost killed Jim before
I could call him away, but I ain’t so
sorry. because the little man says they
would have killed you if you had by
any chance suspected Jim’s identity.”
I reached out and took Minnie‘s
hand.
“That thousand dollars belongs to
you, dear," I said brokenly.
“Well,” she answered, “if you take
growled the
it. Joe, you may rest assured I’ll bor-N
row it sooner or later.”
Then she put her cheek again-st my
hand and laughed.
Then she cried—Cleveland Plain
Dealer.
“Sever‘altimes during the delivery or
his commencement day oration he
paused and took a drink of water. He
was very dry.” “You mean he was
very thirsty.” “Yes, he was thirsty,
mo."-—Chic:1:rn 'L'ribnue.
AN INTERNATIONAL HENCOOP.
His Conscience Cleared of Cheating Either
Government.
Amasa Barrow has a chicken ranch
not far from Nogales, Ariz., on which
he has divided matters between con-
science and thrift with true Yankee in-
genuity, says a. cqrrespondent of the
New York Sun. Barrow is from Mas-
sachusetts, and he has an eye that
magnifies the main chance by many
diameters and a Puritan conscience
that would have shown resplendent
on the Mayflower itself. Barrow’s lo-
cal nickname is Old Honesty, and those
who know him best do not hesitate
to declare that he wouldn’t take an ad-
vantage cven in a horse trade.
But that does not, hinder him from be-
ing anxious as the next man to get
hold of a good thing. So when he de-
cided to start a chicken ranch near
No-gales, he saw at once the big ad-
vantage it would give him to. grow his
chickens across the line in Old Mexico.
But he wanted to supply the Arizona
trade, and to pay the duties would eat
up his profits.
But. to Yankee ingenuity the thing
was easy enough. Barrow just built
an international hen house. American
money changed into Mexican money
means early $2 for 1, while the cheap
prices for labor and products increase
the advantage for the buyer. But his
chickens and eggs would comamnd far
higher prices on the Arizona side of
the line. If he bought his grain and
other food for his chickens in Mexico
he would get it for about half what it
would cost him in Arizona. But
Amos-a Barrow would not smuggle
chicken feed across the boundary.
"hat would be the same as stealing.
So he built a long coop or pen half on
the Arizona side and the other half
extending down into Mexico. He buys
all his supplies on the other side and
stores them there in sheds. Never a.
grain of his chicken feed is carried
across the border. When he wants to
feed his chickens he opens the gate be-
tween the two parts of the pen and
drives the flock into Mexico. where
they till up on Mexican grain. When
they have eaten their fill he shooes
them back to the other end, where,
under the folds of the stars and stripes
they lay their eggs and hatch their
young.
Twenty Year Ago.
Mr. Bellows: “Oh, wife, these look
like the biscuits my mother baked
twenty years ago.”
Mrs. Bellows (greatly delighted):
"I’m so glad!"
Mr. Bellows (biting one): “ And, by
George, I believe they are the same
biscuits.”
- Mrs. Kniver—“Fbr mercy’s sake,
Mary, what are the children quarrel-
ing about?”
Mary—“It's only in fun, mem; they
be playing they’re ma;ried.”——Bosion
Transcript
A. MYSTERIOUS WHEE RACE.
For 363 Tintsghoy Have L‘fifi' Sf-fi
In Their Mountain Homes.
That white races of mysterious ori4
gin and of an advanced grade of civl.
lization exist in certain .of the as yet
unexplored plateaus of Africa has long
been a matter of tradition among all
those who have devoted their atten-
tion to the ethnographical and geo-
graphical science of the Dark Conti-
nent.
But no attention has been drawn as
yet to the fact that in the interior of
San J ago, the largest of the Cape Verd
Islands, there exists a strange people
known by the name of the Cantadas,
who for 300 years past have been ab-
solutely cut 01f from all intercourse
with the outer world, and who are fair~
haired, light complexion-ed and blue
eyed, whereas the remaining popula-
tion of the Cape Verd Islands consists
of negroes, and of Portugese, who are
almost as swarthy and sombre in
color as full-blooded Africans. Dis-
trustful, apparently of the gaze Of
strangers, these people of the moun—
tain seldom leave their habitations
during day time, and on the slightest
alarm of visitors they seek the shelter
of the rock. But by hiding on the op-
posite clilfs until evening, and with
the aid of glasses, it is possible to get
a good view of them when they begin
at sunset to gather on the grassy mea«
flow which fronts the opening of the
caves and extends down to the water’s
edge.
Beautiful fair-haired. white-skinned
girls, clad in flowing White linen gar-
ments, which scarcely conceal the
sinuous beauty of perfect grace and :“i
form, come out to wash linen in the
lake and to sport on the cool green
grass. The men, too, are simply
dressed in much the same way, their
white linen garments being admirably
suited to the tropic climate. Many
other signs of a high degree of civiliza-
tion appear, and from certain points
near the summit of San Antonio it is
possitic, with the aid of strong glasses,
":0 car-sh glimpses through fissures here
7.1211 theie in the wall of rock, of sheep
and wattle grazing, of green fields and
. and of white fiat-roofed houses,
Ling parallel with one another.-
l‘oz'k Journal.
The Imlian's Low Voice.
A Western man tells The St. Louis
Republictin that Eastern people talk
much more loudly than the people of
the far Vest. “If you ever heard an
indian talk.” he says, “you will real—
ize the force of what I say. I never
saw a real Indian that spoke much -
above a whisper. He illustrates exact-
ly what I mean. The Indian lives in
quiet and solitude. I~Iis atmosphere is
not filled with noises and tympanum-
piercing sounds._ ConSequently he does
not have to elev‘ate his voice in (Barry-
ing on conversation. Your city arab,
the counterpart of the Indian, talks
loud enough when he com-es to Arkan-
sas to, be heard inthe next, county.”
, .-...._. . .. ..- ...._ ._ .u. .- _..~ _ -......>..’ __'_....oo
'
PROMISE TO REMEMBER. e
Words :by [EDWARD OXERFORD.
T emflo lz' A'Valse.
1.0
2.1
tell me
know ’tis
1)
once
I shall be
thou'lt for ggive,
re - mem
thou know
hour be hit
hands en - clasp,
den And bring me hope
her That love
dear, For swift
a -
wrong to
>-
11,1.
ain, That mine
oubt
love,
love,
ber'd When seas
est "ifis all for love
the
\—/
will nev ..‘ er
a - lone
For doubt should nev - er
our ways do part ...............
of thee! ..............
ter, When fare - well words must cease .................
mo-ments fly ....... .. ............
and. peace! ....................... .
die! ........................... -
< rz'fmuto. -
Music by V. MARRIOTT.
’0"
771 f
That
But
thou art .................
be, .................
I
Then, tin"
Once n: re
will be
me thou'lt re-
J
Thy prom - ise
And tell
dolente.
O prom ‘- ise
>-
tO re - mem -
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~whis - per‘d of
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"QTL—“T _“ '
her, When thou
end
4’33 ——— —— »—._-:':.r:‘ »
@aEfi—s—NEm-Ns. »
' -‘M l l i - 4.—
thcm, As tar - dy years pass
art far
- less love
~0-
’.—__ \— ~
(—7?“ ‘— “(5—5‘
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For 0,
a. - way ........
t .
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l“ Q Hi ,I |
f 1 : [r , l 4
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there - in
The words that thou ha".
heart will ne‘er for -gct
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cachonc will be e
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344....-- -
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shrin'd"
Norwalk Chronicler