It was not needed, however, for the arrest was easily and quickly made.
Ten o’clock that evening saw every culprit locked in the Tombs, the first step toward the punishment awaiting them.
It appeared later that Nell Margate had discovered the feasibility of the robbery, that she had communicated with Fannie Coyle, then in London, and that the latter then had rung Deland into the job, the latter going to Berlin and cultivating the acquaintance of Colonel Barker, and successfully laying his plans, as have appeared.
They were as successfully perverted by Nick Carter and his assistants, and the gratitude and joy of Mr. Rudolph Strickland, when he saw his cherished treasures being[Pg 41] returned to his house, as Nick had promised, may be far more easily imagined than described.
It was a fixed habit of Nick Carter, however—that of keeping a promise.
THE END.
“The Gordon Elopement; or, Nick Carter’s Three of a Kind,” will be the title of the long, complete story which you will find in the next issue, No. 155, of the Nick Carter Stories, out August 28th. In this story you will read of the further adventures of the famous detective with Mortimer Deland, the international crook. Then, too, you will also find an installment of the serial now running in this publication, together with several other interesting articles.
SNAPSHOT ARTILLERY.
By BERTRAM LEBHAR.
(This interesting story was commenced in No. 153 of Nick Carter Stories. Back numbers can always be obtained from your news dealer or the publishers.)
CHAPTER IV.
HAWLEY’S CONTRIBUTION.
“Thanks, old man,” said the Camera Chap to Carroll, as the boy went off to deliver this message. “But I hope this defiance of the police won’t get you into any trouble?”
“I think not,” the editor replied. “You haven’t committed a murder, or any crime of a serious nature, have you?”
“No, indeed,” Hawley assured him. “All I did was to take a snapshot. But I wasn’t referring to trouble with the authorities. What I meant was that I hope this won’t get you in bad with the owner of this paper. The chief of police doesn’t happen to be a friend of his, does he?”
“No,” replied Carroll grimly. “I assure you that fat bully of a chief is far from being a friend of mine.”
“But I said the owner of the paper,” Hawley protested.
Carroll grinned. “My dear Hawley, the owner of the Oldham Daily Bulletin sits before you now.”
The Camera ’Chap stared at him in astonishment. “You?” he cried half incredulously.
“Exactly,” chuckled Carroll. “I suppose it looks queer to you to see the proprietor of the sheet holding down the job of city editor, but I am only filling this chair during the absence of its regular occupant. My city editor is laid up with an attack of inflammatory rheumatism, so I undertook to do his work.”
Still Hawley appeared incredulous. Two years before, Fred Carroll had been earning thirty dollars a week as a reporter on the New York Sentinel, and the Camera Chap recalled that he had always been notoriously hard up in those days. Where on earth could he have got hold of enough money to buy a newspaper?
As though reading his thoughts, Carroll said, with a laugh: “I suppose you’re wondering how I managed to raise the necessary dough to acquire this progressive, aggressive, and fearlessly independent sheet? No need to tell you that I didn’t save it out of the measly wages the Sentinel paid me. The fact is, Hawley, I came into a lit[Pg 42]tle change after I got fired from the Sentinel for getting them into that confounded libel suit. A wealthy relative of mine over in England cashed in his chips, and mentioned me in his will to the extent of fifteen thousand. I was tipped off that this paper was on the market, and could be had at that figure, so I came here and bought it. There’s the whole story in a nutshell—or pretty near the whole story.”
Hawley doubted no longer. He could see now that Carroll wasn’t joking, and he had never known him to be guilty of falsehood.
“I’m tickled to death to hear this good news, old chap,” he said, grabbing his friend’s hand enthusiastically. “Let me offer you my congratulations, even though they’re tardy. You certainly are a lucky fellow.”
A wry smile came to Carroll’s face. “Not quite as lucky as you imagine,” he said grimly. “Better take back your congratulations, Hawley. It is true that I’m the owner of a newspaper now, but—you’re likely to meet me on Park Row hunting for a job in the very near future.”
“Why, what’s the matter?” the Camera Chap inquired solicitously. “You don’t mean to say that the paper isn’t a success, old man?”
Carroll shrugged his broad shoulders. “When I tell you that I had to hock my watch yesterday in order to pay my board bill, you will doubtless gather that the Oldham Daily Bulletin isn’t exactly a gold mine,” he replied dryly.
“Ye gods!” exclaimed Hawley. “And I always had an idea that newspaper owners were bloated plutocrats.”
“Some are,” was the grim reply. “But I guess I’m far from being the only New York newspaper man who has tried to run a small town daily and made a fizzle of it.”
“What seems to be the main trouble?” the Camera Chap inquired. “I should think that a paper with a motto like yours was bound to be a winner. Progressive, aggressive, and fearlessly independent—that’s a mighty fine catch line, Fred. The population of Oldham certainly ought to rally to the support of a sheet which has such an attractive policy.”
The owner of the Bulletin shook his head. “Yes, they ought to—but they don’t. The fact is, Hawley, that, from the standpoint of dollars and cents, being aggressive and fearlessly independent in a town like this doesn’t pay. The first thing I did after acquiring control of the Bulletin,” he went on, with a frown, “was to declare war against the city government. From a financial standpoint, that was a disastrous mistake.”
“Why did you do it?” the Camera Chap inquired.
“Because,” replied Carroll, his frown deepening, “I simply couldn’t stand for the methods of the gang which is running things in this town. They’re the rawest, nerviest, crookedest bunch of grafters that ever had control of a city government. Compared to them, New York’s old Tweed ring was a bunch of angels. I made up my mind that the Bulletin was going to sweep them out of office. I announced that intention in an editorial on my front page the very first day the sheet appeared under my management.”
“That sounds interesting,” exclaimed Hawley, an appreciative flash in his blue eyes. “What was the result?”
Carroll laughed grimly. “The result was that I lost pretty nearly all my advertising. It seems that most of the big advertisers of this town are allied in one way or[Pg 43] another with that bunch of grafters at the city hall. I didn’t know this when I started out to fight the administration. Although, even if I had known it, it wouldn’t have made any difference,” he added, his strong under jaw thrust forward aggressively. “I should have gone ahead just the same, of course.”
“Bully for you, old man!” exclaimed the Camera Chap. “So those lobsters tried to put you out of business by withdrawing their advertising, eh?”
“Yes; and that wasn’t all. That gang of grafters started in to retaliate by using the powers of the city government against the Bulletin. They stayed up nights thinking of ways to harass me. The police department, the fire department, and all the departments have received orders to refuse to give the Bulletin reporters any news. The police arrest the drivers of my delivery wagons on all sorts of trumped-up charges whenever they get the chance. The gas, water, and electricity department is always finding fault with conditions in the Bulletin Building. These are only a few of the dirty tricks those rascals have resorted to in their efforts to put me out of business.”
“And you’ve been fighting back all the time, of course?” inquired Hawley anxiously.
Carroll looked at him reproachfully. “I thought you knew me too well to ask such a superfluous question,” he said in a hurt tone. “Of course, I’ve been hammering at them just as hard as I know how, and intend to keep it up while there’s breath left in the Bulletin.
“But I’m afraid it’s a losing fight,” he went on sadly. “I don’t mind admitting to you, old man, that they’ve got me groggy. Without any advertising worth speaking of, and with my sources of news crippled, it looks as if the days of the Bulletin were numbered, and its finish already in sight.”
“How about your circulation?” the Camera Chap inquired. “Surely that must have gained? You don’t mean to say that the people haven’t supported you in this laudable fight?”
Carroll shrugged his shoulders. “Not so that you could notice it. It is true that at first my campaign against the grafters got us a lot of new readers. But the circulation figures soon dwindled. The population of Oldham seemed to lose interest in the fight. Besides, I was discredited at the start.”
“Discredited! How?” the Camera Chap demanded in astonishment.
The proprietor of the Bulletin smiled grimly. “There’s a rival sheet here—the Chronicle. It is the administration organ—which means, of course, that its proprietor is hand and glove with that gang of crooks at the city hall. The Chronicle happened to learn that I was formerly a reporter on the New York Sentinel, and that I was discharged from that paper for getting it into a libel suit. That information was pie to those crooks. The Chronicle published it on its front page in red type. It gave all the details of that unfortunate libel suit, insinuated that I had been forced to come to Oldham because no New York newspaper would hire me after my discharge from the Sentinel, and warned the public not to pay any attention to my ’base and slanderous attacks upon the virtuous and public-spirited gentlemen who were giving Oldham the best government it had ever enjoyed.’ Of course, this has hurt me a lot. The Chronicle keeps it[Pg 44] prominently displayed on its front page every day, and, as I have said, I am pretty much discredited.”
“That was a dirty trick,” declared Hawley indignantly. “Who is the proprietor of the Chronicle?”
“A lean old fox named Gale.”
“Gale!” the Camera Chap repeated, with an inflection of astonishment. “That’s a queer coincidence. Doesn’t happen to be any relative of the reporter by the same name on the staff of the New York Daily News, does he, Fred?”
Carroll grinned. “Yes, Hawley, the proprietor of the Oldham Chronicle is the father of your old enemy, Gale, of the News. I can assure you, he’s a chip of the young block, too—several chips, in fact.”
The Camera Chap frowned. “I recall now that somebody once told me that Gale’s father was the proprietor of a small paper,” he said. “I guess, Fred, it was the younger Gale who supplied the Oldham Chronicle with the information about that unfortunate libel suit of yours.”
“I haven’t the slightest doubt of that,” Carroll answered. “He and I never did get along together when I was on Park Row. In fact, I had occasion to punch his head only a few days before I got fired from the Sentinel. I guess he was tickled to death to have a chance to get back at me.”
Their conversation was interrupted at this point by a young man whose face wore a depressed, anxious expression as he stepped up to the editorial desk.
“Mr. Carroll,” he said gloomily, “I’m sorry to have to tell you that we’re going to be badly scooped in the next issue.”
“How so, Parsons?” the acting city editor demanded sharply.
“There’s been a big burglary in town,” announced Parsons, who was the Bulletin’s police reporter.
“A burglary—where?” Carroll demanded.
“That’s what I can’t find out, sir. I overheard two detectives talking about it together at headquarters early this morning, but as soon as they caught sight of me they dropped the subject in a hurry. I’ve been scurrying around town all morning in the hope of finding somebody who could tell me who was robbed, but I haven’t been able to pick up anything. I tried to get an interview with Chief Hodgins, but he refused, as usual, to talk to a Bulletin man.”
“Humph!” Carroll grunted. “And you think the Chronicle has the yarn, Parsons?”
“I am quite sure they have, sir,” was the mournful reply. “One of the detectives admitted to me that Burns, the Chronicle’s police reporter, had all the details, and a long interview with Chief Hodgins. I’m awfully sorry, sir. I hope you don’t blame me for falling down on the yarn.”
Carroll got up and placed his hand on his reporter’s shoulder. “No, I don’t blame you at all, old chap. Considering the difficulties under which you are working, I can’t reasonably hold it against you if you get scooped occasionally on a police story. Keep pegging away, and don’t get discouraged. Better spend the rest of the day trying to get a line on this burglary yarn. You may be fortunate enough to run into somebody who can give you some information about it. If not—well, I guess we’ll have to grin and bear it.”
A chuckle from the Camera Chap caused him to turn to that young man in indignant astonishment.[Pg 45]
“What’s the matter with you?” Carroll demanded irritably. “I don’t see anything to be amused about.”
“Don’t you?” rejoined Hawley, with a grin, taking a plate holder from his camera and laying it on the desk. “I think you’ll be amused, too, Fred, when I tell you what I’ve got here. Would you mind handing me a pad and pencil?”
“What are you going to do?” Carroll demanded wonderingly, as he handed over the desired writing implements.
“I’m going to write a heading for the burglary story which will appear on the front page of the Bulletin’s next issue,” the Camera Chap replied.
“But we haven’t got the burglary story?” Carroll protested, with a puzzled frown.
“Pardon me, but I have. It’s here in this plate holder,” declared Hawley. “I don’t mean to say that we’ve got the details of the larceny—but we’ve got something just as good—or better. Wait until I’ve written my heading, and I’ll explain.”
He wrote rapidly on the pad, and handed the result to Carroll.
“Writing headings is a little out of my line,” he remarked; “but I think this will about do.”
Carroll stared wonderingly at these words.
“There Was a Burglary in Town Yesterday, and Here’s the Reason Why.”
“Underneath that heading,” the Camera Chap explained, in response to Carroll’s inquiring stare, “will go the snapshot which I took at police headquarters a few minutes ago. It’s a picture of Oldham’s chief of police, fast asleep at his desk.”
CHAPTER V.
A TELLING SHOT.
Chief of Police Hodgins let out a bellow of rage the next morning when his startled gaze rested upon the front page of the Oldham Daily Bulletin.
The editor of that belligerent sheet had eagerly availed himself of Hawley’s snapshots and the latter’s suggestion as to how to use them. Both negatives had turned out excellently, and, although there wasn’t a great deal of difference between the two poses, Carroll decided to use them both, so as to make as big a showing as possible. They appeared side by side at the top of the page, and above them, stretched across the full width of the page, was the heading which the Camera Chap had composed.
Beneath the cuts was an editorial from the pen of Fred Carroll, written in very short sentences, and with many words capitalized—a style of editorial which he had copied from the New York Sentinel. The first paragraphs were as follows:
“The above genuine snapshots tell their own story. They were taken at police headquarters at two o’clock yesterday afternoon. They show our chief of police in a thoroughly characteristic pose. A brief study of these interesting, and genuine photographs will enable the reader to understand why CRIMINALS regard Oldham as their HAPPY HUNTING GROUND.
“Most police officials believe in keeping their eyes open and their mouths closed while on duty. Our chief of police reverses that old-fashioned policy. As these snapshots show, he does HIS police duty with his eyes CLOSED and his mouth WIDE OPEN. Citizens and property[Pg 46] owners may not approve of this original policy, but, no doubt, BURGLARS, STRONG-ARM MEN, and other CROOKS heartily indorse it. Of course, they are thoroughly satisfied with our SOMNOLENT chief of police.
“Night before last there was a daring burglary, committed in this town. Bold thieves got away with plunder worth many thousand dollars. We frankly confess that the Bulletin is not, as yet, in possession of the full details of that burglary. We tried to find out about the crime, but were unsuccessful. When a Bulletin representative called on Chief Hodgins, to ascertain the particulars, he found him SNORING. The Bulletin representative was too polite to disturb the chief’s daylight slumbers, so, instead of interviewing him, he took his picture. That could be done without WAKING him. Besides, our representative thought that the taxpayers of Oldham would find these snapshots much more interesting and illuminating than a mere detailed account of the burglary.”
There were several more paragraphs couched in the same strain. Chief Hodgins read it through to the very end. Then, in a paroxysm of fury, he tore the paper in small pieces, growling, as he did so, like a terrier worrying a rat.
“I’d give a whole lot to have that camera feller here right now,” he muttered. “Confound these fools for letting him get away! They’re a lot of boneheads!”
This criticism of his subordinates was scarcely just, in view of the fact that the chief himself had led the squad of police which laid in wait for Hawley outside the Bulletin Building with the intention of placing that young man under arrest as soon as he stepped out of the newspaper office. Not having a warrant, they had not dared to force their way into the editorial rooms, so the chief and his men had stationed themselves outside, confident that sooner or later the Camera Chap must come out and fall into their clutches.
But Carroll, suspecting this ambush, showed Hawley how to make his escape by means of a window at the rear of the building, and the Camera Chap was on his motor cycle, dashing up the steep road which led to his host’s mountain retreat, long before the police became aware of the fact that they had been outwitted.
Chief Hodgins was, of course, as much to blame as any of his men for this fiasco; but as it was some relief to his feelings to abuse his subordinates for their “gross carelessness,” he did not hesitate to do so. The chief’s bump of logic and his sense of fairness were so underdeveloped that they were almost minute quantities.
Just as he got through with his performance of savagely rending the offending copy of the Bulletin into small pieces, the telephone on his desk rang. It was the voice of the mayor which came to him over the wire. The mayor’s name was Martin Henkle. He was a big, burly man, whose voice when he was angry was so gruff that in comparison Chief Hodgins’ manner of speech was sweetly melodious. By that token, his honor was exceedingly peeved now.
“Is that you, Hodgins?” he growled over the wire.
“Yes, Mr. Mayor,” was the meek reply.
The head of the police department had turned very pale. Mayor Henkle’s wife was his second cousin, but in spite of this relationship he stood in great fear of his honor.[Pg 47]
“Huh! Seen this morning’s Bulletin yet?” the latter inquired hoarsely.
“Yes, sir, I have,” replied the chief, glaring at the fragments of paper on the floor. “And of all the dastardly outrages that ever—-”
“A fine spectacle you’ve made of yourself!” came the snarling interruption. “You big, fat-headed boob, I gave you credit for possessing a little more sense, or I’d never have appointed you. The whole town is laughing over those pictures. Everybody I met this morning on my way to the city hall was reading the Bulletin. You’ve made a laughingstock of my administration.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Mayor,” said Hodgins humbly. “The fact is, that rascally photographer took an unfair advantage of me. I wasn’t really asleep, of course. I had—er—just closed my eyes for a minute, thinking out a scheme for catching those burglars—I always sit with my eyes closed, you know, when I’m thinking—and before I knew what was happening, that fellow sneaked in and took those snapshots.”
The chief had invented this explanation on the spur of the moment. It sounded so good to him that he was just congratulating himself upon his ingenuity when a snort of contempt from the other end of the wire filled him with consternation.
“That won’t do,” growled the mayor. “You’ll have to think up a better one than that, Hodgins, if you want to get away with it. Anybody with a grain of common sense can tell from those pictures that you were fast asleep. Men who think with their eyes closed don’t open their mouths, too. Besides, that fellow took two pictures. You must have been in a mighty sound sleep, or you’d have heard him come into the room and nabbed him before he had a chance to take the second.”
“Well, perhaps I dozed off a little, Mr. Mayor,” the disconcerted policeman admitted. “I’ll not deny it. You see, I hadn’t had much sleep the night before, and I haven’t been feeling very well lately. After all, I guess it ain’t such a terrible crime for a hard-working public official to take a short nap in his private office.”
“You should have locked your office door, you big, blundering baboon!” snarled the mayor. “I’m not kicking so much at your falling asleep at your desk as I am at your permitting the Bulletin to catch you napping. The whole town is grinning at you, and, of course, I—being responsible for your appointment—have got to bear the brunt of it. I don’t mind being roasted, but I can’t stand being laughed at.
“And, what’s more, I don’t intend to stand for it!” the mayor went on, a menace in his tone. “I tell you, Hodgins, you’ve got to square yourself with the public regarding those pictures if you want to keep your job. I don’t see how you’re going to do it—there’s no denying the evidence of the camera—but unless you can swing public sentiment your way, I’ll be compelled to remove you from office. So you’d better get busy.”
The chief of police started to protest, but found himself addressing a “dead” wire. The mayor, after delivering this ultimatum, had abruptly disconnected.
For several minutes Chief Hodgins paced the floor of his private office, a scowl upon his round, fat face.
“Wish I had that Camera Chap here right now,” he muttered. “I’d twist his confounded neck. Square myself with the public! How am I going to do that?”
Then suddenly his face lighted up. “Guess I’ll go and[Pg 48] have a talk with my friend Gale, of the Chronicle,” he mused. “He ought to be able to help me out of this trouble. When it comes to clever tricks, there ain’t an editor in the country is equal to that chap. Ten to one he’ll be able to dope out a way to turn the tables on that miserable rag of a Bulletin.”
CHAPTER VI.
GALE SUGGESTS.
As Chief Hodgins walked down Main Street toward the Chronicle office, he became painfully aware that there was a broad grin upon the face of nearly every person he met.
Many of the amused persons had copies of the Bulletin in their hands or protruding from their coat pockets; so that, although he was not a particularly sensitive man, he was forced to conclude that they were smiling at his expense.
Several small boys followed him at a discreet distance, giggling and jeering. One street urchin, more bold than the rest, came up close behind him, and gave a graphic imitation of a man snoring. With a snarl of rage, the head of the Oldham police force wheeled around, with the intention of making a terrible example of this juvenile tormentor, but the youngster darted beyond his reach. The chief started to give chase, but soon abandoned the idea. He was too fat to be much of a sprinter.
Fortunately the Chronicle Building was not far from police headquarters, so these painful experiences soon came to an end. Delancey Gale, editor and publisher of the Oldham Chronicle, greeted Chief Hodgins cordially when the latter stepped into his private office.
“My dear chief, this is, indeed, a pleasure,” he cried effusively. “Pray sit down and make yourself comfortable.”
Mr. Gale was a dapper little old man, with neatly trimmed white mutton-chop whiskers, and a very prominent Adam’s apple. There was something about his lean, sharp-featured countenance which made one think of a fox, although just in what respect he bore a physical resemblance to that animal it would have been difficult to point out.
As Chief Hodgins sank into a chair, he became aware of the fact that he and the editor were not the only occupants of the room. A good-looking young man whose clothes were of the very latest cut stood near the window, with his profile toward the policeman.
“You’ve met my son, of course, chief?” said the editor and publisher of the Chronicle.
“Sure!” replied Hodgins, with a gracious nod to the young man. “But I declare I shouldn’t have known him. He’s changed a whole lot since I saw him last. That was more’n ten years ago, I guess. Doin’ newspaper work in New York, ain’t you, sir?”
“He has been,” replied the elder Gale, with a proud look in the direction of the young man. “For several years, chief, my son has been a distinguished member of the staff of the New York Daily News. But he has resigned that position to come out here and help me run the Chronicle.”
“A very sensible idea,” said Hodgins. “But now, Mr. Gale, to get down to my business. I’m a little rushed[Pg 49] for time, so you’ll excuse me for bein’ brief. Have you—ahem!—seen to-day’s issue of the Bulletin?”
“Of course,” replied the elder Gale, with a deprecating smile. “I presume you are referring to those disgraceful pictures? They are an outrage!”
“They certainly are that,” growled Hodgins. “What would you advise me to do about them, Mr. Gale—to set myself right in the eyes of the public, I mean?”
Again Mr. Gale smiled deprecatingly. “I scarcely think there is any need to worry about that, chief. It isn’t likely that the public will pay any attention to anything that appears in our disreputable contemporary, the Bulletin.”
“They wouldn’t if they had any sense,” said the chief, scowling as he recalled his recent painful experience on the street. “But—ahem!—the public seems inclined to pay more attention to those confounded snapshots than you’d think, and I’ve got to do something to set myself right. That’s what I’ve come to see you about, Mr. Gale.”
“I guess that can be easily fixed,” said the editor, “I’ll run an editorial on the front page of to-morrow’s Chronicle, denouncing the Bulletin for publishing those pictures. I shall refer to it as a pictorial outrage against decency and a disgrace to journalism.”
“That’s what it is, all right,” muttered the chief, with an approving nod; “but will the public look at it that way?”
“They will when they read in to-morrow’s Chronicle why it was that you were asleep at your desk,” replied the editor, with a sly smile. “We’ll explain that our worthy chief of police, after being up all night for three successive nights in the pursuit of his official duties, was so tired out that he was unable to keep up any longer. Tired nature asserted itself, and he fell back in his chair in a state of collapse. And while he was in this condition—brought about solely by his devotion to duty and zeal to serve the public—the miscreant photographer of the Bulletin sneaked in and made capital of the incident.
“I rather think that will do the trick, chief,” the elder Gale remarked. “When they read the Chronicle to-morrow morning, the people of Oldham, instead of smiling at those pictures, will look upon you as a martyr.”
Chief Hodgins’ face lighted up. “The very thing!” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “It looks to me as if you’d hit the right idea, Mr. Gale, and I don’t mind telling you that if you print all that you’ll come pretty near telling the truth, too.”
“Have you caught the fellow who took the pictures yet, chief?” the editor inquired.
“No; the rascal got away,” Hodgins answered, with a scowl. “My men learned that he got out of town on a motor cycle, but they can’t find out where he’s gone. I guess he won’t dare set foot in this town again. He was certainly the nerviest camera fiend I’ve seen or heard of.”
The younger Gale pricked up his ears at these words. “Don’t happen to know his name, do you, chief?” he inquired, with great interest.
“Yes, I do, too,” Hodgins replied. “One of my detectives managed to find out that much from one of the printers who works for the Bulletin. The fellow’s name is Hawley, and he works for a New York newspaper.”
“I thought as much,” exclaimed young Gale, with a[Pg 50] frown. “I heard on Park Row the other day that Hawley, of the Sentinel, was taking a vacation up in the Catskills. Too bad you didn’t catch him, chief, and send him to jail. I’ve no use for that fellow.”
“I’ll send him to jail, all right, if I ever manage to lay hands on him,” declared the policeman, a glint in his eyes.
“But can you?” the elder Gale queried. “Could you send him to jail, I mean, for taking those snapshots, even if you were to catch him? After all, my dear chief, he has violated no law. I was looking up the penal code a little while ago, and I find there is no statute which covers his case. I am afraid you couldn’t do anything to him—in a legal way.”
“Is that so?” exclaimed Hodgins, with a discomfited look. “Well, that’s certainly news to me, Mr. Gale. I thought for sure there was a law covering his offense. If there ain’t one, there certainly ought to be.”
“Say, that gives me an idea,” cried the younger Gale excitedly. “What’s the matter with getting the city council to pass an ordinance making it a misdemeanor punishable by six months’ imprisonment for any person to take a photograph on any street or in any public building of Oldham without a special permit signed by the chief of police? You fellows ought to have enough pull with the council to get such a law put through immediately.”
“An excellent plan!” declared the elder Gale. “Such an ordinance would not apply to past offenses, of course, but it would enable you, chief, to send this young scamp Hawley to prison if he ever comes back to Oldham and takes any more pictures.”
“Yes,” cried the younger Gale eagerly, “and you can rest assured that Hawley will come back to take more pictures. In fact, I’ve got a scheme to bring him back. Get that ordinance passed by the council, chief, and I’ll guarantee that you’ll have the satisfaction of seeing Mr. Hawley, of the Sentinel, behind bars. My little scheme is bound to work.”
He explained this scheme to his father and Chief Hodgins, and both of them gave it their enthusiastic approval.
“It’s a pippin!” declared the head of the Oldham police force joyously. “It’s easy to see, Mr. Gale, that your son is a chip of the old block when it comes to cleverness.
“We’ll put that ordinance through right away,” he went on. “I guess there won’t be any trouble in getting the council to pass it. And then, when the law’s on the books, we’ll set a little snare for that confounded Camera Chap. He’s sure to walk right into it.”
CHAPTER VII.
THE TELEGRAM.
After his exciting visit to Oldham, the Camera Chap resumed his rest cure at his friend’s place in the mountains; but he kept in touch with Carroll by telephone, and these conversations made him yearn for another excursion into town.
One morning—to be precise, it was just three days after his trip to Oldham—Carroll called him up on the telephone and imparted to him an interesting piece of news.
“You ought to feel flattered, Hawley, old man,” the pro[Pg 51]prietor of the Bulletin chuckled. “They’ve passed an ordinance solely on your account. Of course, they won’t admit that you were the cause of it, but I am quite sure that the bill was put through expressly to prevent you from coming back and taking any more snapshots.”
“What’s the nature of the ordinance?” the Camera Chap inquired.
“It is known as the ‘anticamera bill.’ Makes it a misdemeanor to take a photograph on the streets of Oldham or in any of the public buildings without a special license from the chief of police.”
“What’s the penalty?” Hawley inquired, with great interest.
“A fine of a hundred dollars or six months in the penitentiary, or both,” Carroll replied.
“Great Scott!” exclaimed the Camera Chap. “Six months in jail for taking a picture! Why didn’t they make it hanging while they were about it?”
“Perhaps they would if they had thought of it,” returned Carroll. “But I say, old man, be sure to keep away from Oldham; or, if you should have to come to town for any reason, don’t fail to leave your camera behind you. Chief Hodgins is just wasting away with yearning for a chance to get even with you; and you can rest assured that if they catch you violating the law, it won’t be merely a hundred-dollar fine in your case—it will be a hundred-dollar fine and six months’ imprisonment.”
“That would be pleasant,” said the Camera Chap, with a laugh. “Much obliged for tipping me off, old man. I shall certainly make it a point to be careful. Any more news?”
“Nothing worth mentioning. I told you the other day that your old friend Gale, of the Daily News, was in town, helping his old man run the Chronicle, didn’t I?”
“Yes. What’s he doing? Up to any of his old tricks?”
“I haven’t been able to get wind of any, but I guess he’s planning some mischief, all right,” replied Carroll, with a laugh. “I met him on the street yesterday, and he was so effusive that my suspicions were at once aroused. He shook me by the hand as though he had always loved me like a brother; said he hoped that I’d let bygones be bygones and that we’d be good friends—that there was no reason why fellows should be enemies just because they were running rival papers. You know the smooth line of talk that faker can hand out.”
The Camera Chap laughed. “Yes; and, as you say, he’s generally planning some mischief when he lays it on as thick as that. Better keep a sharp lookout, Fred.”
“You can bet I’m going to,” Carroll assured him. “By the way, he spoke about you. Asked me whether I’d seen you lately. And he called you ‘good old Hawley.’”
“Ye gods!” the Camera Chap exclaimed. “He must be planning my assassination at the very least.”
After that telephone conversation Hawley sat for some time on the porch of his host’s bungalow, and his gaze was concentrated wistfully on the steep mountain road which led straight to the town of Oldham.
“Six months in prison for a snapshot!” he mused. “What an adventure! That would, indeed, be a risk worth running! A fellow who could get away with a stunt of that sort would have done something really worth while. And Carroll said that they passed that ordinance especially for my benefit. It would almost be cowardly to refuse the challenge.[Pg 52]”
A messenger boy on a bicycle rode up to the house and interrupted his musings at this point.
“Say, mister, is there anybody here named Hawley?” the youngster inquired.
“There certainly is, son,” the Camera Chap replied. “What have you got? A telegram, eh? Hand it over.”
As he perused the contents of the yellow envelope, he muttered an exclamation of mingled joy and astonishment. The telegram was from Paxton, managing editor of the New York Sentinel, and was worded as follows:
“Will you run over to Oldham immediately on receipt of this and photograph city hall, exterior view? Rush print to office. Sorry interrupt vacation, but picture badly needed.
Paxton.”
“Now, what in the name of all that’s wonderful can he want with a picture of Oldham’s city hall?” thought the Camera Chap. “It’s certainly a mighty queer assignment. However, it makes no difference, of course, what they want it for. The fact that they do want it is good enough for me. This telegram has arrived just at the psychological moment. I was hunting for an excuse to go to Oldham, and here’s a good one.”
TO BE CONTINUED.
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THIS FOR A FISH STORY?
Last spring, while a party of tourists were fishing up North, a well-known lawyer lost his gold watch from the boat in which he was sitting.
Last week he made another visit to the lakes, and during the first day’s sport caught an eight-pound trout. His astonishment can be imagined when he found his watch lodged in the throat of the trout.
The watch was running and the time correct. It being a “stem-winder,” the supposition is that in masticating his food the fish wound up the watch daily.
TREATMENT OF CHILDREN.
An absent-minded doctor was called in to see a child two years old suffering from convulsions. After a careful diagnosis, he prescribed as follows:
“Nervous excitement. Avoid all violent emotions; abstain from wines and spirits; avoid excess at table and other indulgences; travel a good deal; go frequently to the theater. Beware of reading a certain class of novels.”
SMALLEST RACE OF PEOPLE.
The inhabitants of the Andaman Islands are the smallest race of people in the world taken as a whole. The average height of a full-grown Andaman is three feet, eleven inches, and the average weight less than seventy pounds. They are very warlike, and, as they throw poisoned spears with marvelous accuracy, it is not at all strange that travelers do not care to encounter them.
HER FATHER HAD NO OBJECTION.
“How does your father seem to regard my coming here?” anxiously asked Adolphus of little Bobby, while Maud was upstairs, getting ready to present herself.[Pg 53]
“I guess he don’t care nothin’ about it,” replied Bobby carelessly.
“So he has no objection, eh? But what did he say, my little man?”
“He said if Maud was a mind to make a fool of herself, why, let her.”
THE RUSE WORKED.
“Bobby is attending to his pianoforte lessons very faithfully of late,” said the youth’s uncle.
“Yes,” replied his mother. “I don’t have any trouble with him about that now.”
“How did you manage it?”
“Some of the neighbors complained of the noise his exercises made, and I told him about it. Now he thinks it’s fun to practice.”
A HORSE STORY.
“Mamma”—sorrel colt gazes anxiously to his dam—“the chestnut filly wants me to run away with her the next time we go driving together.”
He looked down shyly.
“What shall I say?”
The mare bridled up.
“Turn to her, my son, and whisper gently: ‘Neigh, neigh, Pauline!’”
And with a horse laugh they resumed the discussion of their table d’oat.
BOBBY’S BAD BOX.
Mrs. Suburb—“Bobby, I wish you would weed this flower bed.”
Bobby—whimpering—“If I sit out here in the hot sun, a-pullin’ weeds, I’ll get all sunburned, and my skin will be so sore I can’t sleep.”
Mrs. Suburb—“That’s easily remedied. After you get through with the flower beds you may pull all the plantain weeds out of the lawn and bring them to me. Plantain leaves are good for sunburn.”
SHOWING HIS WISDOM.
Housekeeper—“I wish to get some borax.”
New Boy—“Powdered?”
“I hardly know. I saw in a paper that roaches could be killed with borax.”
“Guess you’d better take the other kind, ma’am. It’s ’most as hard as rocks. Have you a little boy?”
“Y-e-s?”
“Well, if I was you, I’d let him do the throwing.”
BETTER THAN ALARM CLOCKS.
Bright Boy—“You don’t have to wake up the girl any more do you?”
Mother—“No, for a wonder; she has awakened herself every morning for a week.”
“I thought she would.”
“Why so?”
“All the flies I caught in that fly trap I took upstairs and let out in her room.[Pg 54]”
THE NEWS OF ALL NATIONS.
Turtle Snaps on Girl’s Toe.
Miss Mae Leser, of Gratz, Pa., an eighteen-year-old girl, knows how it feels to haul a large snapping turtle out of the water with her large toe. With some other girls, Miss Leser was September Morn-ing in the silent stream that gambols through the outskirts of Gratz. She gave a scream when the snapper seized her toe, and the girls who were with her say she went down into the water before they were able to get to the rescue.
When the turtle was hauled out on dry land, and had sized up the situation, he let loose and hastened back to the water. Miss Leser’s toe is badly bruised.
Baby Takes Thrilling Ride.
After dashing down a steep hillside fifty yards in a gocart, which overturned twice, and plunging from a six-foot retaining wall, George Bukalic, aged two, son of Rudolph Bukalic, a Hungarian, of 2003 East Street, Pittsburgh, Pa., still strapped in the gocart, landed in front of a trolley car in East Street. The car was stopped in time to avoid running over the cart, and the baby crawled out from under the wrecked cart unhurt, except for two slight bruises on the head.
With Three Original Members.
With three survivors, the Hazleton Liberty Band, of Hazleton, Pa., which was Grant’s headquarters band the day Lee surrendered at Appomattox, paraded on its fiftieth anniversary of the return home from the Civil War.
Germans Interned at Norfolk Enjoy Life.
The crews of the German auxiliary cruisers Eitel Friedrich and the Kronprinz Wilhelm, interned at Norfolk, Va., are enjoying life to its fullest. Besides numerous entertainments accorded to officers and crews, the men are living a life of luxurious idleness. Their chief vocation at this time is pleasure—pleasure day and night.
They spend most of their time in Norfolk in the early hours of the day. In the afternoon they go to Virginia Beach, Ocean View, and other near-by resorts. They smoke good cigars, eat the best, and appear to have plenty of money. Barring a few cases of beri-beri on the Kronprinz, they are a healthy lot.
The men have been taken into the homes of a number of citizens and entertained, and special services have been held for them in Protestant churches. They are made to feel at home.
They appear on the streets in white uniforms with blue stripes and white hats. They are as neat as new pins and their conduct is perfect. They roam the streets arm in arm with American bluejackets, and visit the best theaters and other public resorts.
They are beginning to love the great American game. Several hundred of them attended a baseball game in Portsmouth and rose up and cheered a player who drove the ball over the fence for a home run. Whether they understand the game or just followed the Americans who stood up and cheered, no one but themselves knew. But there is a movement on foot to organize two baseball[Pg 56] teams out of the crews—one on the Eitel and another on the Kronprinz—and some of the men are practicing daily. They have spent over two hundred dollars for equipment. A short member of the crew, whom the American sailors call “Buelow,” drove a ball over the sea wall in a practice game.
Rescue Little Fishes for Food of Future.
A regular life-saving service for fish is the latest conservation kink. In Iowa, Wisconsin, and Illinois the State fish commission, with the coöperation of the United States government, operate fish-saving expeditions for the benefit of the land-locked fish left in small ponds along the course of the Mississippi River.
In the springtime the river rises and spreads out over the country, filling numerous small channels and hollows. In August the water begins to recede. The large fish note the warning and escape, but the little fish remain until the dried-up channel has cut off their means of escape. Ultimately these small ponds and channels dry up completely and billions of fish have been lost annually in this way.
The fish-saving service consists of parties of men who wade out into these inland ponds, take up the fish in nets, and restore them to the main body of the river. The fish rescued are about finger length, and from twenty to forty large tubs of them have been taken in a single day from a pond not more than half an acre in area. Billions of black bass, perch, sunfish, and other edible species are in this way added to the nation’s food resources.
“Bedtick Banks” Are Failures.
“Bedtick banks” have proved a failure to some persons of Uniontown, Pa. Robbers continue to make successful raids on savings deposited in ticks. Fifteen hundred dollars was obtained from beneath a mattress in the home of John Morgan, at Lambert, and six hundred dollars was secured from a similar hiding place in the home of John Holly, at Continental.
Since the failure of the First National Bank, depositors have withdrawn their savings from solvent banks and concealed the sums about their homes. Nearly two hundred and fifty thousand dollars is said to have been drawn from banks in that section. Since it has become known that parties are acting as their own bankers, burglarious gents have evidently flocked to the region.
Shoots Two; Kills Himself.
Harvey O. Dysinger, aged forty, a rich Hardin County farmer, shot and fatally injured his wife, killed his daughter, Esther, aged fifteen, and wounded his son, Herbert, aged sixteen, and committed suicide at his home one mile north of Forest, Ohio. The only member of the family to escape unscathed was the youngest child, Kenneth, aged eleven, who was rescued by Herbert. The latter is not seriously hurt.
Herbert was awakened at four-thirty in the morning by several shots, and was just climbing out of bed to investigate when Dysinger entered his room and fired at him.[Pg 57] The bullet wounded him in the head. Dysinger was also armed with a hatchet.
Herbert, stunned and bleeding, grappled with his father, and the two wrestled about the room. Finally the boy disarmed the crazed man, and, grabbing the gun and hatchet, ran downstairs, where he pulled his younger brother, Kenneth, from bed.
While he was gone, Dysinger obtained a revolver, and, lying down on the bed beside his wife, shot himself through the heart. He is thought to have become insane.
Noted Mission Worker Dies.
Walter B. Moorcroft, of Paterson, N. J., for twenty years a prominent mission worker among drunkards and fallen women, died following a stroke of apoplexy.
Twenty years ago Moorcroft owned a resort known as “The Hole in the Wall” in New York. He dropped into the John Street Mission one night, and what he heard caused him to close the place at ten o’clock.
Railroad to Bar Liquor.
Chesapeake & Ohio Railroad officials have announced that every train on the entire system will be prohibited from selling liquors.
The Only Way.
“What a lively baby!” said Brannigan. “Have ye had his picture took yet?”
“Not yet,” said his proud father. “I’ve tried to, but afther an hour’s lost labor the photographer advised us to go to a movin’-picture studio!”
Crosses Ocean for “Story.”
Eliezer Ben Jehuda, editor of the Haor, a newspaper published in Jerusalem, has arrived in New York from Patras. Ship-news reporters who welcomed him at the pier were beset by mingled emotions when they learned that the Haor has four editions a year and no extras.
The Haor means in English, “The Light.” Mr. Jehuda has come to New York on a rush assignment, and he was gravely concerned lest he would not get his story in for the October edition.
It was learned there are no vacancies on the editorial, reportorial, or business staff of the Haor.
He Poisons Milk to Get One Dollar.
John Kelly, eleven years old, admitted in the Brooklyn children’s court, Brooklyn, N. Y., that he had put a quantity of lye in a bottle of milk for the use of his eighty-one-year-old grandmother, with whom he lived. “I only wanted to make her sick so she would have to go to bed,” he explained. “That would give me a chance to go through the house and get hold of some money. I needed a dollar awful bad.”
The boy’s parents died when he was an infant, and his grandmother reared him.
Cyclone Plays Odd Pranks.
A cyclone played queer pranks and did much damage in Dowagiac, Mich. A water tank at the stove works was blown from its sixty-foot pedestal and crashed through a near-by factory building. A barn south of the city was carried several feet away and upturned, leaving two horses standing in their stalls unhurt. A new cottage[Pg 58] was demolished at Indian Lake. The roof and upper story of a farmhouse was blown off. Trees were uprooted and cottages damaged at several summer resorts.
Woman Finds Way to Lift Bucket in Well.
The problem of securing a water supply for household uses has been solved in a novel and up-to-date way by a homesteader woman living near Fairview, Mont. There is a well on the place. Like most wells in that section it is a deep one, being one hundred and seventy-five feet down. The family has no windmill nor even a pump, but draws its water in the old oaken bucket on a pulley way. In this case the bucket that hangs in the well is a ten-gallon keg.
When the husband is at home, he is able to operate the keg by hand, but his business keeps him in town most of the time, and the large share of the water hauling devolves upon the wife. She is unable to lift the keg. She has a twenty-horse-power automobile, however, and this serves the purpose. When in need of water, she lowers the keg, attaches the well rope to the roadster, throws in the clutch, and up comes her water supply while she stands idly by.
Burglars Steal Two Fleas.
They were curious burglars who broke into the home of Herbert Randall, an artist and curio collector of Hartford, Conn. Passing over a quantity of silver, they chose their loot from the curios.
Included in the booty they got were two very special fleas, and the only ones in the house. The fleas were dressed in red uniforms to represent soldiers. Mr. Randall bought them from an old lady in Seattle, who made a living dressing fleas in martial array. They reposed in little boxes against a background of white cotton, and were usually observed through a microscope. Mr. Randall has one of the largest and best curio collections in the State.
New Corn Picker Invented.
The farmers in the great corn belt of the United States are realizing more and more that the longest and hardest and most expensive job on the farm these days of modern machinery is husking corn by hand, and, with this idea in view, an Illinois inventor has lately perfected a corn picker, which will do away with the husking by hand.
This machine does not husk the corn clean, because that is not necessary, but simply puts it in the wagon the easiest and cheapest way possible, and thereby does away with the big, heavy, and costly corn husker.
This inventor’s corn picker is said to resemble the corn binder in construction and is no heavier or more costly, and is expected to revolutionize the corn-picking industry, and will be greatly appreciated by cattle feeders who fatten their cattle on corn and by the corn farmers in general.
Kansas Alfalfa for Army.
A contract has been made by Major General Aleshire, of the quartermaster’s department of the United States army with a commission company of Kansas City, Mo., for the purchase of three thousand tons of alfalfa to go to the army post at Empire, Panama Canal Zone. The alfalfa will be delivered at Colon between June 30, 1915, and August 1, 1916. The contract price is not quite twenty-five dollars a ton.
This deal will be good news to farmers, for it will go[Pg 59] far to show that alfalfa has gone to the head as prime hay for all purposes in all parts of the world. Our farmers can cut from four to six tons from every acre of ordinarily good farming land, and this without plowing, harrowing, furnishing seed, or paying out money for threshing or fertilizer.
Indian Gets Third Burial.
A strange burial attended by old residents of Wyandotte County took place at the Indian burial ground on the General Miller Farm in Delaware Township, near the Leavenworth County line, in Missouri. For the third time the body of Captain Ne Con He Con, a chief of the Delaware tribe of Indians, was laid to rest.
The Indian chief died in 1863 and was buried according to tribal customs in a grave containing many desirable relics, and a blanket, a silk sash, and gold braid were scattered over the ground.
In 1883 the grave was robbed by relic hunters and again the body of the chief was buried, and the decorations scattered on top the ground. The third burial was Wednesday. H. F. Heisler, of the Kansas side, Wyandotte County’s oldest citizen, officiated. The burial was solemnized for the purpose of maintaining respect for the burial place of the Delawares.
Lightning Kills Two Boys.
Tom Patton, eighteen, and Clyde Ellis, seventeen, were struck and instantly killed by lightning near Norman, Okla. The boys were running to a shed to escape a storm.
Interesting New Inventions.
A new burglar alarm designed for outbuildings fires a blank cartridge when an intruder touches a wire, which can be laid in almost any desired direction.
To make a baby enjoy his bath, a cork doll that bobs around on the water while he splashes has been invented by a New Jersey woman.
To prevent an automobile spattering mud upon pedestrians, there has been invented a flexible metal ring to be attached close to a tire.
Among the space-saving household novelties is a folding washtub, which may be fastened against collapsing when filled with water.
In an electric gun invented in England, which seems to be successful, a projectile is hurled through a tube by the action of electric magnets on the outside.
For military purposes a United States army officer has designed an automobile that will carry fourteen men, with full equipment and three days’ rations, eight hundred miles on one filling of its fuel tanks.
Electric-light signals, powerful enough to be seen in the daytime, are being adopted by several electric railroads in preference to semaphores, as they save the expense of motor-driven mechanism.
Proud of His Ambitious Hen.
John F. Williamson, of Dalton, Ga., has a hen he wouldn’t swap even for any hen in the State of Georgia, for she has established a record of which any hen might be proud. Not satisfied with hatching fifteen thoroughbred Rhode Island Reds out of fifteen eggs, this fowl, who is a Plymouth Rock, decided to try the merits of her own particular breed, and laid eight eggs, while hatching her brood. Mr. Williamson does not state whether the Plymouth Rock[Pg 60] eggs hatched or not, but says the mystical number “twenty-three” may have prevented the hen from carrying out her purpose.
Man Pays Uncle Sam Twenty Cents.
The secretary of war has received from Chicago a letter inclosing twenty cents in stamps, with the statement that the sum is inclosed “for bacon and eggs.” Mr. Garrison could not recall the transaction, so he turned the letter over to the treasury department, where the twenty cents was added to the “conscience fund.”
It is supposed that a retired soldier ate more than the law allowed, and that he now compensates the government for his meal.
The conscience fund, which in reality has a separate existence only on paper, has been growing since President Madison’s administration, and the total now is nearly $500,000.
Old King of ’Gators is Dead.
The king alligator of Georgia has been killed at Hutchinson’s pond at Adel by M. L. Crowley, after the beast had eluded hunters, for twenty-two years. The alligator measured ten feet four inches and had thirty-seven notches on its tail, which shows that it was thirty-seven years old.
Many have been the attempts to kill the sly old creature, but always, until now, it has escaped the bullets aimed at it and has scuttled safely back to its cave. It was the ’gator’s appetite for hogs that proved its undoing.
Mr. Crowley, who for twenty-two years has been hunting this beast, tied the leg of a porker to a tree near Hutchinson’s pond, and hid himself. The wary old ’gator slid out of the water, through a clump of bushes, and was just reaching for the bait when Mr. Crowley fired. The bullet took the beast in a vital spot and killed it instantly.
Dies from Woodtick Bite.
Doctor M. S. McCrillis, a pioneer dentist, of Douglas, Wyo., is dead of spotted fever, caused by the bite of a woodtick. This is the seventh death from spotted fever, or woodtick fever, that has occurred in Wyoming this year.
Owing to the cold, wet spring woodticks are more numerous and especially more poisonous than for many years. Hundreds of persons throughout the State have been or are now ill from the effects of woodtick bites.
Robbers Hold Up Fifteen Hobos.
Two masked men, armed with a revolver and an electric flash light, held up and robbed fifteen hobos while they were sleeping in a box car in Wichita, Kan. The robbers got seventy cents and a plug of tobacco from the fifteen.
When the hobos were ordered to throw up their hands, one refused, and, for his obstinacy, was shot. He died in a hospital. He gave his name as Ben Rider, of Chicago. When the police arrived, the holdup men were searching other box cars in the railroad yards.
Nothing but Water in This Unique Township.
Hyde County, near Kinston, N. C., has the most unique township in the United States. It is “Lake Township,” with barely a square inch of dry land in it and not a single resident.
The biggest drainage undertaking in the history of the[Pg 61] south Atlantic States will next winter reclaim the bottom of Mattamuskeet Lake, one of the two largest fresh-water bodies in the south Atlantic group. Gigantic pumps will drive the water from the lake at the rate of a million gallons a minute.
Mattamuskeet Lake is eighteen miles long and seven miles wide, but at its deepest point is not more than three and one-half feet in depth. The land of the entire county is of a peaty nature, and this basin was burned out by a fire before the coming of the white men. Now, even, such fires sometimes have to be checked by the people.
Dare County adjoining Hyde, has the largest area of salt water within its boundaries of any county in the United States; Hyde has the largest area of fresh water. The other large lake of the south Atlantic group is Alligator Lake, only a few miles from Mattamuskeet.
The sixteen pumps to be used in this reclamation work have one-hundred-and-eight-inch suctions and seventy-two-inch discharges.
To show the productiveness of this land to be recovered, never yet under the plow, a small plot adjacent to its shores is now sown in twenty-two hundred varieties of grain and vegetables, flowers, fruits, and nuts. Lake Township will be opened to settlement in 1916.
Munich Driven to Lemonade.
Munich, the greatest beer-drinking center of Germany, has been compelled sharply to curtail the consumption of beer. The amount of beer now available for public use is only one-third of the ordinary supply.
A number of the famous beer gardens are now closing at seven o’clock in the evening, owing to the shortage of beer. Some of these places are encouraging their guests to call for lemonade as a substitute for beer.
Billposters Bar Liquor Ads.
No advertisements of intoxicating liquors will be placed on the billboards of the Associated Billposters and Distributors of the United States and Canada after the close of this year, according to Donald Ross, president of the association.
Mr. Ross was a witness for the association, dissolution of which is being sought by the government on the ground that it is a trust in violation of the Sherman act. The Billposters and Distributors’ Protective Company is the oldest and largest of the official licensed solicitors of the alleged trust.
“At the last meeting of the poster association,” Mr. Ross said, “the board of directors voted to prohibit all advertisements of intoxicating liquors.”