The Saturday Evening Post 1929-12-14: Vol 202 Iss 24

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> canaenmaneaanine: “ : — : - — - RELI INGO Og ll I, a a i A EES Rp ih ” Ee ee ae ae ey po poi f a re nee ke ‘THE S£ URDA 4 CA a... 1 MR @ $ Volume 202, Number 24 TD Dec. 14, 1929 Alice Duer Miller—Stewart Edward White—Octavus R.Cohen—Alfred P. Dennis Clarence B. Kelland—William Hazlett Upson—Hennett Harris—Lord Brentford

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST "This rt all s olneelt IMMY, with his bright new Pocket Ben watch . . . how proud and happy he will be! And I can just hear ‘Sis’ say. . .“A Baby Ben, in Old Rose, too, to match the color of my room!” And dear, punctual, practical Dad, how his eyes will sparkle when he opens his package and finds a Big Ben. Westclox are welcome gifts. . . beautiful. . . useful. In the long, faithful service they render there is definite manifestation of the spirit of sincerity that prompted the giving and a daily reminder of the love and esteem of the donor. There’s an extensive variety of Westclox to choose from. Alarms in lustrous nickel or exquisite color . . . so refined in beauty of design and finish that they may also be employed as timepieces in any room in the home; good looking and dependable Pocket Watches for men and boys; an attractive and reliable Auto clock for the car; and Tiny Tim, a handy little timekeeper without alarm for the desk of a business associate ... the classroom .. . the study ... or for the handbag of one who travels. Westclox come in substantial, individual containers; securely packed and convenient for mailing. Prices range from $1.50 to $5.00... selections may be made to conform with your Christmas budget. Give Westclox this year . . . beautiful, serviceable gifts that are sure to please. Prices slightly higher in Canada WESTERN CLOCK COMPANY, La Salle, Illinois, U.S.A. Factory: Peru, Illinois Western Clock Co., Limited, Peterborough, Ont., Westclox GYa_ALARMS . POCKET WATCHES | AUTO CLOCKS W)

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14, 1929 “Daddy's gone a-hunting” His desk is clear. His office-door is locked. women, boys and girls, who end their busy day The evening paper lies heaped beside his chair. with a soothing Ivory bath! 7 The detective story has slipped to the floor be- But once there was a man who took his mid- side his bed, two chapters before the end! night bath with a cake of sinker soap. And all The gate of dreams has opened—and another night long in his dreams he dived and dived. hunter has joined the happy throng. At dawn he woke, gasping for breath and weary How quickly and silently they make that with the struggle. journey to dreamland—those smiling men and Ivory floats! ... kind to everything it touches - 99/10. Pure - “It floats” gy a ne a a Pd Or ae — tl tl ti i ———e—er~Sr- >” LATA > —— a, ee eee et ie a ee Sage A eo i iy Oe ere cea it ee % | i a et tt i a

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eT bee te ee Publish ‘ ublished Weekly T, George Horace Lorimer y : S : EDITOR The Curtis Publishing Thomas B. Costain, A.W. Neall, Wesley Stout, B.Y. Riddell, Company Merritt Hulburd, W. Thornton Martin, Cyrus H. K. Curtis, President Associate Editors Geerge 88. i es aieee eorge H. Lorimer, First Vice-President Entered as Second-Classe Matter, November it ISTO John B. Williams, Second Vice-President at the Post Office ot Philedelphie, Under Act of Walter D. Fuller, Second Vice-President March 3.1879. Additions! Entry ot Cohumbus,O St. Louis, Mo., Chicego. Ul., Indienepolia, Ind and Secretary. Philip S$. Collins, Second * . s 1 Port i, Or Vise-Poesidemn and Treasurer Founded A°D' 1728 Sy Benj. Franklin Mifweuner, Wis, St. Foul, Minn. Sen Fronctere Fred A. Heely, Advertising Director Cal... NensasCity. Mo. Sevennah,.Ge., Denver.Cole Z . Louisville. N».,. Mouston, Tex... Omeha, Neb..Oged c Copyright, 1929, by The Curtis Publishing Compeny in the United States and Great Britain. Tithe Re } i ote P s pistered in U.S Uteh Keonvi «New Ort w Independence Square, Philedelphia Patent Office and in Foreign Countries. Entered as Second-Cles# Matter at the Post-Office Berea onset on tah. Joctie Mo pone! ; _ Anaelon tal o..Porlend Volume 202 Sc. THE copy PHILADELPHIA, PA.,. DECEMBER 14, 1929 $2.66 7 “Saree Number 24 ] rimceSss @ € i FUNCeSS HE very day that Mr. Albert Bowers B placed the order with you for the boiler and signed the lease for the historic cas- ¥ ALICE DUER MILLER radiation. In view of the importance and diffi tle of Daritzia, he called in his sec- oar Bo om nn mo See temas hee bee et yng a Mr. Bowers, I am going to ask y« »send one of retary and said: “Joe, what is the ILLUSTRATED BY HENRY RALEIGH your engineers to the dear to lay out he whole name of that big heating man— you know — vice president—who sits on the board of the bank?’”’ “His name is Allen, sir.” “« T mean his first name. It’sa queer namelike—like ” Mr. Bowers snapped his fingers to encourage thought. “His name is John, sir,” said his secretary, as one who has borne a great deal. “Exactly. I knew it was,” said Mr. Bowers. “‘ Well, write him a letter—‘my dear John,’ and all that sort of thing, and say I have taken Daritzia and that I have stipulated in the lease that the central heating should be made by his company. You know—that I wanted the best—and ask him to write the head office in Europe and see that I’m taken care of —no delay or bungling, you know. Get the idea?” And so, the next morning, Mr. John Exter Allen, glancing over his mail, called in his secre- tary and said: “Willie, who is aman Bowers— Albert Bowers? Is that the fellow who ——” “He is the man who manu- factures Frostyfoam, sir, and is on the board of the bank with you.” “So I supposed—so I sup- posed,” said Mr. Allen testily, as if the information had been thrust upon him. “What a bother! What canI do? Well, I must do something. Here, read this and then write him a letter. Say it will be a pleasure to oblige him, and then write poor Quinn at Turin and tell him that Bowers is an old friend of mine, and that he had better send up one of his engineers to lay out the whole plan—not to leave it all to a local plumber in the Daritzian mountains. You understand, don’t you, Willie?” Willie looked at his employer as if to say that to understand this sort of inchoate order was the task for which he was so strangely underpaid, and bowed and hurried to his typewriter. Almost two weeks later, Maurice Quinn, in the Turin office, received the following letter: My dear Quinn: Mr. Albert Bowers, an old and dear friend of mine, has rented the historic castle of Daritzia for the coming summer. I understand that the owner, Prince Conrad of Daritzia, has already “7 Don’t Know When I Shall Ever Wear it,’* She Said; ‘‘Unitess This American, When He Arrives, Should Ask Me ‘o Dine" job and make blue prints for the guid ance of the local plumber; in fact, to do whatever you consider necessary to insure the installation being entirely satisfactory. Mrs. Allen and I wish to be remer bered to your wife and your three de lightful children. We often speak of that interesting day we spent going over the plant and enjoying your hos; tality. ... Quinn laid down the letter, smil- ing. You had to hand it to J. FE he had a wonderful memory, h« did things right. Fancy his remem bering the three children. You bet he'd look out for any friend of J E.'s. The result was that, a few weeks later, the company’s best heating engineer, a slow, careful German, was taken off an impor- tant research job and sent up into the wild mountains of Daritzia, where he spent ter days examining the castle and making blue prints; cost ing the company in expense and waste of his time about twice as much as the profit on the equipment. But suc is business friendship. Thus it came about that for the first time in its exist- ence the great castle of Da- ritzia was not only rented with two hunting lodges fishing in three rivers, and the shooting privileges to roebuck, chamois and stag but was also to be heated for the first time by a system less beautiful, but more labor- aving than separate porce- lain stoves in every room. For Amer cans, who so readily let, sublet and sell their country places and apartments, it will be hard to understand the excitement that the news occasioned ir a countryside which |! once been a_ principalit What? The castle let Strangers to live where r one but the hereditary prince had ever lived! The great double doors of the courtyard had ofter rolled back to admit the old Emperor, Franz Joseph, who was particularly fond of shooting over the Daritzi: mountains, between a sun mer at Ischl and a winter at Vienna. The King of Ital had stayed there while th« Princess of Daritzia, a beat tiful red-haired Lombard from Lago Maggiore, was > 0

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4 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST And King Edward VII, while Prince of Wales, had stayed there often All about the castle were to be seen the yellowing photographs of these notables, with guns in their hands, neatly feathered hats on their heads, and game at their feet; and underneath, someone had taken the trouble to write their names and the appropriate initials of their titles— H.M. this, and H.S.H. that. But this had been in the nineteenth century. Even before the war, the mines aliv e. contractors arrived from Gratz and Salzburg, and even from Vienna and Turin, to arrange about repainting the rooms, mending the slates of the roof and installing four new bathrooms and the central heating system. To those who knew something of the prince’s finances, like his daughter and Miss Eden, the governess, and Herr Potzi, his superintendent, there was an element of the miraculous in all this. But the method was quite simple. December 14,1929 He would have enjoyed himself more if it had not been for Miss Eden. Miss Eden was a small, slightly weather- beaten, pointed-nosed Englishwoman, with her hair done in a tiny clump at the back of her head—a clump that looked more like an old golf ball than a knot of human hair. She dressed in severe gray tweeds, and always wore, by some strange vestige of coquetry, a narrow band of black velvet about her throat. Since she was eighteen—that is, for almost forty years—

on which the fortune of the Daritzia family was founded had begun to give out, and in the peace treaty they had been part of the spoils allotted to a neighboring republic by a realignment of frontier. Nowadays, Prince Conrad XXI, a handsome, pleasure-loving man, nearing sixty, lived in Paris by selling now and one of the family They would last, he calculated, just about his time. The again jew els castie was shut up, except for one wing, which, in the old days, had con- tained the nurseries and schoolroom, and was now large enough for the little princess, as she was called although she was a tall girl of more than twenty-—and her English governess; Fraulein Sophie, who had always been the house- keeper, and still stayed on, though there was so little left to keep; and little Anna, whe did all the rest of the work. The prince would run down from Paris now and then, to raise rents, borrow money or get a few days of chamois shocting. But as time went on and the castle became more shabby and less comfortable, his visits grew both rarer and shorter. The castle stood high on a rock which slanted up- ward like the prow of a ship. At the back, where the ground sloped more gradually, it was protected by a deep moat, which, in the lifetime of the last princess, had been con- verted into a sunken gar- den and the drawbridge had been made permanent and

given astone parapet. The castle itself was an im- mense structure covering that was level on the rocky height. There was little of the original medi- eva! building left; most of it was in the great manner of the late eighteenth cen- ' all

she had been a governess, thinking only of other peo- ple, and loving those from whom a word could part her. She had developed a sense of duty, an unselfish- ness, a rigorousness of con- duct that was alarming to people like the prince whose integrity was not their most striking quality. Of princes in general she thought very little, having spent her whole life among them; of Conrad XXI, nothing at all—a fact she always contrived to convey to him with the utmost politeness. Just before he was start- ing back to Paris, she came into his study with a switch of her gray skirts. The prince’s study was a room in the lower story of the castle, with a vaulted roof and windows so deep in the embrasure of the walls that you went through a small tunnel of masonry in order to look out. It was com- pletely lined with the heads and horns of chamois and stag. Seeing that there was now no escape and that he had only ten minutes left anyhow, the prince was cordial. “Ah, Miss Eden,” he said, “I’m so glad to have a word with you.” “Your Highness,” said Miss Eden, brushing all this nonsense aside, “I am deeply concerned about Stephanie.” ““What!” cried the prince, utterly astonished at the idea that any girl aban- doned in the remotest mountains of Europe could have anything of which to complain. “I was just thinking she had turned into an extremely pretty girl. Her head is possibly a little too small for her height—though many peo- ple admire it—and for evening dress a little more weight would become her, but with her mother’s glo- rious hair and the delicate features, inherited, I may

tury —- great wide stair- long corridors filled with family portraits in periwigs and uniforms, a drawing-room in gold and white, with mirror doors, and chairs in priceless petit point— salable objects on which the prince’s eye was already thoughtfully turning. Rehind the castle were great forests of pine and beech, and behind these again the mountains—bare gray rocks and snow. Round the foot of the castle the little town had been built, so obviously for protection that it still seemed to cling and nestle like a brood of birds. On the whole, the idea of the opening of the castle was favorably received. It meant money—money, not only n selling provisions, but in shoeing ponies, mending guns, supplying gasoline and tires, but most of all in employment for all the young men as./<igers and Tridigers to the sportsmen. Almost at once, after the news reached the little town, there began to be signs of the good things to come— ways, ‘“*How Would it Do for Me to be Just an American Plumber?"’ The prince had simply insisted that three-quarters of the rent be paid on the signing of the lease, and the new tenant, with that mixture of slackness and generosity which Europe finds on the whole so contemptible in Americans, had agreed. The prince rushed down from Paris and spent two nights and a whole day in the castle, receiving the homage of the town, signing contracts, pointing out to Potzi where white- wash would do as well as the more expensive paints, ex- plaining to the upholsterers that Americans did not like heavy drapery and rich carpets, cutting out all the sitz baths from the plumber’s estimates for the new bathrooms, listening to the village band, basking in his daughter’s al- most tremulous delight at his presence, and on the whole enjoying a day which, in his Paris apartment, he had antic- ipated with dread. say, from my side of the house, I find her charming; almost beautiful.” “And Your Highness thinks that makes the situation safer?” said Miss Eden. She really said, “‘safah.” The prince thought: “This is a most uncomfortable sort of woman. I wonder if she wears that black velvet to bed.”’ He could appeal to most women for sympathy with perfect security. He had a long, finely modeled mask of a face. He was bronzed; his hair, which was ashy blond, didn’t show its gray; and his eyes were of a brilliant hazel. He never made any success appealing to Miss Eden, but he always tried, because he knew nothing else to do. He drooped his head over his desk. “What can I do?” he said. “ You know I cannot have the child in my Paris establishment. I did ask my sister, Elizabeth, to give her a season in Madrid, but she is so selfish, and with those ‘pur ugly, dark daughters of hers ——_ Perhaps after they are married, if anyone can be found ——”

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST “The Princess Stephanie should be married,” said Miss Eden. “Ah,”’ said the prince, “in old days, with her beauty, royalty would not have been impossible. But today, my dear Miss Eden, as you know, daughters without a dot, however lovely E “Must be seen in order to be admired,” replied Miss Eden. Glancing out of the window, the prince saw that the pony cart had come round to take him to the station. He rose. ““Well,” he said, “‘a year from this spring, perhaps, I could arrange for her to visit me in Paris.” “That is a long time off, Your Highness.” “What do you mean?” “| mean the poor girl is lonely, discontented, bored and full of spirit.” “Bored!” cried the prince. books, her music.” “She has blood in her veins, sir, that prevents either books or music, or even my society, from being a complete solution. This last year she has taken to mountain climb- ing—the most dangerous peaks entirely alone. I shudder. You know, I think, that three years ago I caught her in boy’s clothes about to make a walking trip to Venice.” “*T remember you stopped her.” “‘T was able to persuade her to come back, very largely because I sympathized so much with her impulce to go. Think, sir, that since the Von Arlis have moved out of the valley sho has no one of her own class ——” “The Von Arlis,”’ exclaimed the prince—“‘as dull people as I ever knew!” “The next time she runs away, it may not beso innocent.” “You alarm me,” said the prince, glancing at his wrist watch, more az a hint that the subject was distasteful than because he was in any doubt about the time. “A marriage ought to be arranged, sir. cousin of hers ——” “The wretched fellow,” said the prince. been declared insane—his father’s family. that in the princess’ line.’ “*She has you, she has her That Italian “He has just Nothing like PARE 2 EL “Have you no English friends?” said Miss Eden. “Stephanie would appeal to an Englishman, and, if | remember, there are several heirs to dukedoms i” “English dukes!” exclaimed the prince. “Hardly hardly. In my experience, they want nothing but great fortunes or chorus girls.” And he managed to edge out of the room while Miss Eden was proudly enumerating the more creditable Eng- lish duchesses. He stepped hastily into the little pony cart, in which his daughter was already seated holding the reins. The day was cool and a wind was blowing from the snow fields. She wore a chamois-leather coat, buttoned tightly about her throat. It was not very far from the color of her Lombard hair; her eyes were hazel like her father’s. The fat pony trotted gayly out of the courtyard, amid bows and curtsies and repeated assertions from all present that they kissed the hand of His Serene Highness. “Father dear ” Stephanie began at once. But all his life the prince had been dealing with slightly dissatisfied women, and he had become an adept at cutting under sentences that began in just that tone: “Conrad, my dear,” from his wife in the old days. “‘ Voyez, chéri,” from Mademoiselle Milli of the Opéra. “Stephanie,” he said, as if he were starting a topic entirely his own, “I feel very anxious over the monotony and sadness of the life you are leading.” “Tt was of that ” said his daughter, but again he cut in: “Perhaps you are hardly aware of it yourself. You are so good, my dear; so sweet and uncomplaining, so exactly as I would have my daughter—so much like your dear mother ” Tears came into the girl’s eyes, and the prince noted that the station was in sight, and the pony, in spite of age, trotted briskly down the hill. “As you know, my finances have been desperate for a long time.”’ Here was a topic on which he could speak for an indefinite pe- riod. The situation was heartbreaking, tragic; something no little girl could grasp. Then at the last he grew a little more hopeful. Renting the castle had helped; if he could uw do it again another year, who knew In any case he expected from now on to be a much more frequent visitor, and he and Miss Eden had been discussing the possibilit, of her coming to Paris in the following winter or spring Her face beamed with joy. ‘Oh, father, that would be heaven,”’’ she exclaimed as she stopped the pony the low platform. The prince sprang out cart beside The station master was alread) in words, at least, kissing the prince’s hand “And in the meantime,” he said, “ be a good gir!, and I'l! send you a box of pretty things from Paris.” The pony all its life had evinced an insincere ritualistix sort of terror of trains; it had become traditional that h« must not be allowed to wait for the arrival of the engine Stephanie was obliged to drive away and leave her father talking to the station master while the train was whistling far up the valley. She drove home in a glow of tenderness “He has great charm,” she thought—“‘more than many better fathers. I like him best this way.”’ And she thought, too, of the box of pretty things from Paris. She wondered, as the pony climbed the long avenue of beeches with slow, tiny steps and bent head, what they would be, where he would get them. She had heard her father praise one of the great, old, dressmaking firms of Paris great artist When, some weeks later, the box arrived, it contained one dress and a beaded evening bag from a large and un- distinguished shop on the Boulevards. The dress being a little shopworn and the bag having lost a pearl or two, the combination had cost the prince something under five hun dred francs, but Stephanie did not know this. The color of the dress—sea green—became her perfectly and she ex- pressed more delight with it than Mademoiselle Milli did over a new diamond bracelet. But new dresses were rarer to her than diamond bracelets to Milli. Everybody came to see her try it on— Miss Eden, and Fraulein Sophie, the old housekeeper, and little Anna—all crying that it was “‘Prachtvoll,” and “wunderbar.”” And only one thought darkened her pleasure. a box from that Continued on Page 149 _ Ps “a Finally Remembering That the Creature Was Probably English: Speaking, ‘‘I'm Sorry. I Hope I Did Not Hurt You"

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6 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST THE HAT AIND THE P. McTODD glared at his . secretary as if she had played some particularly noxious practical joke upen him. “Send him in!” he bellowed. Presently Mr. Jefferson McTodd entered, not servilely and with fear in his eyes, nor was his carriage exactly jaunty. As a matter of fact, he was rather pleasant to ob- serve. Certainly no man could take offense either from his appearance or his manner. But T. P. took offense, and a great deal of it. “Look at you!” he said in his loudest and most terrify- ing voice. ‘Look at you! Don’t answer me back! Don’t argue with me! Not a word out of you!” Young Mr. Jefferson McTodd stood at ease and silent. “Where were you yesterday afternoon? Tell me that! Where were you the afternoon before? Where? Close your mouth! No back talk! I know where you were. Playing golf. Were you playing golf? Don’t you dare an- swer me back!” Mr. Jefferson continued to maintain a more or less dig- nified silence. “Are you in my employ or aren’t you? Stand there likea stoughton-bottle and make faces, will you? Eh? Golf! Did I send you through college, or didn’t I? Did I send you around the world afterward with a couple of scalawags? Did I? Answer me that! Eh? You'd try to argue with me, would you? One word out of you and you go out of here on your ear! And then what? Did I take you into this business? What? Give you a desk and a job and a salary? Set you up in the world? Yes orno? Did I?” Still Mr. Jefferson made no response while his father continued, louder and louder, more and more furiously: “And then what? Did you tend to business or didn’t you? Can I ever put my finger on you? Eh? Golf! A week ata time. Every afternoon. Golf! It’s ruining the nation. It’s ruining the business men of the nation. It’sa 2 6 VP @2 law 2 :s r By Clarence saamgeon Kelland ws a: FF |’ & ¢ blight! Show me an office where I can find the boss after two o'clock. I dare you to show me an office.” Mr. Jefferson produced no offices whatever. “IT won’t put up with it any more. I’m done. Begin- ning now, it’s either golf or job. Take your choice, but take it quick. Which is it? Eh? Don’t you dare to open your mouth! Which is it, I say—golf or job?” Young Mr. Jefferson advanced a pace to the desk, placed a large and sinewy hand on his father’s blotter and leaned forward. “Golf,” he said distinctly. “Eh? What?” “If I may, please, I would like to state my position.” “You've done nothing but state it. I can’t get in a word edgeways. Ever since you stepped into this room you’ve done nothing but state. Can’t a man talk to his own son without being shouted down? I'll do the stating.” Mr. Jefferson leaned forward another inch. “Not any more,” he said genially. “I’m through being the sub- merged tenth. I don’t like it. You’ve played your game and you've licked it. You've whittled out eight or ten millions of dollars, and that’s slick. You’ve had your fun. You started from scratch. And that’s bully. And I’m T. P.’s son!” “Golf!” snorted Mr. McTodd. “T can play it. I like it. I’m not sure but what I like business, too—but I’m all for a mixture. Shuffle ’em up and deal from the top. So I’m through—just as you said. And I'll make you a little bet, father. I’m twenty-four. I'll step out on my own little feet with golf for a founda- tion, and I'll get there.” “Where?” snapped T. P. December 14,1929 "Young Man,’ Said Mr. Vance, “You are Being Offensive.’ **l Am Being Logical,’* Said Jeff “Somewhere,”’ said his son pleas- “Tt’s a stunt. I’m betting you I can start with golf and get farther in two years than I could get sitting at a desk here.” “You will, eh? In two years, if you stick to business, I’d be paying you twenty-five thousand a year. Bet! Huh! I bet you, you young spriggins, that you can’t step out of here and be earning half of it in two years. Not half.” “Write it in the book,” said Jefferson. “I start out with my clothes and my golf bag, and at the end of two years I'll be turning in twenty-five thousand a year or better. Name your stakes!” “T’ll name ’em. I'll call your bluff. For two years you don’t come to me for a nickel or a square meal. Paddle your own canoe. At the end, if I win, you quit golf forever. If you win you get five hundred thousand bucks in your own name to buy golf balls. You quit piddling a pill around a pasture and come back and do what I tell you—against five hundred thousand smackers. Now let’s see your sporting blood. Fish or cut bait.” “Done,” said Mr. Jefferson, ‘‘and so long, dad, and take care of yourself.” “Eh? What?” “T’m on my way. I’m in the canoe and the paddle is lifted. There’s a vacant chair in the office. And I'll see you in two years, either carrying my golf bag or in it.” “You mean this blankety-blank nonsense?” “Four ways from the jack,” said Mr. Jefferson, “and a good dzy to you. Address on application, and I'll run home for Thanksgiving dinner if I’m asked. Shake. Shake twice.” T. P. found his hand being shaken violently, and glared up to see a pair of gray eyes smiling into his. “Get to blazes out of here!” he shouted. But when the door closed behind his son, he blinked, and then blinked again and called in a male employe because he could not FU HR

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST use the necessary words to his lady secretary. Having used the needful vocabulary for five minutes and aroused the clerk’s undying admiration, he gave the young man a five- dollar raise for his accommodation and ejected him from the office. As for Jefferson, he departed buoyantly, and in the outer door of the offices he waved a farewell to all and sundry. Then he drove his expensive runabout to his father’s garage and left it there, taking a taxicab to the golf club, where he sought out Jim Flinders, the professional. “Jim,” he said, “I’m out, down, shot, trampled and kicked out on the pavement. Am I a good golfer?” “Promisin’,” said Jim. “Good enough to get a job as pro in some fresh-water golf club?” “Ye might git by.” “Where's the job?” “‘Wa-al, son, I get inquiries. There’s one up to a town by the name of Hampstead. New layout. I designed the course. Good chance for a young feller. They’l! pay fifteen hundred and you get what you can make in the shop and from teachin’. Ought to clean up six-seven thousand if you work it right.” “Write a letter to them in your neat, legible hand,” said Jefferson. ‘Lay it on. I’m not bashful. Paint a lovely picture of me. Make them yearn for my services. Be elo- quent.” “I kin git ye the job all right. Question is if ye kin hang onto it.” “Exactly,” said Jefferson. ‘“‘ You do your part and then we'll see. Where’s Hampstead?” “Hundred miles upstate. Thirty thousand people, and twenty thousand of ’em have got it. High-hat, if ye git what I mean. And a bang-up golf course, if I do say it.” “Tt’s my oyster,” said Jefferson. “I think I'd better dictate the letter.” “I do my own dictatin’,”’ said Jim. On the following morning Jefferson McTodd alighted from the train in the town of Hampstead with Jim Flinders’ letter in his breast pocket. He went at once to the presi- dent of the club, who was also president of the Hamp- stead National Bank, and an hour later emerged with his amateur standing destroyed. He had taken the shilling He was no longer Jefferson McTodd, promising amateur, but Jeff McTodd, professional of the Lark Meadow Country Club, and was proceeding to take up his duties without delay. The season was to open on May thirtieth, and consider- able detail must be attended to by the new professional before that day. He must stock his shop, he must find an assistant and club maker, and he must familiarize himself with the club and learn something about its membership. Therefore the days were busy ones. Nevertheless, a week before the opening he was ready for business. Jeff was in conversation with Williams, the club man- ager, when a young man in flamboyant golfing clothes en- tered the shop with a girl. Jeff looked at the man first, though it was not ordinarily his habit to relegate the ladies to second place. The gentleman was a couple of years be- yond thirty, with a ruddy, English face, rather aquiline in its contours and undoubtedly handsome. He was big, well upward of six feet, but slender and of splendid carriage aman who, for all his height, could move with the quickness of a cat. He approached Jeff with the attitude of one ad- dressing an upper servant. “T say, old top, have you a bit of chewing stick? Eh? I could do with a morsel at the moment.” “T’m sorry, sir,” Jeff replied courteously, “but I’m sure the caddy master will have some. He stocks both candy and gum for the boys.” “What in the world do you want with gum, Eric?” asked the girl, and now Jefferson gave her his full attention. She was slender as a blade of grass and the tan of a South- ern winter was upon her cheeks and arms; and it seemed almost as if it were on her cropped, curling hair as well. Jeff liked her hair. He liked hair to be either long or short, but. detested those stringy, half-and-half abominations made popular by a motion-picture star which give their ~J wearers the appearance of having been somewhere for two months with no barber available. She was not beautiful but she had an air of class and self-confidence and possibl temper which was very attractive and stirring to the curi osity; and as for her legs, which were apparent from the knees, they put her quite in a class by herself. Her cheek bones were a trifle high and her eyes the merest bit of a slant. Her chin was pointed delightfully and her features were assembled into an ensemble which promised that she had unusual facilities for being a scamp “Are you the new professional?” she asked your name?” ““McTodd, ma'am,” said Jeff “All good professionals are Scotch, aren't they? How long have you been in America?” The tall, ruddy young man shot a sudden, peculiar, al- most steel-hot glance at Jeff, and seemed to poise while waiting for a reply, as if he contemplated a sudden, fero- cious spring. “I was born in America, ma'am,” said Jeff, and the tail young man relaxed. She turned to her companion with a teasing air and said, “I thought possibly he might have been born on your father’s estates. Reunion with an old family retainer.’ The young man ignored the pleasantry dies?” he asked. “Plenty,” said Jeff. The young lady lingered, as if impishly to tantalize her companion’s impatience. “I wonder if I can arrange for a lesson some day this week?”’ she asked “Certainly. Morning or afternoon?” “Oh, morning. I learn so much more quickly before noon.” “Ten o'clock?” “That will do nicely,” she said, and strolled leisurely to- ward the first tee Jefferson looked after the pair, and it required an effort to prevent his brows from lifting ‘What's ‘Are there cad- Profe ssionals do not (Centinued on Page 116 . '¢ = bi Eric Was on His Feet, Glaring, But Mr. Vance Spowe Gently, ‘‘Easy Does it, Minturn. Mr. McTodd Has Taken the Only Position Possible te a Man of Sense and Seif:Respect"’

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8 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST THE BEAUTIFUL ILLUSTRATED BY TONY SARG “‘Honestly?’’ ‘‘Right in a Big Mud Puddie"’ R. GILBERT HENDERSON, sales and service manager of the Farmers’ Friend Tractor Com- pany, makers of Earthworm tractors, sat in his office at Earthworm City, Illinois. It was an afternoon in late August, and Mr. John Kinsey, the company’s New York manager, was calling him by long distance. “Hello,” said Mr. Kinsey. “Is this you, Henderson? “Yes.” “This is John Kinsey, at New York.” "Tr “I got a prospect here that wants to buy a tractor.” “All right. Go ahead and sell it to him.” “Tt isn’t a him. It’sa her. She’s an old lady, and she’s a tough proposition.” “An old lady wants one of our tractors?” “Yes. Her name is Miss Agatha Mather. Old New England family. Ancestors came over on the Mayflower, fought in the Revolution, and everything. Her father was Joshua Mather, the guy that piled up a fortune in Wall Street back in the 70’s. Friend of Jay Gould’s, he was “Yes, yes. But what about the woman herself?” “Well, you see she has all kinds of money—millions and millions. She also has funny ideas.” “Yes?” “Yes. She sent me a letter a couple of weexs ago. It seems she has a country place outside of Canaan, Connecti- cut. The road to it goes over a mountain and through a swamp, and it’s not so bad in summer, but in the fall, winter and spring it's practically impassable. She said she saw one of our Earthworm tractors working somewhere, and noticed how easy it went through mud and over rough ground. And she wants to buy one for her own personal use. She wants to use it like an automobile, to drive in to her place and out again.” “Well, that’s all right. Several of our customers down in Mississippi use their tractors for personal transportation getting in and out of the cypress swamps.” “Yes, but they use regular stock-model machines. This fool woman wrote me that she wanted a seven-passenger sedan.” “A what?” “‘Seven-passenger sedan.” “She ought to know we don’t make any such thing as that. We don’t make automobiles. We make tractors.” “T know.” “Why don't you sell her our northern-logger model with the inclosed cab? That ought to be good enough for her.” “Yes, that’s just what I thought, Henderson. And I sent George Sherwood up to Canaan to see her and tell her so. But it didn’t seem to work out very well.” “What happened?” ““Well, George says she insisted she wanted a machine with a regular sedan body, just like an automobile. And apparently George insisted that she ought to take one of our stock loggers. I’m afraid he wasn’t very tactful.” “Oh, he wasn’t?” “No. George is a pretty good salesman, and he has a wonderful flow of language that seems to work fine on lumbermen and contractors and such roughnecks. But I guess he lacks the finesse to handle a dame like Miss Agatha Mather. She had him thrown right out of the house.” “She had him thrown out?” “Absolutely and exactly that. First, she told him she didn’t want to listen to any argument. And then, when he kept on talking, she called in three or four butlers or flunkies of some kind, and had them carry him out to the front gate and throw him in the mud.” “Honestly?” “Right in a big mud puddle. He got so smeared up that his pants had to go to the cleaner. It cost three dollars to fix them up, and he has charged it on his expense account this week.” “Trust George to get every- thing on the swindle sheet. But what’s the idea of calling me up about this? Wouldn’t a ietter have done just as well?’’ “No. Yousee Miss Mather has just come into the office here.” “You mean she’s there now?” “Yes, she’s out in the wait- ing room. Says she wants an Earthworm tractor, but she won't consider anything but a seven-passenger sedan. Sol : didn’t argue with her at all.” “Afraid she might wreck the office, I suppose. She must certainly be a tough baby, Kinsey.” “She does seem to be rather strong-minded, Henderson. But she has plenty of money, and I was wondering if we couldn’t fix her up—put an automobile body on one of our December 14,1929 By William Klazlett Upson tractors, charge her plenty, and make a good profit. How about that?” “Well, Kinsey, we never did anything like that before But we've handled all kinds of special orders—we'’ve put out machines with winches on them, and bulldozers, and snowplows, and cranes, and I don’t know what all. I guess we could put on an automobile body, if she’s willing to pay for it.” “*I don’t think there'll be any trouble about that. Sup- pose I put her on the line and let you talk to her. You know what you can do for her and what you'll charge her, and I don’t.” “All right, put her on the line. What did you say her name was?” “‘Mather— Miss Agatha Mather.” After a few moments a new voice came over the tele- phone: “Hello. Is this the sales manager?” “Yes. Gilbert Henderson is the name. And you are Miss Mather?” “Yes. And I hope, Mr. Henderson, that at last I am talking to somebody that has a little authority. I have been very much annoyed by these underlings who don’t seem to know whether or not your company can furnish me with the type of machine I want.” “I’m very sorry, Miss Mather ——” “Never mind the apologies, Mr. Henderson. Can you, or can you not, furnish me with a seven-passenger sedan Earthworm tractor?” “We can.” “Splendid. That’s the first sensible remark I’ve heard from any of you people. How soon can I have it?” “Tt will probably take a month or two—depending on exactly what you have in mind. I suppose you want a body of fairly good quality, Miss Mather?” “Certainly, Mr. Hen- derson. As you probably know, I am a woman of some social position, and ‘*Before George Could Say Anything More, She Got Back in Her Car, Called the Chauf: feur, and Had Him Drive Her Away” I have to consider appearances. My automobiles have always been of the best foreign makes, and I do not wish this machine to be in any way inferior to them.” “Well, we’ll put on the best body we can find. Of course, you understand that this will cost a good deal.” “How much?” “Well, I’ll have to quote you a fairly high price, Miss Mather, and if we find we can do it any cheaper, we'll give

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Daa TE all THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 9 you arebate. For a really de luxe job, we'll have to charge about twenty thousand dollars, f. 0. b. Earthworm City.” “That seems like a good deal.” “Take it or leave it, Miss Mather.” “All right, I'll take it. And I want it delivered by the end of October; before the roads get bad.” “That gives us two months; we'll have it for you in plenty of time.” “And you'll teach my chauffeur to drive it?” “Certainly, Miss Mather. Are there ’ any special features you want included in this machine?” “T want all the usual accessories that are found in a high-grade automobile. You ought to know what that includes.” “All right, we'll see that ‘ you get all the usual trim- {i mings.” uw “And I want it painted / is red—that is my color.” i | “Very good, Miss Mather. » } Now, I’ll tell you what I'll a7 do. I'll have Mr. Kinsey therein New York write up an order containing the specifications for you to sign. And we’ll have to have a deposit—say two thousand dollars.” “That will be quite all right.” “And now will you please tell them to put Mr. Kinsey back on the wire? And thank you for your order, Miss Mather.” “T should thank you, Mr. Henderson, for being so busi- nesslike. After these other people, it is a great relief to talk to somebody who talks sense and doesn’t try to argue. Good afternoon.” “‘Good afternoon, Miss Mather.” After a short delay, Mr. Kinsey, the New York manager, was back on the line. “Hello, Henderson,” he said. “What's the verdict?” “We're going to make her little sedan for her. Write up an order and have her sign it. Got a pencil and paper?” Te “All right. Take this down. Regular Earthworm tractor chassis. Seven passen- ger sedan body. Color, red. All usual ac- cessories. Delivery by end of October. Price, twenty thousand.” “‘Good Lord, that’s a lot of kale.” “TI made it high on purpose, Kinsey. And we want a two-thousand-dollar deposit with the order.” “Very good, Henderson.” “Send the order and the check out here right away. And keep George Sherwood out of this deal from now on.” “Right.” “Anything else?” “No, I guess not, Henderson.” “Well, good-by, Kinsey.” “Good-by.” Mr. Henderson hung up the re- ceiver. Two days > later the signed order and the check arrived by mail. Mr. Henderson sent for Joe Mullin, one of the young serv- ice mechanics. “Joe,” he said, “I have a job for you.” “All right,” said Joe. “Read that,” said Mr. Hender- son. He handed over Miss Mather’s signed order for a seven- passenger Earthworm tractor, with specifications substan- tially as she had discussed them by telephone two days before. “I want you to build that machine,” said Mr. Henderson. “I’m giving you the job because you're a good mechanic and because you seem to do your work quietly and without bothering me with a lot of fool ques- tions.” “All right,” said Joe. “I’m going to be pretty busy the next couple of months, and I want you to take entire charge of this business. Here is an order on the production department for a tractor chassis—any model you decide on. Here is an order on ’ Gus Liebe in the final-repair department to give you space in his shop to assemble this thing, and whatever mechanics you need to help you. I want an account kept of the enst. Put in your own time and expenses, the time of your help- ers, tractor chassis and supplies from the factory at full list price, and whatever you buy outside at cost. Send bills to the company cashier. And keep the total under twenty thousand. Understand?” ". “This is for a wealthy old lady. She wants it for her own personal use— getting in and out of an inaccessible country place. It has to be luxurious. You better go up to Chicago and look over all the swell foreign cars; then find a body company that will make something just as good. And be sure everything is finished so we can make delivery in Connecticut before the end of October.” “Yes, Mr. Henderson.” “Is everything clear to you?” “T think so. And thanks a lot for the job. With all that money I ought to be able to turn out something that will just about knock the old lady's eye out.” “Well, have a good time. And get it done as soon as you can.” Joe departed. And that was the last Mr. Henderson saw of him for some time. It was almost a month later when he came walking proudly into the office. “She's finished,” he said. “We're shipping her to Con- necticut this afternoon. It took only one month.” “Fine,” said Mr. Henderson. “How much did it cost?” Joe laid a sheaf of papers on the desk. “There are the accounts,” he said. “I put in the tractor chassis at six thousand. The body cost a little over seven thou- sand, including freight from Chicago. Labor, supplies, accessories and other ex- penses bring it up to exactly sixteen thou- sand four hundred and twenty-nine dollars and twenty-one cents.” “Well, well!” said Mr. Henderson “General overhead, plus a reasonable profit, will bring it up to the full twenty thousand. It’s lucky I guessed high on the price. You sure spent a lot of money, ae Joe.” “Wait till you see the machine, Mr Henderson. Don’t you want to come out and take a ride before we ship her out?” ‘Sure I do, Joe.” Mr. Henderson got his hat and followed Joe out of the office “Wait a minute,” he said. “I want the president to see this too.” He stepped into the front office and a moment later came out with the president of the company. The three men walked out of the office building, through the machine shop, down the long assembly line and past the paint shop. At the far end of the factory was a small building with a sign over the door: Final Repair. Joe led his two comnanions into this building “Holy Moses!” said Mr. Henderson. The president said nothing, but he raised his eyebrows in surprise. And well he might. He and Mr. Henderson had been in the tractor business a long time, but neither of them had ever seen anything like the sight that now burst upon their eyes. In the center of the floor stood Miss Mather’s tractor. It looked like a big automobile, except that instead of wheels it had long snakelike steel tracks. The whole machine was incredibly long, and it was gracefully stream-lined. It was painted a rich cardinal red, and in the dim light of the building it glowed with beauty and warmth. The headlights, parking lights, spotlight radiator, bumpers and other fittings gleamed with a silvery whiteness. “They're not silver,” explained Joe. “‘ They're chromiun plate, which is much better. Have you noticed the lengt! of the chassis?” “Yes,” said Mr. Henderson. “The stock models weren't long enough for the body. So I used this. It is a gun mount that the experimental de partment made for the Army. Then the Army decided not to take it, and they let me have it. If you want to get in, I'll take you for a ride.” Joe opened one of the doors, and Mr. Henderson and th« president climbed in and sank down into the rich cushions of the rear seat. With awed astonishment they examined the fittings—a folding table, adjustable reading lamps electric cigarette lighters and ash trays, a disappearing vanity box with mirror. Mr. Henderson opened a littl door under the seat and discovered a tray of ice cubes ar a number of bottles Continued on Page 157

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tor Brookhart —By Alfred Pearce Dennis THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14, 1929 of Se ENATOR Smith Wild- man Brookhart, of Iowa, was born in a Missouri log cabin, knew the vicissitudes of life as a dirt-farmer boy and, having migrated to Lowa, practiced law for thirty years in Washington, a town of less than five thousand inhabit- ints. Some chronicler will find strong meat in the tory of Mr. Brookhart's translation from Washing- ton, Iowa, to Washington, District of Columbia. But that is not my job. I can only contribute from first- hand experience, and my experience has to do with Mr. Brookhart in full bloom rather than in the bud. As everybody knows, Mr. Brockhart began his political career as a petty henchman of Senator Cum- mings. He later differed with Cummings on railroad policies. But as Senator Cummings hardened into a conservative, Mr. Brook- hart, the cowhide radical, broke with him and finally defeated him. Cummings had the satisfaction of de- nouncing Brookhart as an Royal palaces, castles, pic- ture galleries, cathedrals in- spected—none. Dance halls, cabarets, cafés, theaters, cinema houses frequented —none. Baggage transported, trunks, suitcases, portman- teaus, steamer rugs — none. The senator, as the saying goes, traveled light, with one small bag.) Language employed by the senator in all foreign coun- tries—American. European objets d’art, bibe- lots, kinkajous purchased none. Printed information gath- ered—six or eight mail sacks. Wines, beers, spirituous liquors, including absinth, cognac, vodka, consumed not a chemical trace. Illustrated postal cards sent back home—none. Pictures of Westminster Abbey, The Lion of Lucerne, The Colosseum, The Brand- enburger Thor, The Tomb of Napoleon purchased —none. Traveling Light Y KNOWLEDGE of these details is based on hard, vivid, first-hand experience. I had been serving in Europe for some five or six years as commer- cial attaché in such em- bassy posts as Rome and economic illiterate, and London, and later as an trookhart had the satiafac- Senator Brookhart, at Right, With Mr. Dennis in a Danish Hog Pen itinerant economic inves- tion of beating Cummings at the polls by 72,000 majority. Mr. Brookhart may thus be compared to a vigorous young plant which, thrusting ts reots into the crevices of an ancient stone wall, over- throws it. As a plain man of the people, it was not enough to be named Smith— Wildman had to be tacked on to it. cions of the blood royal are expected to live up to their princely attributes, so Commoner Brookhart, the radical, has consistently lived up to the expectations implied n the baptismal name “Smith Wildman.” He got some education in the Iowa country schools. A distant cousin, John Grinstead, taught him that a man can learn more out of school than in school. Like college professors, Mr. Brookhart educates himself through the process of educating others. The educa- tion received from one’s fellows is like the mysterious law of endosmosis and exosmosis in chemistry, by which two liquids separated from one another by a partition flow through the barrier and intermingle. The World as a Radical Sees It 7 EDUCATE and to be educated—that is Mr. Brookhart’s great purpose in life. He's skeptical about the old order. People must be educated out of their easy acceptances and compliances. The radical looks forward rather than backward. For him, this hanging world is continually unfolding. For the radi- al s one perpetual offensive and defensive cam- paign against reactionaries and standpatters. Radical- ism is only another name for the skepticism which is the precursor of all progress. Men who are perfectly ontent with the existing order never make any prog- ress. A crab grows by bursting its hard shell and casting t off. Mr. Brookhart is goaded on in his educational mission just as was Ciriaco of Ancona in the days of the Italian revival of learning. “‘I go,”’ cried he, “to awake the dead!” Homer speaks of the sea as the estranging main. Crossing the sea is the best of educators. Early in the summer of 1923 Senator Brookhart journeyed to Europe ‘to exchange views with the leaders over there.”” In the free-for-all discussions which followed, both sides stood to profit. The great, intangible values of life are, of course, incapable of mathematical expression, but certain features of the Senator’s European trip may be envisaged statistically. Countries visited —fifteen. Time occupied in traipsing over Europe—eight weeks. ‘ Chancellors, ministers of state, men of commerce, statistical sharks, rifle shooters interviewed —scme two hundred odd. Senator Brookhart on a Rumanian Agricuitural Experiment Farm, In the Background is a String of Rusting Hungarian Locomotives tigator for Mr. Hoover, Secretary of Commerce. I happened to be at Vienna when instructed by cable to meet Senator Brookhart on his arrival at Cherbourg and assist him in working out plans for his European tour. On arrival he was unattended by porters, unencumbered by heavy luggage, and as lightly equipped sartorially as if he were journeying from Bloomfield, Iowa, to attend a Grangers’ picnic at the neighboring town of Keosauqua. The senator was as light in his Baedeker prepara- tion for Eurepe as he was in his baggage. He expected to find the summer climate of Northern Europe no different from that of Iowa. ‘Folks are just folks, any- where you find them,” he was wont to observe, and it Was annoying to run across idiosyncrasies in dress, lan- guage, railroad transportation and monetary symbols. I see him holding in his pudgy palm a scrambled lot of paper marks, francs, kronen, lei or rubles, and in- quiring incredulously, “‘ What is this stuff worth in real money?” It being summertime, the senator had left his over- coat done up in mothballs at home. He suffered from cold, and things grew worse as we crossed the Channel to England, worked north into Scotland, and later crossed the North Sea into the Scandinavian countries. In chilly Edinburgh I lent him my overcoat. He wore it for five weeks straight, until one sunny morning, walking along the Calea Victorei, Bukharest, Rumania, he handed it back to me with the remark, “Now we are getting back to a decent summer climate like we have at home, I guess I can make out without an over- coat.” In later years the senator disappointed me by voting against the elastic provisions of the tariff, but elasticity does have its advantages in the case of overcoats. The senator’s breadth of shoulder and girth surpassed my own by at least ten inches and his weight mine by some sixty pounds, but the coat, made on the accordion- pleated plan, possessed elastic properties which served fully to encompass the senatorial figure. But the over- coat, like the flexible tariff, could be successfully worked for increases and not for decreases. In point of readap- tation of the coat to the figure of the owner, it was a case of a big shuck to a mighty small ear of corn.

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| | | - .. THE We spent the first evening in Paris in a hotel room listen- ing to the senator’s exposition of the Rochdale coéperative experiment. In early life Mr. Brookhart had “read up” on the Rochdale coéperative movement. The system was worked out a century ago by the weavers of Rochdale, England, and represents an attempt, through codperative buying and selling, to eliminate the middleman in mer- chandising transactions. The next morning, while waiting in the anteroom of the American Embassy to be received by Mr. Herrick, I ran across an old friend, Mr. Alba Johnson, former president of the Baldwin Locomotive Works. Learning why I had come to Paris, Mr. Johnson expressed a desire to meet “that wild man,” as he called Senator Brookhart. He seemed to regard Mr. Brookhart as some sort of anthro- pological curio, such as a leaf wearer of Orissa or a pygmy from the forests of the Belgian Congo. Making known to Mr. Brookhart that Mr. Johnson would be pleased to make his acquaintance, the senator gracefully acceded: “Well, I won’t refuse to shake hands with any American in a foreign country, I don’t care who he is.” The greetings as between countrymen were as follows: Mr. Johnson: “So you’re Senator Brookhart, of lowa?”’ The senator: “‘And ain’t you the Mr. Johnson who's been connected with the Association of Railroad Manu- facturers?”’ “Yes,” replied Mr. Johnson, drawing himself up proudly, glad to be identified as a man of affairs, “‘I’ve long been an officer in the association.” “Well, Mr. Johnson,’ pursued the senator, “‘all I can say is that you’re an officer in one of the most iniquitous, nee-far-ious outfits in the entire country. You take excess profits from the railroads in furnishing their supplies and they take it from the farmers in excess rates.” That terminated the interview. It was unfortunate that the blameless Mr. Johnson had been identified with one of the senator’s taboos. From the beginning of his political career the senator had jousted freely with the railroads. According to him the railroads had been no friend to his friends—the farmers and other toilers. The senator's mind, particularly in his earlier days, was a good deal like that of the primitive man, tattooed over with monstrous images. Typical monstrous images tattooed on the senator’s mind are Wall Street, the rail- roads, high society, combinations, international bankers, and the nearer you get to them the worse they seem. If the primitive man is affrighted by his taboos he is comforted by faith in his fetishes. The senator’s pet fetishes are agricultural codperation, the Volstead Act, the Rochdale experiment, the export debenture, more pay for the poor out of the pockets of the rich; the magic power of government to transmute leaden instincts into golden conduct. He is al- ways for the unorganized man as against protected industry. The senator was charmed with Ambassador Herrick, who had unconsciously prepared for this delight- ee An DO Ain International Gathering of Dirt Farmers the good old vowel i into j and then turn around and pro- nounce the j as if it were a y, and use rv in the place of our w? Thus the impulsive Menier, advancing to meet his distinguished guest and reading from the improvised card, SENATOR BROOKHART OF Iowa, U.S. A. rolled out: “* Enchanté de vous voir, M'sieur le Senateur Brook-a-r-r-r-r de Yovah.”’ The senator, dumfounded at hearing his name rolled out like the roar of a machine gun, turned to me in an aside and inquired, ““What’s he talking about Jehovah for?” No wonder the senator couldn’t get it out of his head that the French are a decadent people. One evening I got him to adjourn the discussion of the Rochdale experiment for a stroll on the grand boulevards, pleading the need of exercise, though goodness knows I needed no exercise at night after running around with him all day. Crowds of SATURDAY EVENING POST i people were seated around little tables on the broad side walks of the Boulevard des Italiens. A happy, pleasure- loving throng, enjoying the soft June evening, sipping bock sirup, apéritifs, puffing cigarettes, gossiping, ogling th passers-by. “These people are bound straight for perdition,”’ com mented the senator judicially. worse than I expected.” A delicious strain of music floated from a dancing pavilion. “The drinking is even “‘Let’s go in and have some refreshment and watch the people dance,” “No,” replied the senator grimly, “I don't dance; I make other people dance.” The senator doesn’t drink, dance, smoke, play cards, cuss, tell shady stories. Mr. Brookhart in five days had exhausted Paris and had exhausted me. I had expected to return to Vienna after heading the senator for England But this was not to be. He had cabled Mr. Hoover that the success of his mission depended upon my continued attendance. My orders came to stand by the senator as long as needed. I had already come to admire and respect Mr. Brookhart and he interested me greatly as a human being filled with courage and devotion, and without a par- ticle of pose or affectation. As Carlyle said of Sterling, “Despite many unsuitable wrappages of Church-of- Englandism and other, my heart loved the man.’ I suggested The Senator Advises the Foreign Office HAD been hopping from one European country to an- other for the better part of six years, but could even the most efficient grasshopper be expected to keep pace with the Graf Zeppelin? Could any ordinary mortal stand the pace? Could tired nature hold out? Luckily I had friends among American officials in the European capitals. These kind people “spelled” me. I make particularly grateful recognition of the services of the following: Hugh Butler American trade commissioner in London, Harry Sorensen, American trade commissioner at Copenhagen, Colonel Haskell, of the Hoover Relief Organization in Russia, Admiral Bristol, commander of our destroyer fleet in Turkish waters, Julian Gillespie, American commercial! attaché at Constantinople, Margaret Goldsmith, American trade commissioner at Berlin, . eopold Kotnowski, secre- tary of the Polish-American Chamber of Commerce at Warsaw. Above all, Elizabeth Humes, now American trade commissioner at Rome. As translator, interpreter liaison officer and sympathetic listener, Miss Humes services were perfect beyond qualification or reservation We cleaned up Paris in five days, but we left for England without seeing the Louvre, the Invalides, Notre Dame, the Are de Triomphe, Montmartre, Versailles or Fontaine- bleau. Like the peasant hero of Gustave Nadaud’s poem, “he never gazed on Car- cassore.”” fui rencounter by provi- dentially writing a book on the coéperative move- ment some three or four years before. A New Title HAT evening we again sat in a hotel room and discussed the Rochdale coéperatives. Then came a round of official calls. It was a lean day that did not yield interviews with a dozen French function- aries. As a side diversion I arranged a call upon Monsieur Menier, the big chocolate manufacturer. A superserviceable lackey at the door demanded our cards. “But I’ve never had any visiting cards printed,” exclaimed the senator. As a substitute he in- scribed in pencil on a piece of paper, “‘Senator Brook- hart, of Iowa, U. S. A.” Now, the average French- man is an odd fish who quaintly writes roast beef “rosbif’” and takes liberties even with the alphabet. Who but a Frenchman would convert Summer Styles of 1923 Representing Rumania, Paris and lowa We arrived in London on the evening of July third, and the next day called at the British For- eign Office for the pur pose of ‘‘ascertaining what the British Govern- ment is going to do about Russia.” Ushered into the august presence of an undersex retary, ruddy of counte- nance, of the riding-to- hounds type as depicted in novels of British hig! life, the senator came di- rectly to the point “Now, Mr what are you people going . secretary to do about Russia? Rus- sia is up and coming, and it looks to me like we ought to recognize the Russian Government.’ ‘But, senator, you must remember that the Soviet Government has confiscated miltions of pounds sterling of Britist property, and until resti- tution is made, how can we be expected to treat them as if nothing of the kind had occurred? Fur- thermore, you must member that the present Continued on Page 185

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12 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST E HEARD old Tom Brook, his manager, _ talking to the news- paper boys in the next room. “Kerry is fit for the fight of his life,” Tom was saying with practiced glibness. He's never been in better condition or more confident. Just say for us that Kerry will win by a knock-out. We realize that the Russian is a great fighter, but Kerry will stop him.” Slouched in a training- camp morris chair, Kerry Sheridan noted the little silence that followed Tom’s statement to the press. Three days earlier there would have been a few cyni- cal chuckles and some josh- ing. But this was the morning of the big fight, the eve of what a thousand sports pages had called The Second Battle of the Century. To- night, a crowd variously esti- mated at from one hundred thousand to one hundred and fifty thousand would see Kerry Sheridan in the ring against Serge Kosloff, The Cossack Bone Crusher, or, less formally, The Big Sock From the Steppes. The newspaper boys had been caught up in the general training-quarters tension; perhaps they were a bit awed by the imminence of this enormous thing they had helped to create. * How many rounds will it go, Mr. Brook?” “Kerry ought to knock him out before the seventh. I figure four or five.” “What about that injunction restraining Kerry from traveling to the city in a plane?” “Harkness is going to withdraw it this morning as soon as court opens. Kerry will take off in the ship right after lunch. The boys are weighing in at 4:30.” “Will Kerry's fiancée listen-in from Denver?” “Sure. That little girl is the greatest fight fan in the country. She would of flew over to be at the ringside, but couldn’t on account of her—uh—mother’s being sick.” Behind the door, Kerry Sheridan scowled. There was a letter in his sweater pocket postmarked Denver. A letter saying, in part, “I won’t marry you as long as you're a prize fighter. I’m ashamed of you every time you fight. It’s a dirty business.” Ruthie, out in Denver, wouldn't be listening in tonight. But Kerry Sheridan made no effort to correct the state- ment Manager Brook was giving the newspapers. It was his private opinion that the newspapers never got anything right anyway. In the next room, Tom Brook was saying: “Let’s go over to the cabin, boys. I got something that’ll take our minds off the fight.” Feet shuffled across the mattinged floor and a door slammed. The boxer stood up, stretching. A description of Kerry Sheridan, standing there, seems almost superfluous. His portrait was on every sports page in the United States that morning. Smith of the Associated Press had written: “Kerry seems in the pink of condition. By temperament easy- going, he has worked himself to a tigerish fighting edge reminiscent of the old Dempsey.” In the opinion of an- other sporting editor: “From the manner in which Kerry has been slamming his sparring partners around, he means to finish the Cossack quickly. He reminds me of Tunney before the Philadelphia fight.” Other experts, while conceding the Russian an outside hance, reminded their readers that a man-killer in ugly mood was raging for blood. A writer for one of the papers remarked: “There is concentrated ferocity in Kerry’s ray 2 “You'll Never be Able to Give Him What He Deserves. Business to See You First’’ TLLEVUSTRATEDO scowl. He is using a vicious one-two that winds up in a crushing left hook to the jaw.”” And another authority in the sporting world summed it up: “I think this fight will be like the Dempsey-Willard go at Toledo. In Kerry Sheridan we have a whirlwind loaded with dynamite. How long it will last depends on the Russian’s ability to take punishment.” Irritably, Kerry Sheridan kicked at the pile of news- papers on the floor. They contained portions of the forty thousand words a day which had issued forth from his training camp for the past month. He might have reflected that his features were as well known as President Hoover’s or Lindbergh’s; that twenty million Americans were acquainted with intimate details such as the state of his digestive and respiratory organs; the measurements of his chest, biceps, ankles, waist and neck; his muscular reactions and mental processes. He had shadow-boxed across the talking screen for fight fans of three continents; his voice on the radio had been heard even by members of the Byrd expedition in the antarctic while he exhorted the Boy Scouts of America on the subject of clean sportsman- ship. But he had come to dismiss this world-wide hullabaloo with one bitter word, “Bunk!” He said it now, and strode over to a window. There, staring grumpily at the mountain lake and its fringe of pine trees, he thought about this little girl in Denver. It was all the fault of the newspaper boys. They put pieces in the paper calling him a man-killer and predicting what he would do to this Kosloff ham. Of course that got Ruthie down on him. No wonder she kept hollering for him to quit the fight game. Could he help it if Rip Harkness insisted on matching him with a big hunk of cheese like Kosloff? The Cossack [jp By Frederi ck Hazlitt Brennan He'll Make it His December 14,1929 CLINTOWN SHEPHERD Bone Crusher, The Big Sock From the Steppes. What a laugh! Kosloff wasn’t even a good pork-and-beaner. He and Rip had argued about it a long time. But Rip had discovered Kosloff, and Rip said he would draw better than any American. Rip had talked him down by saying: “They want a big colorful bum that can take it and has a chance of knocking your block off with a wild swing in the first round. Kosloff’s the boy.” Ruthie just didn’t know this fight racket. If Ruthie would go toa fight once, she’d find out that this whoopla in the papers about man-killing and bone-crushing was mostly due to the way news- paper boys wrote when they got excited. Still he wished Rip Harkness —— There was a rap on the door. He grunted a welcome. Denny Crosland came in rather stealthily and locked the door behind him. "Lo, Denny. What’s up?” “Plenty. Sit down and I'll spill it.” Denny Crosland, a red- faced tiptoeing individual who always smelled of bad perfume and good whisky, lifted a leg across the cor- ner of the table as Sheridan slouched into the morris chair. “Rip ain’t gonna get the gate he figured on,” said Cros- landabruptly. “ He’s atleast five hundred grand shy.” The fighter stared at him. “How'd that happen?” “The twenty-buck seats ain’t selling and the fifteen and ten ain’t much better. They was a howl in the papers this morning about nobody bein’ able to see the scrap beyond the twenty-five- buck sections, and the safety commissioner made a squawk about overcrowding and exits.” Sheridan shrugged. “Why tell me about it? I warned Rip that they wouldn’t turn out for the Kosloff ham. It’s Rip’s funeral, ain’t it?” Crosland, whose connections with Rip Harkness were so vague that Rip could promptly disavow any statements made by his mouthpiece, coughed embarrassedly. “Rip’s had a lota tough breaks, Kerry. That strike at the arena cost him plenty, and you oughta know how much he’s sunk in publicity. The radio ballyhoo alone cost him ——” “Sa-ay, if Rip thinks I’m gonna come down on my cut he’s crazy. You tell him so for me, will ya?” The other shook his head. “Nothing like ’at, Kerry. Nothing like ’at. Rip ain’t no welsher. You'll get your four hundred and fifty grand— that is, if Rip’s got it.” “Rip had better have it. See?” A shrug. “Don’t get sore. I just want you to know what Rip’s up against. Them newspapers didn’t give him no break at all. Nearly every expert picked you to win. The fans think Kosloff is just a set-up.” “He is, ain’t he? Didn’t I tell Rip so? The fans is suckers, but even suckers know when they’re getting too much.” Crosland grinned derisively. ‘Fight fans can’t get too much if it’s fed to ’em right,” he said. “Look at the two million, six hundred grand the boys took ’em for at Chicago. You can’t blame the fans. Rip just didn’t have the right build-up this time.” Sheridan stood up, eying Crosland steadily. ‘“‘ Just what are you trying to get at, Denny?” ~Y

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Li RT SM et eS THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 13 A pause. Then: “Well, it’s like this: Supposing—just supposing, of course—the Russian should happen to out- point you tonight. The next time you fought ——” “That’s enough! I get you! Rip wants me to lay down, doesn’t he?” Crosland backed hastily toward the door. “What put that into your head, Kerry? What put that into your head? Rip wanting you to lay down—haw-haw- haw! That’s good!” The fighter grabbed him and shook him hard. “Come clean! Did Rip send you here?” “Kerry, I swear. Rip didn’t know a thing ——” “T oughta sock you!”’ There was a pounding on the door. Crosland jerked away and unlatched it frantically. Tom Brook came into the room. “Hey, Kerry, your hand! going on here?” “* Aw, this little rat is asking me to throw the fight. Rip sent him.” “Rip never sent me neither. Rip didn’t know a thing about it. Kerry’s just on edge over the scrap. He's imagining things out of his own head.” Manager Brook gave Crosland a shove through the door, saying, “Beat it, Denny. You oughta have better sense than talkin’ like that. If I thought you really meant it, I'd crown you. Get outa here!” The boxer watched them with narrowed eyes. He had noticed, with a stab of suspicion, that Tom Brook hadn’t seemed greatly surprised to find Crosland in the room. And although his voice sounded righteously indignant now, he wasn’t giving Denny any bum’s rush. Was Tom in on this? Had Tom known that Denny was going to proposition him? Was that why he steered the newspaper boys away? Tom—his own manager? Tom returned, smiling in unconcerned affability. My gosh, Kerry! What's “Don’t pay no attention to Denny,” he said; “he’s had too much licker.” Sheridan frowned. about a fix?” Manager Brook laughed loudly. “‘Sa-ay, your nerves are shot, Kerry! What’s the matter, boy? Ain't scairt of the Russian, are you?” It sounded all right. Maybe his nerves were on the blink. He always got that way just before fights. He and Tom had been together for three years. Tom was a funny little baldheaded, wrinkle-faced guy. He'd always liked Tom. “Denny wasn’t talking hot air,” he growled, a little ashamed of himself for suspecting Tom. “Rip has got himself in a jam and wants me to help him out.” “Rip knows you better’n that. Forget it. We'll go for a walk. Hunh?” He nodded glumly and followed Tom outside. The sound of typewriters clicking, mingled with the duller staccato of telegraph keys, came from the press quarters near by. On the shore of the lake a group of news camera- men were setting up to catch the take-off of the seaplane which rode at anchor on the placid green water. Two radio announcers were crossing a path in front of him and Tom. They waved and he waved in response. “Why does Harkness want me to go down to town in a plane?” “It’s the follow-up of that injunction gag. Rip figures it’s good psychology. The fact that you insist on flying in spite of Rip’s injunction will prove to the fans that Rip can’t handle you.” But he was thinking: “Maybe Rip figures I'll get air sick or something. Maybe that’s the play.” Manager Brook nudged him as a tabloid photographer approached. The cameraman wanted a before-the-fight picture in case the boys at the weighing-in ceremony failed “Has Rip said anything to you to get good shots. Kerry Sheridan tried hard to look cheerful. He and Tom walked along the woodland path past the deserted training ring. “How are the betting odds this morning?’ “You're a 2 to 1 favorite and they can't find any money. It'll be 4 to 1 before night.” That was a good sign. If the bookies had even thought of a fix, it would show in the odds. Still, he « what Denny Crosland had said. Rip Harkness guy. If Rip was actually in the red for the fight, take it lying down. “We better not go any further this way,” said Tom, of asilence. “‘ You might twist an ankle on thes« He made no comment, but turned obediently up another path. Following Tom's fat, stubby figure, it occurred to him how entirely in Tom’s power he would be tonight Tom and Steve Grace were to be his seconds. In the ex- citement and stress of the fight he would have to depend K osloff ouldn’t forget was a hard he wouldn't out rocks.” on Tom and on Steve too. He hadn't thought much about that before. He had just taken it for granted “Listen, Tom,” he said. “‘You gonna watch ‘em tape his hands?” “Why, sure. I always do,” Tom replied, turning in sur- prise. ‘‘What’s eating on you, Kerry? You got heebie- jeebies all of a sudden?” He felt sheepish, but his doubts would not subside. A few steps farther along, he said: ‘‘What about these new ropes and the red floor that Rip’s using?” “The ropes’ll keep you from burning your hide and the floor will cut down the glare. Quit worrying, will you?” “Well, listen, Tom. Do mea favor, will ya? Watch the water and the sponge yourself tonight. Will ya? Manager Brook stopped in his tracks. “You ain’t distrustful of Steve, are you?” (Continued on Page 144 ‘*How are the Betting Odds This Morning?"’ ‘‘You're a 2 to 1 Favorite and They Can't Find Any Kosloff Money. It'll be 4 to | Before Night"’

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14 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST All IN MILING Joe Jerwin lifted his glass, through which the light shone in such a way as to cast a blood-red stain on his hand. “‘ Here’s success to crime,” he said gayly, demonstrating the aptitude of his sobriquet with a brief but winsome flash of gold and ivory. We were dining at Leon's. I regret that an implied con- fidence prevents me from divulging Leon’s real name or the exact locality of his establishment. Suffice it to say that it is a resort much frequented by very well-known people— well known to Leon, at least. I had been introduced and vouched for as a person of discretion and conduct by Mr. lerwin himself, whom I had accidentally met before I had By Kennett Harris ILLUSTRATED Br R. F. Fate! Well, there’s one pigeon that’s a little late spreading his pretty wings to flutter from this hamlet—unless some- body has wised him—and that would be just too bad for somebody. Foxy lad! He knew we were leery of him, but he thought we’d never dream that he had a wife in Detroit who could act as his go-between to make the dicker. But we happened to be hep, and we knew when he wired for her JAMES December 14,1929 of a delegation of Irishmen who had to break the news of her bereavement to Mrs. Sullivan. ‘Does the Widow Sullivan live here?’ says the tactful spokesman when the poor woman came to the door. Something like that. Remember?” “I was thinking of that one when I made the crack,” Joe acknowledged. ‘Certainly it was a delicate and gentle intimation of Mr. Sullivan’s untimely end. Yes, I thought of thatone. . . . Try those anchovies. I have a weakness for hors d’ceuvres and you can depend on Leon’s Médoc. It took me a long time to get used to drinking wine, but, be- lieve it or not, I’m practically off whisky and beer.” Joe broke off to wave his hand to an old-young man been in the city quite twenty-four hours. He had welcomed me after my years of absence with a cordia! warmth that made it impossible to resist his nvitation. Besides, I was curious about Joe, having seen his name in the public prints quite frequently. He was very well known in- deed—not only to Leon “Crime seems to be succeeding fairly well,” I remarked after I had cour- teously, but against my better nature, indorsed the reprehensible sentiment of Joe's toast. “Here's Leon, for instance.” That scoundrel, dark, slender and serious, had glided smoothly to our table, solicitous of our wel- fare. His arched eyebrows rescented a degree or two at my reference to him. Those eyebrows of his were remarkably expressive. He now turned his head and used them to arrest our passing waiter, bringing him to sweep an anxious glance over silver, glass and accessories, to realize with terror that he had omitted the basket of bread as a necessary complement of the hors d’c@euvres. The unfortunate man sped away and almost instantly returned with the bread and agitated murmurs of apology, to which Leon responded with another elevation of his expressive eyebrows that suavely con- veyed to the offender dire threats of penalties to ome. This occurred so juickly that there seemed hardly a pause before I ex- plained myself. “You are prospering, iren’t you, Leon? Coining money, n’est-ce pas?” “Ah, if you knew!” he eplied, with a Gallic shrug. “No, I am not coining | : iad money; that would be a , crime. No, gentleman, I = & with a bulldog face who had bowed to him and grinned almost amiably from a not distant table. A stunted figure this, in a dinner coat—one of the two or three inky blots in the thronged room. His companion was a hand- some woman, apparently in the thirties, who wore her abundant black hair parted in the middle and drawn in severely straight bands behind her ears, ending in a knot, anno 1860. Her pendent ear- rings were of the same period, but. the classic regularity of her features and the perfect oval of her face made her coiffure seem an ageless perfection, and her costume, daring to the point of rashness, was modern as need be. At a word from Bulldog, she seemed startled for an in- stant, and then turned liquid black eyes upon Joe, considering him thought- fully, one would have said. Then, and quite casually, she gave me a glance. | was piqued. In my present company, I thought I de- served more attention. | might have been the most interesting kind of racket- eer or gunman, apart from my intrinsic attractiveness. ‘“‘Who’s your puggy friend?” I asked. “Daw,” Joereplied, and, as he saw that the name meant nothing to me, he added: “ Assistant district attorney.” “Here?” “Why not? Unofficially, of course. No reason why a man should be denied a little relaxation from the cares of office, is there? And how could he fight crime efficiently if he didn’t mix with us criminals and get a line on us? I ask you. It’s sub rosa here am not prospering much. Too many hands out, comme ¢ca."" He moved quickly to waggle an upturned palm behind him. “Or if not so, then on the collar of your coat."” He dropped the subject and showed Joe a menu card, pointing to various items thereon and murmuring information that had not the remotest connection with anything to eat or drink, so far as I could make out. Joe listened, his blue eyes twinkling and apparently following the indicating finger. As he replied, also in a low voice and tapping the card here and there, I could hear what he said: “Yeah? I was looking for that and I’m all set for it. Funny, though, that I happened to come here tonight. I Saw Him Bow to the Lady, Who Seemed to be Doing Her Best to be Enchanting, and Succeeding Fairly Well and the train she came in on and where she went to lie doggo until the deal was through. The rat! Of course, he’d have had to take the rap, but I'd have sprung him inside of a year. Immunity and steamer tickets, eh? He'll take a long, long trip, all right. Thanks « lot, Leon. I'll call on his widow tomorrow.” He chuckled, and the good-natured wrinkles radiating from the corners of his eyes deepened. He returned the card with a nod, and Leon glided away. “That was a merry jest,” I remarked. “ Reminiscent, though. I seem to recall the ancient and honorable story a gorgeous full-bloom rose hanging right over our heads—and he knows it and we know it. We're out of the trenches, fraternizing. Guns checked at the door; and talking of guns ——” “Efficient, is he?” I interrupted. “Either that or blind, deaf and dumb. As the case may be. He’s like the rest of us—has his weaknesses. You might think that one of ’em is with him now, but not so. He’s not thinking of that fair dame’s personal attractions; he’s transacting official business with her. His great failing is his yen for jack and more jack and more jack still, and that’s going to upset him one of these fine, breezy days; but it takes power to get it. Power comes first.

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“Ah, if You Knew!"’ He Replied, With a Gallic Shrug. *‘No, Gentleman, I Am Not Prospering Much’"’ He’s cold-blooded as a snake, vicious as a hyena, cunning as a dog fox, bloodthirsty as a weasel and crooked as a corkscrew. A rising young man, if he doesn’t stub his toe—which he will.” Joe smiled and responded to the waved greeting of an important-looking citizen who had just entered with a friend. As Leon seated them the friend turned to look at Joe with some particularity. Everybody seemed to be interested in Joe. I was beginning to realize that my old- time acquaintance had ascended in the social scale at a remarkable rate of speed during my years of absence from the dirty old town I once knew so well. Yes, I knew the town and Joe when. Now Erven was bowing to him—Erven, the son. I had seen him in the bank the day before, and for a moment I had thought it was the old man himself, so exact was the family resemblance. But at least ten years ago I had read in the Paris Herald of the death of Jared Erven at the advanced age of seventy-eight. He would now be safely deposited in the vault at Woodlawn, but his mil- lions had gone rolling on, accreting steadily under his son’s guidance. “A fine dried chip of the old block, no doubt.” “Chip is right,” said Joe. “‘ Dry is right too. I guess he comes in here to make sure that none of his employes are patronizing the place. Yes, and he’s extra dry as far as any milk of human kindness is concerned. No heart!” Joe shook his head gravely and speared a piece of orange to attach to a morsel of duckling. He was eating with much gusto. “‘How does a man get along without a heart, will you tell me—with no heart and no bowels of compassion, even for the widow and the fatherless?”’ “You were talking about a widow a moment ago,” I ob- served. I had been feeling vaguely uneasy about that widow. It was just a feeling; nothing more. Joe’s radiant smile should have reassured me even if there had been anything definite to cause uneasiness. Joe laid down knife and fork and pushed his chair back. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said. “I almost forgot I had to call a man up on a little matter of business.” He rose, and as he did so I noticed two hard-looking, pasty- faced young men at the small table against the opposite wall. At the moment that Joe moved his chair they moved theirs, and when he got up, one of the young men rose also, but immediately resumed his seat as Joe passed on with a nod that might or might not have had significance. At all events, the two followed the celebrity with their eyes as he entered the telephone booth beyond the uncurtained door- way, and in a moment or two one of them got up and, with elaborate carelessness, sauntered out of the room. I could see him standing in the hall, a short distance from the tele- phone booth. He had glanced down the staircase and now leaned against the balustrade, nonchalantly using a tooth- pick. His table companion eyed me furtively, and then his glance darted from place to place around the room, finally resting on the doorway. I had seen that young man before. Where? His com- panion’s face seemed familiar too. Then I remembered that they had got out of the taxi that drove up behind ours when Joe and I arrived at Leon’s discriminatingly hos- pitable iron-barred door. They had been admitted without question, as Joe had been. H’m-m! But the widow busi- ness. Was it a joke? The recrudescence of a rather ghastly old gag? . . . “I’m Mrs. Sullivan.” “Begging your par- don, ma’am, you’re the Widow Sullivan. Mike went piece- meal to glory on a blast at the quarry ferninst, half an hour ago.” . Ona blast. Quite a little blasting of one sort or another going on in this town now. . Pineapples. .. . Leon had not been too audible when he imparted the information concerning—was the name Gooch? Yes, Gooch. Now who would Gooch be? The pigeon referred to? Stool pigeon? Joe came from the booth beaming. “And that’s that,” he said, and spread his napkin over his plump knees. “Nothing on my mind now but the pie question.” He signaled the hovering waiter and presently that question was satisfactorily settled for both of us. “I’m enjoying this to the limit,”’ Joe told me. “‘It’s good to be alive, ain't it? Good to be alive. A friend and a bottle to give him, as they used to say. I knew a man once who was the saddest human being you ever saw. He had plenty of money, a dandy home, the respect and esteem of the community, hosts of friends, a lovely wife who adored him, and four children who had all turned out well, but his doctor wouldn’t allow him to eat pie. Well, there’s been changes since Willie died. You haven't changed much, though, since that day in the Twenty-third Precinct Station when you got old Cap Wheeler to turn me loose.” “IT doubt whether I should have done that,” I said. “I suppose I thought there was a chance that you'd reform.” He laughed heartily—eyes, mouth, shoulders and paunch. “You don’t think there’s any change in me?” I looked at him appraisingly. He was beautifully tail- ored, but unobtrusively so. In the days gone by his taste had run to loud checks and shirts with colorful stripes. He now wore no jewelry, beyond a slender watch chain of platinum and gold—he, Joe, who had so loved to decorate his person with glittering paste and yellow metal in bizarre forms. His long, flexible and well-manicured fingers, now drumming on the table before him, were innocent of rings; his hair was not so thick as it had once been, and the heavy mustache that had curied at the ends in convolvulus spirals, as I remembered it, was now trimmed to a neat stubble on his lip, and it was evident that expert tonsors and masseurs were grooming him. These things I frankly mentioned. I might have added that whereas his former bearing had been one of delect- able impudence—a challenging brazenness—he now had in re- pose an air of calm, settled au- thority, even dignity. “Yes, you've changed outwardly, at least,” I concluded. “‘A Bit More Surface Polish, Eh?... Better : =*7 Language, What?" VU His Biue Eyes Twinkied at Me. ‘‘Weill, Travet Broadens a Man"’ THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 15 “A bit more surface polish, eh? . . . Better language, what?” His blue eyes twinkled at me. “Well, travel broadens a man, and I’ve traveled a lot since [ last saw you. Back and forth across the Atlantic more times than I've got fingers and toes, and I've played the P. & O. boats The Midway ain't the only place I've seen the streets of Cairo, and as for gay Paree, Homburg, Monte Carlo, Biarritz—wherever there’s any circulation of sporting blood, why, I'm right at home there. You travel in the society of educated and refined suckers for a few years and you can’t help rubbing off some of the sharp corners.” My subconscious mind was working on pigeons--fan- tails, pouters, tumblers, homers—-and stools. As a boy | kept pigeons — interesting creatures, inhumanly faithful to their mates, billing and cooing, pairing once, as in the spring a livelier iris, and all that. What sort of an iris did pigeon Gooch sport? Where would he be nesting now? I said, “I don't want to alarm you unnecessarily, Joe, but those two lads at the table opposite are giving you a whole lot of attention. I suppose you know they're tailing you.” “It’s what I pay them for,” said Joe, with his engaging smile. “There's another one outside with the driver in the taxi they came in. Little lambs, tagging along after me because they love me and because they know that some other people don’t. Daw over there, for instance, would love to see me on the hot seat. He thinks he’s fixing it for me right now.” Joe chuckled. “One of the penalties of greatness.”” He laughed. “Cheese?” “If I knew where this Gooch person was I think I'd tip him off,”’ I thought. I said, “ Roquefort and a demi-tasse.”’ “And cognac,” added Joe, addressing Leon, who had come up to inquire if everything had been as it should be He went away reassured. And presently Joe was dripping cognac on the sugar in his spoon and lighting it. The woman with the assistant district attorney seemed might- ily interested in the process, even as she talked to her escort—with earnestness rather than vivacity, I thought. One could hardly have doubted that the conversation be- tween these two was of more than ordinary moment, yet her liquid dark eyes wandered again and again from Daw’'s grotesquely animated face and emphatic gestures to the smiling Mr. Jerwin, now burning brandy for his coffee with the careful exactness of a chemist. (Continued on Page 125

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16 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST DING E ARE the most ingenious people in the world when it comes to kidding ourselves along until it is almost too late to do anything about it. We are past masters at passing the buck. Undoubtedly, also, other people pass the buck, but they are not so expertly convincing about it. We are, as a race, extraordinarily re- luctant to face the music, to admit that any condition of affairs is our fault. For instance, we can dig up, one after the other, reason after reason why ducks are scarce just for this year. The season is too wet, so the ducks have By Stewart Edward White are directed toward taking and handling salmon, with a side effort at deflecting into Alaskan ports the halibut schooners, which now take their catches to Prince Rupert or Seattle. Whatever brave conversational gestures the booster may make toward this, that or the other possible source of prosperity, the fact remains that the one vital question you can ask, the question that will get you a heart- to-heart discussion, is: ‘‘ How is the run this year?” So, naturally, being what we are, oe we proceed to kid ourselves along. Why not? As one close enough to the drama to have been almost a part of it, I find it very easy to sympathize with the fierce, single- minded emotions of those next to its heart. For it is a drama—a tremen- dous drama — be- ginning in a slow pulse of elaborate Fo preparation that quickens little by December 14,1929 brought by ship from distant sawmills and erected by carpenters imported, prob- ably, from Seattle, nearly a thousand miles away. Heavy and expensive machinery driven by a complete steam plant has been freighted in by water and installed by machinists, also imported for the purpose. Mechanical escalators for the conveyance of fish from boat or scow to the cannery floor, appropriate bins for sorting, long benches and tables for handling, dozens of gadgets that impress one anew with the ingenuity man learns from experience—huge steam cookers, labeling devices, complete box factories for the construction of packing cases from the raw materials, net lofts with all appliances for the making and mending of nets, oil docks with great tanks containing gasoline and Diesel oil for the seiners and tenders, “dol- phins” and floats for the accommodation of boats, tall piles and stringers for the drying of nets, tarring vats, warehouses as big as a convention hall for the storage of the canned salmon awaiting shipments, a bewildering catalogue, be- sides, of various other things too numerous and too tech- nical to be mentioned here—all these have been brought in by ships, and installed and tested and made ready. All this is before we have stepped ashore. New Life in the Cannery Town ND on shore is a well-appointed city in miniature. There is a big cookhouse and dining room, and dormi- tories, and row upon row of cottages, and a well-stocked store where the chance cruiser like myself can buy almost anything he wants, and a piped water system, and modern dwelling houses for the officers, and an electric-light plant, and a complete A Saimon Pile Trap scattered; or too dry, so they have taken another line of flight; or too early, so they have gone right on through to Mexico; or some myste- rious disease has made off with them; or any old reason except the possi- bility that killing three or four million of them each and every year in one state alone might have something to do with it. Confronted with such sta- tistics in such fashion that we cannot dodge them, we blandly execute an about-face. Ducks are not scarce, we declare categoricaliy. If they were scarce, it would riot be possible to kill them at the rate of three or four mil- lion a year! Such an argument ina sending outfit of wireless, and showers, and probably a handball court and, perhaps, a lawn and garden or so for good measure. All this has been created against the side of a mountain, so steep that the streets are ordinarily of planks on piling, in some inlet re- mote by many, many miles not only from any civilization but even from any other human habitation. A fiat town, but admirably complete. Early in the spring, as soon as the season breaks after the long, dark Alaskan winter, the caretaker’s soli- tude is broken. A ship rounds the point and moors to the face of the pile dock. Disembark the manager and a crew of men. The cookhouse is put circle is highly ridiculous, of course; but we would rather be ridiculous than acknowledge that the situation is our doing, or do anything about it. I will say this: When things get desperate enough so that we can no longer kid ourselves along, and we are forced to do something about it, we are likely to do something quite thorough. But not until we have exhausted all the alibis. Alaska’s Dependence on Salmon OR the past nine years, with the exception of 1925, I have cruised the waters of the Pacific Northwest. Afloat from four to five and a half months of each season, I have become not only familiar with most of the odd nooks and coves of British Columbia and Alaska, but have made there scores of acquaintances in all classes of life from the governor down to the one-man-power Siwash hand troller. It is a wonderful and lavish country, but one demanding of the sterner pioneer qualities that develop great indi- vidualism. That makes interesting people. It also makes for single-mindedness; a blindness to all but the chosen goal. And that, in turn, is a condition most favorable to the gentle art of kidding themselves along. The greatest pust and present resource of coastwise \laska is the fisheries. They do a few other things, but as vet those things do not amount to very much, nor, with the exception of pulpwood, do they seem likely to become rela- tively very important. The merchants of the coast towns prosper or languish according to the season’s run of salmon. The expansion in docks and floats, in canneries, in boats, ships, storage facilities, refrigerating plants, and the like, A Floating Trap in Alaska little to the crash of a great cre- scendo. Without at- tempting a com- plete picture, let us sketch briefly a fishing season in the north. All the long win- ter the cannery, with its many great buildings and its elaborate ma- chinery and its lofts of gear, has slept in the remoteness of its snow and ice- bound inlet. The caretaker has occa- sionally shoveled the snow from the overburdened wharves and roofs, and has cooked his meals, and has listened to the boon of his radio. He is often the sole inhabitant of a min- iature city, the building of which represents an elaboration of construction and expense and labor impossible to visual- ize unless one has visited one of these plants. The great buildings of the cannery proper have been placed on innu- merable piles, all of which have had to be cut and trans- ported and driven. The lumber of the buildings has been Gathering the Pot of a Floating Trap, in Preparation for Brailing in commission and the dormitories are opened. From its hold the ship discharges an imposing cargo of supplies— foodstuffs, lumber and nails for boxes, cut tin for the manu- facture of cans, bales of labels, stock for the store, roll upon roll of trap wire—all sorts of materials. The crew of men are mechanics of one sort or another. They at once set to work, and from that moment are continuously busy. The machinery must be overhauled, repaired and tested. The nets must be unpacked and tarred; the supplies

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 17 appropriately distributed and stored; the ravages of win- ter repaired. Everything must be prepared, shipshape and Bristol fashion, down to the last clinched nail, so that when the time comes nothing must be lacking. Tankers come in to replenish the oil dock. And in the meantime, plowing their way north from distant Seattle, a whole fleet of tugs, fish carriers and can- nery tenders is making its way across the Gulf, up John- stone Strait, across stormy Queen Charlotte Sound, through the Inside Passage, dodging gales in Dixon En- trance. And before they could start, another army of men has fitted pistons and ground valves and calked and scraped and painted to put them in commission. Their arrival begins another season of long, intensive preparation in the construction of the traps. The pile driver and its crew are towed to the various locations, where they are busy every reasonably calm day, pounding home in deep, rocky bottom the new one-hundred-foot piles in long rows and in the elaborate patterns of the spiller and the heart. And after they have completed their part, the riggers hang their net wire and their cord net—new every year, no matter what the condition of the piling—no small job in itself, involving sometimes deep-sea diving. Or, in some stiil cove, the floating traps, with their huge log partitions and their heavy binding chains and the in- genious intricacy of their mazes, are hewed from the primeval forest and fitted together, ready on the first appropriate calm spell to be towed at a snail’s pace to their locations; there to be strung tight from their shore cables by enormous anchors so heavy that they can be handled only by a floating crane. These, too, must be hung after they are in place. After which is the detail of the trap watchers’ boats and houses and supplies—a small detail, but one that must be attended to. Getting Ready for the Run HILE all this is going on, hundreds of seine boats are going into commission. These are generally privately owned by the natives along the coast. They fish for the canneries by various arrangements, but ordinarily the can- nery supplies them their nets and gear and gasoline. They must be rounded up and bargained with and outfitted. The cannery machinists are busy men, for the local custom is to get by all winter, if possible, in order to bring the full accumulation of engine trouble for free fixing at the can- thousand miles away. Human problems demand his pa- tience; these workers of his are hat-tilted, two-fisted in- dividualists “‘taking nothing from nobody and not much of that.”” They are wonders on the job, but they require handling sometimes. And over and above al! this seething activity seems to hover Kooseyoonek, the grinning ma- licious little Indian god of frustration, who brings the spring gales at the most inopportune times, and hurts men beyond the skill of first aid, so that a precious tender must be spared to take them to the hospital at Wrangell or Ju- neau or Ketchikan, and generally sloshes about seeking to annoy. As yet, mind you, the cannery is not officially running. This sort of thing goes on for three or four months, at increasing speed. As the opening day of legal fishing ap- proaches, that speed becomes frantic, for only rarely has the best foresight, experience and industry combined with lucky circumstance to bring all things to leisurely readi- ness. There are always a horde of last-minute matters to attend to. Something always happens. Nevertheless, it is even rarer that the last day dawns on things undone. The long months of preparation have culminated. A last steamer draws up to the pile docks to discharge the cannery workers— Japanese, Filipinos, a few Chinese. The Indians have come in from the near-by villages. All the cottages and dormitories are occupied. The seine boats are moored six deep culminated in a spick-and-span and beautiful readiness To reimburse it, this particular cannery manager figures he must put up, say, eighty thousand cases of canned salmon. That is a good many, but he has the men and the facilities to do it. But he must do so in a few precious weeks. The fleet sets out. The cannery workers loaf, or read, or sleep, or play handball, or toss a baseball. Theirs is a waiting job now. They wil! be busy when the fish come in. No matter what time of the day or night, when the laden scows sidle to the chutes, they must pour forth to the job Then, for as many hours as are necessary, they occupy each his appointed place, working at top speed until the last fish is in the can. At the sound of the whistle the place leaps into intense life. Men wielding pues—a sort of straight, barbless gaff —toss the fish from the scows to the chute which carries them up to the sorting floor in an un- ending silvery stream. Thence they move without inter- mission through the various hands and machines that clean them and cut them and weigh them and most in- geniously tuck them into their receptacles and vacuum- pack them aad stack them in the cookers. It is astonishing how fast they drop into the racks—rattle, rattle, rattle; almost like rapid fire-—and the long line of workers doing deftly each his bit, intent lest he make a false move and so hold up the whole process. For a mistake involving an instant’s delay means so many less cans a minute. There is to the floats. The trap watchers and their dories have been distributed by the tenders and are settled in their little sentry-box huts. The pile driver, its crew free, at least tempo- rarily, for a game of cribbage or pi- nochle, nuzzies its mooring pile. Its job is done, but it must be kept avail- able to repair dam- age from time to Str. have gathered and * ry 2 >» pay he nery. Yes, the cannery does so without argument. It is time. The fish going to need every keel when the time comes. Any cannery manager could prob- — ably name a couple of thousand other = ees matters besides the sequence I have Pg so briefly sketched above. All the ‘ » Brattiag. Be Many as 90,000 Simon multitudinous detail settles on him, . ee eee ‘ One Hawi and he is the fellow who does the plan- a ning and arranging and worrying. 4 an atmosphere of concentration, of Men are always at his elbow awaiting = ns excitement held in effective leash their turn for a word with him. Gen- ne oP Y When the last can has plunked into erally, the word means trouble. Se eel 4 tre the rack, everybody leans back with Things are not going as per plan; he - Ses — cane : . a sigh. Remains now only the exten- must be prepared instantly to modify, ama is ages oad sive washing down and scrubbing that and to modify effectively. Circum- aa a a ES make of the modern well-run cannery stances and some men are always find- a model of sweetness and cleanliness ing themselves in need of more or The tired workers go back to their rest different materials than the most ” and their play careful foresight has provided; the - al manager must find more or find sub- ? ge ee : An Anxious Time stitutes—and the supply market a - as ‘s rf ‘ye : ae: UT sometimes the tenders return “ms from their first rounds of the season with few fish or with none at recalked and gay with new ~~ red paint, hang to + the dolphins in clusters. The = sturdy tenders, each with its lifting rh crew of huskies and ~ its skipper and its cook, lie alongside the pile docks. Whew! That is over! All these months of heavy toil and planning and hurry scows, Mending a Trap Web at Low Tide and nervous strain and worry have The Pot Before Brailing. A Small Catch all. The seiners, cruising widely and hopefully in search of the telltale jumpings that mark a school, do not come in. The canning crew loafs in an increasingly distasteful idleness that rapidly focuses into a nervous and irritable tension. For while their wages go on just the same, it is a fact that a good crew becomes very partisan for a successful season, and would rather work than idle. The run, for some reason or another, is late this year, and the days of the short season are slipping Sy with dismaying rapidity. Three weeks only remain, and there are not yet enough fish in the boxes to cover the floor This is the nervous time for the manager. There is noth ing he can do, nothing for him to do. He has done it all in the long feverish months of preparation. Remains only for him to figure, and to figure over again; revising both h hopes and his calculations to fit the diminishing days week ago he had ample elbowroom in time, all sorts o leisure to fill out his coveted quota. Now he is pressed. If the fish come in, it can still be done, but it will mean top speed work and long hours and great devotion on the part - F on Continued on Page 166

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18 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST ILFIELD is a lit- December 14,1929 By Ben Ames Williams TLLUSTRATED Br ALBIN HENNING tle town in the hills. There are mills there, deriving power from the tumbling little river which threads the nar- row valleys, but there are no fields worth the name. Second-growth forest crowds close about the borders of the town and lothes the steep hillsides above it; the white houses are threaded along the stream, or scattered down the traction line below the village, or clustered about the small, elm-shaded square Yet, though the town is small, it is by no means negligible tis, for one thing, only two or three miles from North Brad- ford, the county seat. Also Milfield is--or was-——-the home town of Brant Mur- dock, whose name was in its time not unfamiliar to the local ear. The simplest way to come from North Bradford down to Milfield is by the traction. Inspector Tope and Sergeant Dale swung off the car at the square, and the inspector looked around him inquiringly, appraising his surround- ings. He was a round lit- tle old man, his hair white under the brim of his cap, his cheeks as bright as an apple, but he had a calm blue eye, and there was something keen beneath his easy good nature and his beaming smile. He looked not unlike an apple.and it happened that he was fond of apples too. This was October; the hill- side forests were a bright mosaic of brown and red and gold against the dark green of the black growth So there were apples for sale at the fruit store just “Plenty of time,” Chief Luger assured him. “So here it is.” And he con- tinued carefully, like one setting his narrative in or- der as he spoke: “You know who Mr. Murdock was, of course. A big man—one of the big- gest in thestate. He owned half of Milfield, and he had property in North Brad- ford too. And, of course, he’d been in politics all his life. Mayor of North Bradford twenty years ago, before he built his place out here and moved. Then in the House, at Boston, and the State Senate; and he could have been governor, and maybe senator at Washington if he’d wanted it. But for the last ten years he’s been more active in private ways—state committee, and national committee, and so on. I guess he had a finger in most things that concerned state politics at all.’’ “T never kept very close track of politics,” Inspec- tor Tope confessed; and Sergeant Dale, sitting quietly by, looked at him thoughtfully. “Murdock had a big es- tate below town here,”’ Chief Luger went on. ‘“‘ My little place was right be- yond his. He fronted on the river, and he’d put in a dam, made a little lake, had some canoes there, and so on. Then, besides the house, he had built a sort of office over his garage. He built that when Mrs. Murdock was sick and couldn’t stand disturbance in the house, and Murdock had a lot of people coming to see him all the time. Mrs. Murdock died two years ago, but he kept on using the office over the garage. The garage was a across the street, and the inspector crossed and bought three McIntosh Reds. He gave one to the sergeant—who was in civilian clothes on this occasion—and he began to eat one himself. His teeth tore the red cheek of the apple, and the white meat of it crunched pleasantly. He asked the fruit dealer the way to Chief Luger's office, and the man, with an interest suddenly bright in his eye, directed the two newcomers across the square. Tope and the sergeant followed a diagonal path beneath pleasant elms, and a moment later they were climbing the stairs to knock at a door labeled in black letters: Chief of Police. Chief Luger bade them in, but when he heard their names he greeted them doubtfully. “I don’t know’s there’s anything you can do more than we have done, in- spector,”’ he confessed. “But Payson—he’s the district was over here last night, and he thought I ought to get someone up from Boston—just to cover us. So I tele phoned ~ Tope nodded cheerfully. “That's all right,” he declared. ‘Glad to come and have a look around anyway.” “T heard you'd retired,’’ Chief Luger remarked. “I’ve been meaning to,”’ Tope agreed. “I will, probably, by and by.” He bit into the apple vigorously, stripped it to the core. ‘Guess you like apples, by the look,”’ Chief Luger re- marked, with a grim smile. “ Maybe that will give you an edge in this business. There’s an apple in it, you know.” attorne y Tope Bought Some More Apples, But Their Flavor This Time Appeared to Displease Him. He Took a Bite From This One and From That, But Never More Than One Bite “I like them, yes,” Tope agreed. “Only they hurt my teeth if they’re a little sour. I’ve got a tooth that’s bother- ing me. Good dentist here, is there? Just in case I have to get hold of one.” “Doctor Mason takes care of my teeth,” the chief told him. ‘He's right across the square.” The old man nodded cheerfully and began to eat the other apple. “‘ You might tell me what you've got so far,” he suggested, and he listened with a quiet attention while the chief related what there was to tell. Chief Luger was worried about this affair; that was plainly to be seen. Yet he did not look like a worrying man. He was large and well-fed, with a rich color beneath the bronze of his cheeks, and an arrogant confidence in his eye. But he confessed his concern in his first words now. “This has bothered me a lot, kept me awake nights and all that,” he explained. “It comes pretty close home, you know. Murdock was my father-in-law. My wife’s been sick abed, ever since it happened. I was the one to find him, and I was the first one to see Jameson too. We don’t have many killings up here, inspector. These are the first ones since I took the job here.” “Father-in-law?” Tope repeated. “I did see that in the papers, but I’d forgotten it. You'd better go over the whole thing, chief, if you’ve got the time.” couple of hundred yards below the house, below the orchard. He had a good orchard.”” Thechief hesitated, chuckled. ‘“‘ Funny the way apples run all through this,” he remarked, with a certain appreciation in his tone. ‘Brant was in his office down there, eating apples, when he was killed.” “That was at night, wasn’t it?’’ Tope prompted. “A week ago last night,’’ Chief Luger agreed. “Brant had a man end a woman taking care of the house for him. The man was an Italian, and his wife was young—thirty- two or three—kind of pretty.” He hesitated. “I’m giving you all the angles,”’ he explained. ‘‘ Murdock had told me about her, spoken about her being pretty. She and the man left town a day or two afterward. I didn’t have any- thing to hold them on, but I’ve kept track of them. They’re in Boston now. Registered at one of the agencies, looking for a job.” “You mean this man might have been jealous of Mur- dock?” the inspector asked explicitly; and the chief said in a certain confusion: “I’m giving you all the angles; that’s all. It was the man’s night out, but Murdock always made one of them stay to answer the phone. He didn’t have a phone in the garage. The man was in North Bradford; he was seen there. There was nobody in the house but the woman.” “And Murdock was down in the garage?” “I saw him in the orchard, picking some apples, just before dark,”” Chief Luger explained. ‘“‘We talked a few

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| } | | minutes, and I went upstairs with him, and sat there and talked a little while. I came home about nine o'clock. Mrs. Luger had come uptown to the movies, and she got back about quarter of ten and we went to bed.” The inspector nodded. “Then, in the morning,” the chief continued, “Mrs. Luger called up the Murdock house on the phone. She wanted to talk to her father. But the woman there said he wasn’t downstairs yet, and Mrs. Luger told her to have him call us up. Then, a little while after, the woman tele- phoned that Mr. Murdock wasn’t in his room and hadn’t slept there. “T thought maybe he'd slept in the office. He had a bed and a bathroom there. So my wife and I walked over there to see, and found him.” “Dead?” Inspector Tope remarked. “‘He’d been shot through the head,” the chief explained steadily enough. “I tried to stop Mrs. Luger, but she pushed past me into the room. He’d been sitting there at his desk, and he had toppled forward. The bullet went in the side of his head and out again, through the window toward the river. He’d been eating an apple. It was on the rug under his hand. His hand was hanging down be- side the chair.” “Dead quite a while?” “Eight to twelve hours, they said. It was’ half-past eight in the morning when we found him.” Tope sighed and sat up a little more erectly, his fat hands resting on his fat knees. ‘“ Anyone who might have done it?” he asked. “Anyone at all?” Chief Luger made an expressive gesture with both hands. “Plenty,” he confessed. “‘There was this Italian who worked for him. Then he’d been having trouble with the men in the mill, and a lot of them were boiling mad. He had political enemies too. I’ve checked up some of them. One of them was in North Bradford, but so far as I can find out, this man was in town all evening. But Brant had made enemies enough. A big man will.” “Scared of them, was he?”’ Tope inquired. ———— He Hesitated, and the Room Was Suddenty Very Still. The Inspector Smiled Cheerfully. ‘‘Doctor Mason Here Telis Me You Can Identify a Man by His Teeth,’ He Remarked Luger shook his head. “‘ You couldn’t scare Brant,” he declared; and he added: “‘ He was a husky citizen, for one thing. And he could handle a gun. Always had one in the top drawer of his desk. It was there that morning. He hadn’t touched it.” “So he must have known the man who shot him?” Tope suggested. “I thought of that,” the chief agreed. “Yes. Whoever did it was in the room with him. Must have been. There weren't any windows on the side the bullet came from. Yes.” “Who is going to make anything by his death?” Tope asked; and the chief shook his head. “Not a soul,” he admitted. ‘Not as far as I know.” “Might have been a quarrel, you think?” “He did get roaring mad sometimes,”’ the chief assented. “And he was hard as nails.” Tope nodded again. “So,” he agreed, and he sighed and patted his knees reflectively. “‘ Well, how about Jameson?” he asked. ‘‘ Maybe there’s something in that business that will hook up with this. Some resemblance. Notice any- thing?” Chief Luger smiled grimly. ‘‘ Nothing but the apple,” he admitted. “Papers had that straight about the apple, did they?” “More or less,”’ the chief confessed. “‘ We tried to make it out a suicide, so the killer would think we were fooled. But the papers got hold of the apple thing.” “‘Let’s have it,”” Tope suggested. ‘Just what happened, far as you know?” The chief hesitated; then he reached for his phone and held a brief conversation. Had Bob Rook reported this morning? No? He returned the phone to the hook, and spoke to Tope. “‘Bob’s working on it now,” he explained. “‘I borrowed him from the state police before Payson told me to send THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 19 for you. Bob was due to report last night, but, h« Now, about Jameson.” Jameson, he said, was a youngster, and a smart young man. “‘He was the best man I had,” Chief Luger cor fessed. “And I put him on this case right away. Of course I was working too. We kept in touch with each other right along—checking up on this one and that one, and so on. He did most of the running around. I had to keep ir touch with the office here.”’ He hesitated, pounded his fist with sudden heat. “It was the same man killed him and Murdock!” he cried “And I'll get him if it takes twenty years. Murdock was in my family, you might say; and I liked Jameson as if he’d been my own boy. He was a good youngster, in- spector.”’ “Sure it wasn’t suicide, then?’ “Suicide? No. Here’s what happened.” He leaned forward, speaking with a sudden intent and heated earnestness. “Jameson telephoned me last Tuesday night at home,”’ he said. “He called up from Vint Chapel’s farm, fiv: miles from here, up on the mountain. He told me he had something. Wanted me to come right up.’ The chief hesitated. ‘“‘He said he’d meet me at Two- Barns,” he explained. “‘That’s a farm that belonged to Murdock, on a back road up on the mountain. It used to belong to an old man named Frisbee. Frisbee borrowed some money from Murdock four or five years ago, and Murdock finally had to foreclose on him and move Frishe: out. Old Frisbee died that winter, and his boy came back here and raised Cain. Claimed his father died of a broken heart, and he blamed Murdock.” “Where's young Frisbee now?” Tope asked attentively “He works in a garage in Springfield,”” Chief Luger re- plied. “I’ve checked up on him. He was out with a car that evening—the night Murdock was killed. And he was out the night Jameson was killed. It's only forty miles or so to Springfield from here. Frisbee won't tell us where he went either night. I'm watching him. He took the speedometer out of his car the day before the night Murdock was killed, so you can't ) Continued on Page 193

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20 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14,1929 Tony Said Some Terribly Vuigar Things in Regard to Luetia Maddox. Bob Maddox Couidn't Help But Hear VE WERE rolling through the new cut- off-—sixty cars of meat and other perishables. Far, far ahead the scream of the engine whistle sifted back over the rum- bling loads, drifted through the open windows and doors We were calling for the board, demanding ter the terminal over the leased trackage known as the Belt. f the caboose the right to en “There’s a story about the old main line, kid,” said yhnny Griswold, the skipper. He puffed at his pipe. I dunno.” Puff, puff. “I use nore matches than I do tobacco, kid.” Puff, puff. “I’ve couple of million magazines, I bet, an’ I a yarn like it. Funny kind of story.” contributed Or maybe it ain't a story. waded through a iin t never seen 1ean, A It’s about Bob Maddox,” said Johnny seriously ‘Whistlin’ Bob Maddox.” ‘Shucks!"" quoth the lad. “Everybody on the system ows that yarn.” ‘Do they, now?” said the conductor, looking wise. ‘Bob Maddox,” I said n the old main line “Why, skipper, I’ve worked up ‘I was at Townley when he left,” said Johnny. “Kid, ou never seen such a storm. March 3, 1903—that’s the date. She derailed at Long S.reet crossing; they never He talked and talked and talked. bottom of the Smoky”’— puff, puff—‘‘she’s overed over with silt, but there never was such an engine. he Luella Maddox.” ‘Listen, skipper,” raised the engine os “She's at the I interrupted: “the whole business Maddox's wife was trifling. I’ve heard t said that Maddox's own fireman, named Polk, was the guilty one.” ‘Maybe so, kid,” said Johnny, puffing on his pipe. Her name was Luella Maddox.” was just tragedy. By A. W. SOMERVILLE ILLUSTRATED Br GRATTAWN I nodded. We sat a while in silence. “*T tell you there’s a real story behind all this.”” Johnny astonished me with his vehemence. ‘“‘Get your mind out of the gutter an’ forget some of your big words, an’ you might see it!” , a WAS pretty familiar with the story of Maddox, and Johnny told me many things that heretofore I’d guessed at or vaguely wondered about. I knew why Maddox al- ways whistled at Long Street; knew, as did everyone, that he was reputed to have done so for twenty-six years. But Johnny hinted at other things. After I left the skipper I did my best to dig out all the facts of the yarn. Newspaper files, railroad records; I burrowed and delved into reams of musty papers. I hunted up several old-timers, talked with them. No. 5, the Cannonball, was derailed at Long Street crossing just outside Carlysle, on March 3, 1903. Robert Maddox was the engineer, Antonio Polk was the fireman, the engine was the Luella Maddox. Records, records, records: Mrs. Maddox, killed with a companion at Long Street crossing, March 3, 1903. An account of the de- railment, explanations of the causes. An account of the storm of March 3, 1903; of the run the Luella Maddox made that night. One hundred and ninety-six miles from Townley by the old main line, yet in three hours and twenty minutes she was coming into Carlysle! An estimate of the cost of raising the Luella Maddox from the Smoky, and the abandonment of the project be- cause of prohibitive costs. And one faded sheet, which afterward I was to remember well—a record of the failure CONDON of the Luella Maddox on March 1, 1903—two days before the wreck. She had broken a guide yoke and another engine had to tow her train home. Gossip, gossip, gossip. Mrs. Maddox had been unfaithful. Maddox thought Tony Polk was the guilty one—Tony Polk, his own fireman. Knew this to be true, in fact, on the afternoon of March third of that long-ago year. A picture of the Luella Maddox, old and faded. On the side of the headlight the full face of her for whom the engine was named. One day I drove out the river road from Carlysle until I came to Long Street. I parked the car near the underpass and waited for the River Branch local. Once this had been the route of the main line I knew the formula when Maddox passed Long Street. I heard the plug coming, heard the whistle wail mournfully, heard the bell ding-donging. The whistle wailed and the bell clamored as the engine rumbled past overhead. I looked up and saw Maddox, thin lips, hard eyes, leather face. The same old grouch I'd known, big as a mountain, hard as a grate bar. I waved at him, but he never so much as glanced down. After the local had passed I climbed the fence and en- tered the vacant lot reputed to be owned by Maddox. In a corner of this lot was a small, grassy square within which was a marble headstone. Though badly worn by the changing climate and the storms of more than a quarter of a century, the lettering could still be read: LUELLA MADDOX Marcu 3, 1903 mr Bs back again,” boomed Johnny Griswold. “‘Take the weight off your feet, kid. Be with you in a ” minute.

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THE SATURDAY EVENING Soon he was free of his caboose desk, came and squatted. “Write that story, kid?” I told him of my researches, of my talk with old-timers. We jabbered at each other. I showed him the brown, faded picture of the Luella Maddox. “There never was such a engine,” from Johnny, waving the photograph wildly. “I tell you she could outrun any- thing on wheels! And never a black mark against her.” I denied this, saying I had seen the bulletin of her failure two days before the wreck. “You would find that,” said the skipper coldly. He lit his pipe, puffed spasmodically. ‘Well, did you write the story?” he growled. I produced the short manuscript. “This is just the body of the yarn,” I explained. “How a person is supposed to do a job when he doesn’t under- stand what he’s trying to do has got me licked. You tell me the secret of this mystery and I might do better.” Johnny reached for the typed pages. “Most of it’s just outline,” I said, “you understand.” “Lemme alone, you mutton- head,” said the skipper im- patiently, beginning to read. THE MANUSCRIPT Robert Maddox, railroad engineer, married a finely built young woman with the face of an angel and practically no morals. She fooled him for years, for Maddox had a single- track mind and it never oc- curred to him to suspect her. The time of this yarn is the beginning of the twentieth century—back in the days when railroad engines were named rather than numbered, back in the days when each engineer had an engine of his own. Maddox was married on the day he took charge of his first assigned engine, and this locomotive, Luella Maddox As for Bob Maddox, if he found so much as a speck of rust on his second love, he wasn’t fit for human companionship for two weeks. It was a standing joke on the railroad as to whether Maddox was married to his wife or to his engine. A fine runner, a high- class mechanic, this Maddox. He and the Luella set the division record for fast run- ning, towing the Cannonball, and to this day the record stands, like this: June 16, 1900. Train No. 5, Townley to Carlysle, 196 miles Lapsed time, 3 hrs., 42 min. Between Oden and Hypo attained speed of / 106.3 m. p. h. Engine: Luella Maddox. eZ Engineer: Robt. Maddox. Fireman: Antonio Polk. Around 1900 the engineer was also the mechanic, and was held responsible for all necessary light repairs. Maddox sweated Tony Polk until the fireman was sick of the engine. It wasn’t enough to cram her with coal all day or all night; when they’d made the terminal Tony had just begun to work. Maddox loved doing it; Tony got fed up on the everlasting program of work, work, work. Probably Maddox was a hard master, but he had a reputation to sustain, and, regardless of the feelings of the fireman, he proceeded to sustain it. The Luella Maddox entered service in 1899; in four years she traveled better than 380,000 miles, and the only time she was out of line was when she broke a guide yoke on March first of 1903. And that failure—the one and only—was caused by a faulty casting and not by shoddy workmanship. These facts are high praise to Engineer Maddox. It was in the winter of 1903 that it was rumored up and down the railroad that the brass hats were considering POST 21 It Was a Standing Joke on the Railroad as te Whether Maddox Was Married to His Wife or to His Engine pooling all locomotives. All engines on present-day rail- roads are pooled—that is, the roundhouse maintains al! engines in good running repair and the first engineer out gets the first locomotive ready for service. No engineer, thus, has any regularly assigned en- gine. If the rumor that fled up and so old railroad records show, was named the Jenny Lind. Several days after his marriage, to the utter consternation of various officials, Maddox rechristened his mill—renamed her the Luella Mad- dox. He'd had a painter blot out Jenny Lind on the cab and reletter it with the name of his wife. He bolted a heavy brass casting on the front end with L. M. ‘n bright, raised figures shown thereon. And, splendor of splendors, on each side of the head- light was a full-face picture of the young woman, and at night, with the wick lit, you could make out her features from a distance of three hun- dred yards. How Bob Maddox got away with this is difficult to explain. The brass hats may have charged it up to the natural aberrations of a young mar- ried man and let the matter ride. Then, too, it must be admitted that Luella was not unknown in railroad circles, and probably popular. The point of the matter is that Maddox was ready to risk nearly anything to please his wife, that the engine was named Luella Maddox, and that the name stuck. The Luella Maddox was an Ameri- can type locomotive—one of the breed that has established speed records up to one hundred and twenty miles an hour. Built like a greyhound, slender barrel and four slim-spoked drive wheels—built for speed. She carried a water pump on her right crosshead that always worked, and an inspirator in the cab that had never been known to do business. Her graceful rods, as well as all motion work, carried the sheen of polish; she was smothered with brass and nickel and copper, not to mention gold leaf for lettering and a silver whistle for dress occa- sions. She gleamed like fabled treasure and she could outrun a tornado. She was called the pride of the system, down the rails in the spring of 1905 was true, Maddox realized he would lose the Luella, and he would as soon have parted with his right arm. It was in the spring of 1903, also, that Maddox began to have definite sus picions of his wife. That he suspected Tony Polk is not to be doubted. These two things must have worried Bob Maddox a great deal; his little world seemed about to crumble around his ears. Certain it is that he began to spend every spare minute working his engine, taking up brasses reducing lateral, making her as near perfect mechanically as a locomotive can be made. Rumor said that the engines were to be pooled because th« engine crews were not maintaining them. This was a reaction, you might say—his trying to make his engin perfect. His trouble at home was the basis for it. His engine was all he had left, and he wanted to keep her Those who knew him used to won- der when he slept. When he wasn’t out on the road he was working Tony Polk dodged him whenever pos- sible; everyone thought the fireman did this because Maddox was so ui reasonable Tony kept away from Maddox as much as he could, but the reason for this wasn't altogether a distaste for work On March first the Luella failed Maddox rawhided his fireman for the rotten casting. Not a pleasant man to he blamed ev ery b “ly around when soreheaded —this broad shouldered, big-fisted Maddox. Or March second tl ey got a new gu! ie yoke and installed it, but for som« reason they weren't called that night Perhaps Maddox found some other work he wanted to de All this at Townley. And it » at Townley, on the afternoon of March third, that curly-haired Tony Polk spilled every bean in the bag and no less than nine women wrote poems and dedicated same to her. Eighty, Ninety, One Hundred Miles an Hour on the Down Grades; the Cab Floor a Jackstraw in a Typhoon, the Fireman White: Faced, Maddox Sneering, Jeering Tony was at a table in the railroad —— J restaurant, bragging with a couple of switchmen— bragging in a loud Continued on Page 154

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22 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST ee YT @Y UNCER & onDER® The Great Czar Cannon, Weighing 40 Tons, in the Kremiin Arsenal, Moscow HE lithe young man clapped his hands. Out of the mass of humanity in the Kulturpark, a dozen chil- dren joyously followed his call and formed a circle around him. He began to dance, still clapping his hands, llustrating the motions of an old Russian folk dance. Another young man played a folk tune on an accordion. The combination appealed irresistibly to the little ones. Soon the children were followed by their elders, all dancing joy- ously and rhythmically in the afternoon sun. From a near-by circus, where a white-faced clown went through his immemorial ritual, came roars of laughter. It was the only laughter I heard in Moscow. Grown-ups joined in the By George Sylvester Viereck soon chilled her enthusiasm. Now, half starved, she shares one room with two other women equally unfortunate. In constant fear of a drunken workman next door, the three women battle to maintain the semblance of gentility. They are handicapped because they are not proletarians. “You are not,’ I remarked, “‘a member of the Communist Party?” “Oh, no,” she said; “it is very hard to break into that exclusive organization without protec- tion. At this very moment they are expelling thousands of members who fail to register the proper degree of enthusiasm for the Red Interna- tional.” Frightened by her own temerity, she looked around, but there was no one within hearing. “Tf,” she continued, dropping her voice, “I were a member of the party, I would not have to live on a small piece of malodorous sausage, a crust of stale bread and a cup of weak tea.” “But why don’t you go back to England?” I said. “Tf I only could,” she sighed. “I have no money to buy a passport.” “Perhaps I could help to get you a passport.” “Oh, no,” she said helplessly. ‘‘The price of passports for a Russian citizen is prohibitive. I would have to pay two hundred or maybe three hundred rubles. That is more money than I shall have ever again in my life. And even if I could afford to pay for the passport and for the ticket, permission would never be granted to me to leave the country. The government issues no passports to any- one unless it approves of his journey. There must be thou- sands, if not millions, in the same position. We would like to leave, but cannot go. We are prisoners.” " “Prisoners of Utopia!’’ I remarked to myself. December 14, 1929 COPYRIGHT BY UNDERWOOD 4 UNDERWOOD, © ¥ « The King of Bells, Weighing 200 Tons, in the Kremlin even a crust of bread, these prisoners of Utopia wander about, distracted and forlorn, clinging to their icons and to their old clothes. Nevertheless, one by one everything that reminds them of the past goes to the market place where, to escape actual starvation, the old bourgeoisie sells its faded belongings. Secondhand clothes, old corsets, even used toothbrushes may be found in that mart, together with a little chain or an old pair of dancing slippers. They dare not discuss their troubles, even at home. There is no privacy, and if there were, the walls have ears more ears than they had under the Czar. Now and then, maybe, plain men and women come together at a package party, to hilarity of the children. The Russian people have so little to entertain them that they are grateful for every diversion But a pale little woman, shriveled and shabby, standing aside from the crowd, seemed to take no part in the merriment. Her intellectual face, showing traces of beauty as well as refinement, was drawn into haggard lines. I made some remarks to my wife. When she heard us speak Eng- lish, the faded little woman pricked up her ears “You understand a ked English?” I No Passports Issued Bo fav she said, with a slight but perceptible accent. “I lived in England for years as a governess in a rich Russian family. That,” she added with a sigh, ‘‘was in the old aays She stopped short, for fear of say- which each makes some contribution in edibles or in vodka and tea. At these the women discuss old times, always in fear of a raid, always talk- ing in subdued voices, for you never can tell where a secret police spy is hidden. The Chinese Wall - HY,” I asked an official of the Bolshevist Government, **does the Russian Government re- fuse practically all passports to its own citizens?” The official denied the impeach- ment. He admitted that the govern- ment does not encourage travel for luxury or for pleasure. “However, there are, at this mo- ment, no less than 200 Soviet busi- ness men and technicians in the United States to study American conditions. We must restrict travel to men and women whose trips will bring a direct economic or cultural ng too much. “You do not seem to be happy,” I said to her , She eved us suspiciously, but perhaps we passed muster or perhaps her heart was too full for caution. After walk- ing with us a little while, the iciness of her mood dissolved. She became quite confidential. She had lived most of her life in England; it was there that war overtook her. The liberal atmosphere of Great Britain had kindled in her an ardent dislike of Russian ibsolutism. When Lenin proclaimed the new heaven on earth in Russia, she had been stirred to the depth of her being. Returning home, she placed herself at the disposal of the government, which utilized her linguistic ability. But the contrast between reality and her Utopian dream prot SY UNDERWOOD 4 UNDERWOOD, &. ¥. C. Young Women Workers Receiving Instructions in Machine:Gun Warfare Russia will not permit these unfortunates to depart be- cause, telling tales out of school, they would paint an un- favorable picture of Russian conditions. Neither will she permit them to earn enough to keep body and soul to- gether. Russia is interested in the children. She is in- different to the majority of men and women of maturer years. The Bolshevists admit that they despair of the fixed ideas of the old generation. Bolshevism pins its hope on the children. In the meantime it awaits patiently the demise of their elders. Haunted by the feeling that they no longer fit into the world which violates their dignity and begrudges them return.” “What do you charge for pass- ports?” “Foreign travel is a luxury. Luxuries are highly taxed in the U.S. S. R. Since foreign loans are not available, we must use every source of revenue to secure funds for our economic construction and our vast educational tasks.” The cost of a passport in Bolshevist Russia depends on the traveler. Fifty rubles is the price for especially favored classes—workers, students, scientists. Three hundred rubles is the price for persons living on an income “not derived from their personal labor.” Without friends in high quarters, the poor little govern- ess who poured out her heart to me in the Kulturpark would have to pay through the nose for her passport. Her _ fo. aa — ee ee ee oe

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_—— _ ~ trip would not be encouraged. In fact, her application for a passport would meet with refusal. Except for a favored few, those who dwell under the Soviet hammer, the sickle and the star are as securely incarcerated as if they were convicts carrying a ball and chain. No Asiatic despotism is more anxious to isolate its peo- ple. Under the Romanoffs, for all their autocracy, the face of Russia was turned toward the west. Under Bolshevism, Russia turns her face eastward. “Welcome, fellow Asiatic,” Stalin, the Bolshevist dictator, greeted a visitor from Japan. Bolshevism deliberately abandoned St. Pe- tersburg, which embodies the yearning of Russia to achieve western culture, for Moscow. Under the Bolshevist rule the capital of Peter the Great, now named in honor of Lenin, is slowly dying, except for those relics which the Bolshevists, with a keen historical sense, are turning into museums for purposes of their own. The Kremlin, with its golden spirals that dominate the Bolshevist capital, is Asiatic, not European. Not so many centuries ago the Manchurian invader ruled over Russia. To this day the remnants of a Chinese wall may be seen in Moscow. The Chinese wall THE SATURDAY RAAT NWA ERE REAM Se. tS EVENING POST 23 The world was astonished toseethe son of asmall coun- try squire, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, enthroned in the Kremlin, the mystical master of Russia. But the secret becomes clear if one studies hisfeatures. Hespent the larger part of his life in Siberian prisons and in Swiss cafés, squabbling over fine points of communist doc- trine, but in his heart Lenin was an Asiatic despot. Sta- lin, though lacking the genius of Lenin, is made in a similar mold. Stalin is a Czar with the panoply of Bol- shevism. Unlike his prede- cessor, the new dictator is is breaking down, but the Bolshevists are building a new Chinese wall around Russia. If the walls of Troy rose to music, the walls of Russia rise to the chant of com- munism. Lenin imprisoned the Russian people behind the magic wall in order to con- struct his Marxist Utopia without dis- turbance from within or without. Many Utopias have been dreamed by dreamers and statesmen since Plato and Sir Thomas More, but here is the first attempt to translate such fantasy into reality on a gi- gantic scale. The Bolshevik Oligarchy HE Russian wall is not entirely meta- physical, for it is buttressed by Bolshe- vist bayonets. Soviet Russia is a huge fortress, occupying 8,336,864 square miles, with over 160 races and tongues. All Sha Workers in a Sewing: Machine Factory Being Taught How to Handte the New Gas Masks Against Poisonous Fumes him the rule of the Soviet state, prefer to hide, surrounded by armed guards, in the Kremlin. They, too, are prisoners in their own Utopia. The Kremlin itself, with its nineteen turrets rising on a terraced height fifty yards above the River Moskva, is a fortress surrounded by a wall a mile in circumference The Kremlin's golden turrets reflect moonlight and sunlight. Its palaces and churches, spread in Oriental confusion, dominate the capital. Each of the churches raises five domes like five arms to heaver The tallest, in the center, stands for Jesus, the four smaller ones symbolize the four OA gospels. The most imposing church is the Russia is a prison. Now and then, the gates of the fortress open for a sally upon the enemy territory without. Now and then, the drawbridge is lowered to receive the machinery and experts from other lands. But the sole object of obtaining the machinery is to isolate Russia still more, to make her completely inde- pendent of other nations. Now and then, a scout is released to bring information from the world without to his Bol- shevist masters. But the 150,000,000 people of Russia, like the faded little governess in the Kulturpark, are pris- oners of Utopia. Only an Asiatic brain could conceive such a prison. Young Members of the ‘‘Comsomol'’ Wearing Gas Masks in the Monster Anti:Imperialistic Demonstration not Russian but Georgian. Georgia has been under the rule of the Czars for less than 150 years. Nowa Georgian rules all Russia, even as a Corsican once ruled France. It is doubtful if Stalin would dare to face his people as Napoleon did, even after his return from Elba. Bolshevist leaders rarely appear on the streets, except in swift motor cars. Stalin’s black hair and black mustache are not even seen in the Kremlin except by his intimates. Stalin and the eight other Bolshevist oligarchs who nominally share with I PHOTOS. BY UNDERWOOD & UNDERWOOD A Group of Pioneers Marching to Work. The Greatest and Most Popular Organization in Russia Today is the So-Called ‘‘Pioneers’ Army."’ It is Composed of Russia's Youth Who Have Been Trained to Work in the Fieid With the Same Spirit of Zest and Enthusiasm of Soldiers Marching to Defend Their Fatheriand - edifice erected by Ivan the Terrible. After the architect had completed his task, the Czar asked him, “ Do you think you could devise another masterpiece as perfect as this?” When the artist joyfully replied, “‘ Yes,"’ the despot put out his eyes. He did not want a structure of equal mag nificence to be raised anywhere else in the world The Communist Party, upon which the rule of the Soviet Government rests, embraces less than one-half of 1 per cent of the total population of Russia. The membership of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union is 1,529,280 More than half are members on probation. This reduces still further the number of actual members. About 460,- 000 workers, 140,000 state officials, 90,000 peasants and 17,000 representing divers occupations, constitute the actual membership. No one is permitted to become a member of the party who is not regarded as “morally fit to be a communist.” He is subjected to a rigid examination in the gospel of Marx and Lenin, which someone, not inaptly, called the Old and the New Testament of Bolshevism. He must give evidence of unusual intelligence and skill as a propagandist Another qualification is atheism For the Good of the Party HOUGH every member of the Communist Party has a job, the salaries are low and the duties exacting. “‘ Party members,” the statistical director of an important Soviet bureau explained to me, “are regarded as the shock trooy of the advance. Politically, the party is subjected per odically to a weeding-out process in which members neg lecting their extra civic duties are removed. Part; members convicted of illegal acts receive sterner penaltic than ordinary citizens.” The Bolshevist spokesman cited the case of a part) member—an engineer educated abroad before the revolu tion, now technical director of a large plant in Moscow “His schedule for extra professional party work takes up It consists largely of on an average five nights a week technical lectures to train workers for more highly skilled jobs. For this work he receives no pay. His wife, a high grade English translator, earns more moriey than he.’ The gentleman may be a good engineer, but he would not be permitted to hold his job on that account if he were not a good communist as well, “a soldier nomic or cultural front of Bolshevism."" Party regularity is more important than efficiency 1 the eco- Continued on Page 175

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re 24 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST SIZZLING SADIE of Aleck Champagne’s Jazzphony Orchestra, was on pleasure bent. He sat behind the wheel of his rickety little car and directed a speedy and crazy course along the broad expanse of Twenty-third Street, pausing at length before a dis- tinctly medest home, the unpretentiousness of which was shadowed by a great oak. Before alighting, Professor Champagne produced a pocket comb and a tiny mirror. For perhaps three minutes he busied himself with the task of overcoming in some small degree the obvious oversight of Mother Nature. Aleck was long on music, but short on beauty. He was of medium height, but his loose-jointed slouch gave an impression of length. His very best suit of navy blue fitted him about a week too late. Beneath a flow- ered waistcoat he wore a stiff-bosomed shirt, and he also sported a celluloid collar and an amazing necktie. On his bulletlike head was a derby hat which originally had been black, but was now alarmingly rusty. The professor passed through the swing- ing gate, mounted two steps to the veranda, and rapped on the door. It was opened by a buxom woman of uncertain years who stared unhappily into the gloom. “Well,” she questioned, “‘who is it, an’ what is you dein’ heah?”’ The caller made a low bow. “I is Professor Champagne,” he an- nounced with dignity. “‘An’ I has come fo’ Miss Ester Babble.” The face of the respectable boarding-house landlady was wreathed in smiles and her manner became excessively cordial. “Oh, it’s you, professor? Come right in. Miss Ester will be ready in a minute.” In the tiny combination dining and living room the professor waited. Within five min- utes a vision appeared—a full-blown and ravishing young colored woman whose gown was of cerise and whose manner was ex- tremely cordial. She advanced to the pro- fessor with one hand outstretched. “You is heah early, Aleck.” “| ain't,” he returned promptly. “But even if I was, I reckon any feller would want to be when he had a date with you.” “Oh, Aleck! Always you is th’owin’ com- pliments so promiscuous.” “They is all true, Ester. Good-lookin’ is the one thing you ain't nothin’ else but.” She stared rapturously at the emaciated little musician. “Where at is we gwine tonight, Aleck?” “Wherever you say.” “T say whatever you say.” “Well,” he suggested, “how about a fried chicken dinner an’ a li'l’ dancin’ at Epic Peters’ roadhouse?”’ “Oh, honey, them is the fondest things I is of.” “Fine. Le’s go.” He shifted the derby hat to his right hand and ostentatiously crooked his left elbow. She took his arm and they walked through the front door. The landlady gazed after them delightedly. What a couple! Professor Champagne was Birmingham’s most foremost colored orchestra leader; and the pulchritudinous Ester Babble was reputed to have a great future ahead of her with the Midnight Pic- tures Corporation, Inc. Thus far Miss Ester had been allotted only unimportant réles, but every- body knew that both President Orifice R. Latimer and Production Manager J. Cesar Clump had praised her work unstintedly. The budding romance was the talk of Birmingham’s dusky society set. Until the advent of Miss Babble, the professor had been regarded as a confirmed misogynist. But his fall had been sudden and complete. All day, every day, he mooned about whatever set was the scene of her professiona! activity, and it was apparent to everyone save P= ALECK CHAMPAGNE, owner and director the dazzled Aleck that Ester was far from averse to his attentions. Of course she wasn’t in love with him. Not yet, at any rate. But even the humble Aleck was inclined to believe that if nothing disturbed the serene progress of his ardent courtship, success might eventually crown his efforts. wi " Ge a es one eae : gin “I Reckon You is Right, Aleck. A Dead Musician Ain't Hardly No Good A:tall, is He?*’ Wherefore, he made haste slowly and reveled in his prox- imity to the fair lady who, at this late date, had swept him from his feet. Ester herself was in doubt. Once in the not too distant past she had fancied herself enamored of a colored gentle- man, and the affair had resulted in much misery. Even yet, Miss Babble could not think of Albany White without a shudder of apprehension. He had been dictatorial, in- considerate and somewhat rough. His courtship had been of the caveman variety, and Ester knew that she didn’t like TLLVUSTRATED J. December 14,1929 By Octavus Roy Cohen GoutnbDb it, and for that reason Aleck’s shy diffidence was his great- est asset. Anything that marked him as different from Ester’s former fiancé was certain to appeal to the lady. The professor escorted his girl friend to the curb, helped her into his unpretentious automobile, climbed in beside her, pressed the starter and clattered off toward the south. Being absorbed in the delight of her presence, he did not see something which was happening under the big oak tree which shaded Ester’s boarding house. From the shadow of that tree a large ana vindictive colored gentleman emerged. In the half light he looked no smaller than a respectable mountain, and a close observer would have seen readily enough that he was in the grip of a powerful emotion. As a matter of fact, Albany White was racked by jealousy. Not yet had he succeeded in banishing affec- tion for Ester from his heart, and his brief period as her fiancé had served only to plunge him more hopelessly in love. And now, tonight, he had watched her walking from the veranda of her boarding house on the arm of another man—a man whose name had been linked pub- licly with hers. Albany frothed with fury. For a few seconds he stared after the de- parting car. Then he leaped down the street, turned the corner, and jumped into the driv- er’s seat of a rented automobile. Three seconds later he was in hot pursuit of the happy couple. Less than thirty minutes after that, Mr. White’s car returned to the house where Miss Ester Babble boarded, and Miss Bab- ble stepped out. Her body was shaken with sobs and quivering with anger. She shook a puny fist in the face of her mammoth ex- fiancé. “Y-y-y-you was brutal!” she cried. “‘Fumadiddles!” “You was! Beatin’ up a man half yo’ size.” “’Tain’t my fault Aleck couldn’t grow no larger. An’ anyway, what right has he got takin’ my gal out joy ridin’?”’ “T ain’t yo’ gal.” “Says you! Wasn’t we engaged?” “Was ain’t is!” ““Maybe not, Ester. But so long as I has got two fists, you ain’t gwine git engaged to nobody else but me. "Cause ev’y man you go with, Ise gwine do him wuss than I did Aleck tonight.” “Oh, Albany, that ain’t fair.”’ “Maybe not,” he admitted grimly. “But the most thing I is about you is crazy, an’ I ain’t gwine stand back an’ see you commit matrimony with some half-baked, dried-up, no-’count li’l’ shrimp like Aleck Cham- pagne.”’ She tossed her head. “‘ Maybe he ain’t no big brute like you, but he’s got a soul. An’ he’s a gemmun.” ~ “Yeh? An’ I reckon that he’ped him to- night when I busted him in the eye, didn’t it? I don’t know nobody easier to lick than a gemmun. ’Most always they don’t know nothin’ about fightin’.”’ She shook her head. “T an’ you is th’oo, Albany. I don’t do nothin’ but hate you—an’ I do that plenty. You better had leave me alone.” “So had Aleck. An’ if he don’t he’s gwine wake up some mawnin’ countin’ lily roots.” She swept into the house and flung herself across the bed in a paroxysm of weeping. Meanwhile, Albany White traveled down- town to Sally Crouch’s Cozy Home Hotel for Colored. He took a chair in the lobby and waited. Ten minutes later a human wreck appeared. Professor Aleck Champagne looked as though he had lost a spirited argument with Fate. His clothes were torn, his shirt bosom ripped, his celluioid collar completely absent, and one eye was more than half closed. He did not see his nemesis as he lurched across the lobby, obtained his key and staggered up the stairs to his room. But when, less than a minute later, the door opened and Albany entered, the professor backed into a corner and eyed the big man in terron

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“Git out of heah!” quavered. “Who says?” “TI—I’ll call the law.” “Yeh? An’ when the law finishes with me, I'll finish with you.” Aleck Champagne dropped into a chair and clutched an aching forehead in two trem- bling hands. “Oh, Albany,” he moaned, “‘you sho’ has treated me un- kind.” “Yeh? An’ what I done to you tonight ain’t on’y a sample of what you git less’n you keep away fum my gal.” “But Ester ain’t yo’ gal.” “She is.” “But she tol’ me ——” “She don’t know nothin’ about it. An’ even if sheain’t my gal, she ain’t gwine be nobody else’s. Git this, Aleck, an’ git it straight. Ise crazy *bout Ester an’ I don’t pre- pose to stan’ back an’ do nothin’ while some half-cooked piece of tripe like you tries to make ma’iage with her.” “Y-you mean ev’y time I go out with her you is gwine beat me up?” “I don’t mean nothin’ else.” “Oh, whoa is me!” “But otherwise, Aleck, you is safe. An’ what I has said about you goes fo’ ev’ybody else. I want Ester.” “She says you ain’t gwine git her. She hates you.” “Maybe so, an’ maybe not. But until she is married to somebody else, I ain’t gwine give up hope.” “Oh, Lawsy! Ain’t you got no kindness in yo’ heart?” “Not a smitch. All I come up heah fo’ was to warn you. Fum now on Ise gwine be on the watch, an’ does you even he “Ise Crazy Bout Ester an’ I Don't Prepose to Stan’ Back an’ Do Nothin'’’ THE SATURDAY EVENING POST walk down the street with Ester Babble, you better have lots of liniment an’ co’t plaster in yo’ pockets, ’cause, brother, you is sho’ly gwine need ’em.” Theevil-visaged Mr. White walked through the door and slammed it behind him. Aleck, torn with agony and doubt, stared at the oak panels. “That feller,” he anathe- matized, “is abolutely an- noying.” The skinny little musician rang for cracked ice and bus- ied himself with many thoughts. He was halfway between the devil, whom he didn’t like, and the deep sea, in which he was unable to swim. “They ain't but two things I can do,” he mourned, “an’ bofe of them is wrong.” Aleck adored Ester Babble, but dared not court her on pain of becoming a mayhe- mee. Yet he desired to marry the fair young lady. He had a profound hunch that once Ester married him, even so obtuse and stubborn a person as Albany might realize that he didn’t have a chance, and would therefore refrain from committing chronic assault and battery. But Aleck’s courtship had not yet reached the point where he could suggest immediate matrimony with any hope of success. He knew that he was popular with Ester, but certainly she would demand more of his time and attention before committing herself to his care for the balance of her natural life. All through a dreary and pain-filled night, Aleck tossed on his bed. It was not until the first gray finger of dawn emerged from the blackness of night that an idea came to 25 him. It came suddenly, and the professor sat up straight in bed, his eyes shining triumphantly. “Pot ziggity dam!" said he. Then, as an afterthought: “If on’y Ester is willin’.” He reached the Midnight lot at nine o'clock. Miss Bab- ble, cast in the réle of flapperette in the current production, rushed to meet him. “Aleck,” she cried, “was you hurt?” He blinked. “Didn't it sort of look that way to you, honey?” “Oh, Aleck! Albany was plumb crue! ashamed of him.” “Well,” myse’f.” She pressed his hand warmly. “Us ain't gwine pay no tention to that big brute nohow, is we?” “Hmph! What you mean, we?” “T an’ you. We is gwine out together same as always.” “No, ma’am. Maybe you is goin’ out together, but I ain't. If I takes two mo’ trips like I took with you las’ night, I would suddenly become extinct, an’ same is some- thin’ I don’t hahdly crave.” “TI reckon you is right, Aleck. hardly no good a-tall, is he?” “None. Or even less than that.” “Ise crazy "bout you, gal.” “Oh, Mistuh Champagne.” “Call me professor.” “Oh, professor! You ain't really crazy, is you?” “Tis. Plumb goofy.” “‘Ain’t you the complimentin’est man!” “T mean it. An’ what I crave to know, honey, is this Does you in any way ‘ciprocate my defection?” She hesitated and blushed. “‘ We-e-ell, I like you heaps.” “But you don’t love me?” “T ain't said I don’t,” “But Ise askin’ you: Does you does or does you don’t? “1 don’t know, Aleck—an’ tha’s the Lord's troof.” “You ain’t in love with nobody else?”’ ; “Nos-suh.” “Promise?” “Cross my heart.” I was downright he confessed, “I wasn’t so proud of him A dead musician ain't e lowered his voice. He | i} (Continued on Page 106) Webster Fingered the Introductory Chord, Professor Champagne Scraped the First Notes From His Violin, and Sam Gin Tremoloed His Saxophone

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26 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14, 1929 Coleman, Giving Fleabit His Head, Turned in the Saddie and Opened on His Pursuers With His Rifle in an Effort to Retard Them vil T IS reported that when Daniel Boone first stood | in the passes of the Cumberlands and looked down upon the lovely valleys of Kentucky, swarming with great herds of bison, he said to his companions, “T am richer by far than the man in the Scriptures who owned the cattle on a thousand hills, for I own the wild cattle of more than a thousand valleys.” As in the West the buffaloes laid out trails that traversed the prairies and disappeared in the sky, so in Kentucky their countless hoofs had laid out broad roads. “ Buffalo traces,” the pioneering settlers termed these beaten high- ways. And it was over these traces, laid out ir advance for them by the shaggy herds, that the settlers advanced into the wilderness of Kentucky and won it from savagery. The vast bison herds of Kentucky at first were believed to be inexhaustible. But the white men took a heavy toll. In a surprisingly short span of time the herds had been thinned out in Eastern Tennessee and Kentucky, Ohio, Western Pennsylvania, West Virginia and the broad sa- vannas of Western Georgia. The countless buffaloes of the Illinois prairies were next to suffer, and somewhere round 1830 the buffalo was believed to be extinct throughout all of its former great range everywhere east of the Mississippi River. There were left then the countless millions of the shaggy legion that ranged from the plains of Texas to the Canadian prairies almost to Great Slave Lake, from the Mississippi to the high mountain meadows of the Rockies and in some places beyond that great divide. But long prior to 1830 the white men had begun their dead!y work upon the Western herds. The first of that famous little group of men who became known as North- men-—Alexander Henry, Thompson, Peter Pond, and, lightly later, McKenzie, Frazer, Peter Ogden and others By HAL G. EVARTS ILLUSTRATED BY W. H. D. equally prominent in the annals of the Northwest Com- pany—had penetrated far to the north and west to estab- lish a trading post in 1775 or thereabouts, which later became known as Edmonton, Alberta. The records left behind by those early voyageurs por- trayed a picture of animal life in such abundance that even the African game fields scarce could equal it. In addition to the limitless herds of buffalo and antelope, great bands of deer and elk were everywhere in evidence on the prairies. Bears rambled unafraid across the open country. It was no unusual occurrence for a party of voyageurs to kill from three to a dozen bears in a day’s journey, if so inclined. There is reason to believe that round 1800, in addition to the regular trade in furs and swan skins, kegs of pickled tongues constituted at least a small item of commerce. Shortly thereafter the American fur brigades pressed on to scour the West. They, too, took heavy toll of the herds. Then more than a quarter of a century of robe trading had accounted for millions of the shaggy brutes. The trade with Santa Fé, the settlers swarming into Texas and East- ern Kansas, Iowa and the length of the Missouri River, hunters for the emigrant trains to Oregon and California, subsequent bull-train travel throughout the West, the nu- merous mining camps, overland stage and pony express stations and military posts—all had tended to reduce the numbers of the buffalo legions. And now the Kansas Pacific, pushing westward across Kancas, hired hunters to supply the grading and construction camps with meat. KOERNER The buffaloes still were believed to be inexhaust- ible. But Breck Coleman was firmly of the opinion that there was not one buffalo remaining for every four that had roamed the plains in his early youth. The remaining herds were diminishing rapidly. The robe trade had died, so of course the tremendous killing for robes had ceased. That would tend to offset the killing done by settlers and meat hunters. It would be a long time be- fore the buffalo disappeared. Not in his lifetime, Coleman thought. If by any chance they did disappear, his occupa- tion as a professional hunter would pass out with the buffalo. To what could he then turn for a livelihood? Cows, he thought. He had paid but little heed to all the talk of wealth to be derived from bringing Texas cows up to range on the prairies. But the sight of a big trail herd destined for the Dakota country had fired his imagination. Some day he would turn stockman. It would take money, though. However, he already had a considerable credit balance with a dozen or more stores and trading companies. He knew nothing of banking. When he sold his catch of furs— or formerly, before the robe trade had died, the buffalo robes he had secured from the Indians as an independent trader—to some trading company, he simply took such trade goods as he needed and left his credit balance on deposit. He could raise a sizable sum by collecting those various balances. He’d go on hunting and make as much more as was necessary. Then, when he felt inclined to change occupations, he would be prepared. He had been meat hunting for the new mining camp of Denver. But so many impoverished gold seekers had taken to hunting as a means of securing a grub stake that the market had been oversupplied. Coleman could never be certain of selling a load of meat after he had hauled it into camp. He had moved toward the south and east, therefore, A ne eer ene

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 27 intending eventually to view for himself those Texas trail herds that were arriving at Central Kansas points. He traveled with his two wagons, each drawn by four mules, the reins of the second rig handled by Dick Conley, who had hired out to Coleman as helper in wolfing and meat-hunting operations at a flat sum of five dollars a day. Just prior to sundown they made a halt on the prairie and cooked a meal. Half an hour after darkness had settled they hitched up and drove on for some five or six miles before stopping for the night. This as a precaution against being located and surprised by any prowling hostiles who might have seen the smoke of their cook fire. This was dangerous country. There was a hundred-mile-wide strip of country from round Fort McPherson on the Platte, stretching south across the Republican and past Fort Wallace on the Smoky Hill, including the Arkansas country from west of Fort Dodge eastward to Fort Larned, and on south to the Cimarron and the Washita that was known to many plainsmen under the general name of the war-road country. From time immemorial both northern and southern plains tribes, when at war, had traversed that strip in raiding one another’s country. There was peace among the tribes now. They had buried the hatchet among them- selves. Sioux, Kiowas, Arapahoes, Comanches and the Northern and Southern Cheyennes still traveled the war- road country in visiting back and forth. When war parties of any of those tribes traversed that stretch nowadays, it was for the purpose of harrying the whites. But the tribes were quiet now. However, none knew better than Coleman that they would take to the warpath unex- pectedly when they did go out again. And that wouldn’t be long, likely. Coleman did not believe in taking un- necessary chances with the red men. On the second morning thereafter, he and Conley having made camp in the vicinity of a big buffalo herd, he started out on a meat hunt. Working up into the wind, he came first to the great herd bulls that always were to be found on the outskirts. But it was meat that Coleman wanted, and these stringy old bulls were unfit for food. He worked his way up a ravine and presently came within range of a group of fifty or more cows, calves and yearlings. The wind was right and before firing the first shot he made careful preparations by placing a hundred or so of the big Sharp cartridges in a row on the edge of the ravine. Resting the buffalo gun on his hat, which he had pressed down over the fresh earth of a gopher mound, he drew a careful bead behind the shoulder of a cow something more than a hundred yards away. He heard the impact of the heavy ball. The cow went down in a heap. The buffalo nearest her peered about in all directions, but could see no enemy. Only Coleman's head showed above the bank of the ravine. The blood scent excited the animals and they drew near to inspect the stricken cow. One young bull lowered his head and gored her carcass. Another cow dropped as a slug from the big Sharp struck her behind the shoulder. The group of buffaloes could see no enemy, the wind carried no tidings of danger to their nostrils, and their stupidity was such that they failed to connect the distant reports with the casualties among their number as one after another fell prey to the sharp- shooter in the ravine. The herd milled stupidly and Cole- man, firing rapidly, but accurately, dropped nineteen animals almost in their tracks with the big buffalo gun. Then a cow, slightly wounded, rushed madly away at the impact of the bullet. The panic was communicated to the rest of the herd. The remaining animals stampeded in the wake of the running cow. Other near-by groups be- came alarmed and ran in the same direction. Coleman did not bother to cross to his victims. Instead he returned to his horse, mounted and crossed a prairie ridge into the next valley. The buffaloes there were un- alarmed and he soon repeated his performance, killing twenty-three cows and yearlings from one stand. He rode back to the scene of his former operations and found Conley there with the wagons, already engaged in dressing out the kill. The two men took only the hind quarters and a section of the back of each animal, leaving the foreparts for the wolves. Having dressed out and loaded the meat, they repaired to the scene of the second kill. Then Coleman headed on toward Fort Wallace on the Smoky Hill route that led through Northern Kansas to the new mining camps of Colorado. There he disposed of his meat at the prevail- ing price of five dollars a saddle, which included the hind quarters and back of a buffalo. A few days later he disposed of another load in Pond City, the settlement that had sprung up a few miles from Fort Wallace. Moving eastward along the Smoky Hill stage route, he encountered the outfits of many gold seekers, their prairie schooners bearing the legend Pike's Peak or Bust. He sold some little meat at various over- land stage stations along the trail, disposed of a full load of forty-odd saddles in Fort Hays and another in Hays City, a mile or more north of the fort. He found a ready market. The camp was buzzing with excitement over a coming sporting event that had been widely heralded on the plains. William Cody, formerly scout, freighter, overland stage driver and pony express rider for the great firm of Majors, Russel & Waddel, had hired out to the Kansas Pacific Railroad contractors to provide the construction camps with buffalo meat. So successful had Cody been in this pursuit that the rail- roaders had bestowed upon him the title of Buffalo Bill. William Comstock, noted scout and frontiersman, was a favorite among Army officers on the plains, particularly round Fort Wallace in the war-road country. They insisted that if there was to be a Buffalo Bill on the plains, Com- stock should have the title. Their partisans had induced the two principals to stage a match. The Kansas Pacific had advertised the event and booked excursionists from as far east as St. Louis. Coleman decided to attend. Wild Bill Hickok, Sharp Grover and Coleman rode to Sheridan, where the contest was to be staged. Coleman found a vast concourse of people in Sheridan. Bets were running high. He was desirous of placing a wager, but could not decide which contestant to back. He had known Cody when the latter (Continued on Page 80) Two Men Rode the Points to Guide the Leaders

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28 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST FOUNDED A‘D‘ 1728 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY INDEPENDENCE SQUARE PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA, U.S.A. GEORGE HORACE LORIMER, EDITOR tn the United States and Possessions, Five Cents the Copy; $2.00 the Year— 52 issues. Remittances by Postal Money Order, Express Money Order or Check. ia C to and Mout diana (incledi $3.00 the Year—52 issues—Cansdian or U. S. Funds. in Continental Europe end the British Isles, $6.00 the Year—52 issues. in Argentina, Bolivie, Brazil, Chite, Colombia, Costa Rica, Cubs, Dominican Republic, Ecuador, Guatemela, Haiti, Isle of Pines, Mexico, Nicaragua, Paneras, Paraguay, Pe. wu, Republic of Hond: Salvador, Uruguay and \ eneruela, $6.0¢ the Year—42 issues. in all other Foreign Countries, $10.00 the Year—52 issues. Remittances fror outside U. S. and Canada by Postal or Express Money Order or by Draft on « bank in the U. S., payable in U. S. Funds. Sehend ), Ten Cents the Copy; PHILADELPHIA, DECEMBER 14, 1929 Back to Work ITH ali its rich and natural resources, this country could never have become great if the successive generations had been afraid of hard work or had discovered a substitute for honest toil. The frontiersman and his wife worked with their hands from morning until night, and if many of their descendants devote shorter hours to office and business, they match their ancestors’ physical exertions with equal or greater mental pains. Under modern condi- tions, the country needs a thousand and one varieties of technical, supervisory, specializing and organizing workers, because the multitude of tasks to be done piles up not only swiftly as far as mere volume and numbers are concerned but in ever greater complexity and difficulty. It is un- thinkable that in such an age there should be loafers and parasites amo: g those who have the physical, moral and mental qualities to work at all. There is too much to be done for any man or woman to seek a substitute for work. So, whatever joss or injury came from the slump in stock prices, there is sure to be benefit if more people are com- pelled to go back to their jobs. The morale of the country was threatened by the concentration of so many upon what they called their investments rather than upon what they could accomplish in business and the professions. We are the last to decry the efforts of men and women to increase their means by judicious purchase of inherently valuable securities. But there must be proportion and reason in all things. To suppose that throngs in all walks of life and in all sections of the country could quite suddenly shift their major interest from the duties and tasks which had en- gaged most of their lives to the process of making quick fortunes out of stock quotations, without bringing a ter- rible reckoning in its train, is absurd. We cannot live without a sense of balance or relationship. It is all very well to profit from the enhancement in one’s investments, but obviously this is far less important than having am occupation which satisfies one’s sense of accom- plishment. Only a dunce supposes there is any substantial gain individually or collectively in procuring wealth with- out a correspending contribution to society. Making one’s living in the stock market looked so much easier for a while than making it in one’s own occupation. To most individ- uals this would mean moral deterioration if carried on THE SATURDAY EVENING POST long enough, and if sufficient individuals should attempt it, there would be no one left to do the work of the world. After all, people could not keep on making money in stocks unless other people were working day and night to make the properties back of the stocks of value. To try to live off the values which other men are creating, when they, too, are attempting to do the same thing, is the last word in logical absurdity. Here is a case for reason and moderation. Ambitious business leaders should not give up the idea of rounding out their enterprises through mergers if there are real econ- omies to be effected. But such combinations cannot be based on inflated prices if the prices are deflated. Corpo- rations should not give up the idea of interesting officials and employes in their stock. But if these men become so interested in the stock that they fail to give the best they have to their employers, then the scheme fails of its very purpose. The public will be foolish if it turns sharply against common stocks as investments. They play a part in building competences and fortunes. But all the wealth we have rests upon unremitting toil, which depends in turn upon many contributions of routine drudgery, manual and technical skill, organization and planning. If we are to increase the wealth we have, or even to maintain it, there can be very few slackers in this joint enterprise. The Tariff Issue HE prolonged wrangle in the Senate over tariffs is most to be regretted if it has added in any way to fric- tion or misunderstanding between the industria] East and the agricultural West. We cannot believe that the interests of the two sections are as far apart as many political speeches would indicate. It is difficult to see how en- lightened industrialists can fail to take into reckoning the needs and problems of agriculture. On the other hand, the farmers’ chief market is in this country, and as far as can be seen, industry must have protection if the integrity of the home market is to be maintained. Jealousy of Eastern wealth will not promote the interests of the West, nor will the attempt to erect political realignments on the basis of agrarian discontent. But the special session of Congress was called by Presi- dent. Hoover primarily in behalf of agriculture. It ill be- hooves rich, densely populated and highly industrialized Eastern states to make exorbitant demands for higher duties. Protection is quite generally agreed to be a desir- able policy, but rates so high as to constitute embargoes upon foreign goods, which give the domestic manufacturer an exclusive monopoly, are in rather a different category. Protective tariffs are to give domestic industries a fair chance and something more, but not to stamp out every suggestion of foreign competition. Home industries should be encouraged, but not given every privilege which the most grasping lobbyist asks for. When Congress revises tariffs, no matter how great the ability of its members or how eager their desire to serve the public welfare, there is sure to be injected no end of greedy sectional trading as well as outright playing of poli- tics. Because of this condition, both parties agreed some years ago to the appointment of a Tariff Commission by the President, this commission to recommend to the Presi- dent the advance or reduction of duties to the extent of fifty per cent of those already set by Congress. The Presi- dent was given the power either to promulgate or veto the recommendations. Such a commission should, in theory at least, be of great help to the Congress in providing emergency relief between the periodical revisions by Congress itself. Whether the commission has actually proved itself scientific and impartial is a matter of extreme difference of opinion. Certainly the principle or idea of a flexible provision in the hands of an expert body in con- tinuous session is a good one, and we are inclined to feel that the practical consideration of getting results renders it desirable that the commission report to the President. But no such device will command confidence in the long run unless the expert body displays real impartiality. The purpose, of course, is not to satisfy every demand for an increase in rates. Eastern industries have not been the only offenders. What is needed in the tariff situation is December 14, 1929 not only a spirit of sectional compromise, with less jealousy on the part of the West and less hoggishness on the part of the East, but a sense of decent moderation all around. The Day’s Work HE widely held impression is that business is an in- and-out affair and that the first duty of a keen business executive is to watch for signs forecasting bad business, and act accordingly. But a great many signs of bad business have been playing false. In point of fact, although the business in any one locality or in any one industry may fluctuate considerably, the total volume of business in the country increases slowly and steadily. A certain number of companies and even of industries are always on their way out, but at the same time others are on their way in. Carl Snyder, of the Federal Reserve Bank, has plotted in a single curve more than two hundred elements which give a fair cross-section of our whole economic life. This curve shows that the whole business of the country has in- creased for many years at a uniform rate of about four per cent a year and that the volume has varied almost negligibly during the periods which have been cailed “depressed” and the periods which have been called “‘prosperous.”” He finds that many of our notions concerning the progress of busi- ness have been due to giving too much weight to financial conditions in Wall Street, to pig-iron production and to key industries. The actual distinction between periods of prosperity and periods of depression seems to lie more in the point of view than in the actual conditions. Somewhat involuntarily the country seems to have ad- justed itself to the facts of business through the pressure of what once was known as hand-to-mouth buying. In the old days merchants and manufacturers speculated on what people ought to buy, instead of selling them what they would buy. Thus business alternated between periods of hopeful buying and despairing selling. Now production is fairly adjusted to consumption, and wise business men no longer raise prices in the hopes of making a clean-up. Lately we have had a smash in the prices of securities due not to any business or credit condition but as a sequel to wild speculation. The mere fact that we could have had such a wave of speculation is evidence of the splendid pros- perity of the country; for otherwise people would not have had the money with which to speculate. For several years the public bought securities regardless of their value, in the hope of reselling them at a higher price. Gradually over several months the hopes of reselling at a higher price les- sened, and then in one week they abandoned hope and sold as they had bought—regardless of value. How much money they lost in all this will never be known. The paper losses far exceed the money losses, and in casting the national balance sheet it must also be re- membered that for every seller there was also a buyer. The condition of industry was not the reason for the smash. Some of the corporations whose stock went begging for buyers were at the very time declaring dividends which early in the year would have caused buyers to beg for the stock. Those who lost money in the stock market will for a while have a diminished purchasing power, but those who won—and they are not saying anything—will have an in- creased purchasing power. What the rich men won or lost does not count, for their purchases have no effect upon the volume of business of the country. But no matter how widespread have been the losses, and taking even the most exaggerated reports, the number of people involved and the amounts of money involved are small compared with the total turnover of business in the country. This volume of business comes from the wage earner and the farmer. The wage earner is at work and drawing good wages. The farm income promises to be higher than it has been for some years. There would appear to be no reason to expect other than a continuance of good business, ex- cept for one fact: the belief of such executives as have lost money in the market that the whole country is poor and disconsolate, just because they happen to be that way. The real business leaders of the country have not, during these past months or any other months, given themselves up to watching ticker tape.

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eo SS TT THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 29 English Prisons—What They are : ce) O, GUV’NOR; Nive: Like didn’t do it!” “We'll see about that,” says the burly constable. “You come along with me.” And at the sight of a pair of steel handcuffs the wretched man whimpers, “All right, guv’nor, I’ll come quiet’’—and together they go off to the nearest police station. He is tried before the magistrate. It may be he is an old and hardened offender, and is sent off to the quarter ses- sions, or to the assizes, where he can have a more severe sentence passed upon him than is possible at the police court, and there he is convicted. It isn’t his first sentence. Here is his record: He first went to prison for a month at the age of seven- teen, in 1909, on a charge of loitering. Between the ages of eighteen and nineteen he served four short prison sen- tences. In 1912, when aged twenty, he appears to have been a bookmaker’s clerk, and in a quarrel, shot and killed the man who was assaulting him. For this he got a sentence of three years’ penal servitude for man- slaughter. In 1916, when he was aged twenty-four and ought to have been in the army, he got a sentence of five years’ penal servitude for assault and attempted rob- bery. Shortly after his release, when aged about twenty- eight, he was imprisoned for drunkenness and damage, and was certified insane, apparently suffering from delirium tremens. In 1922, when aged thirty, he got another sen- tence of five years’ penal servitude for housebreaking. He was allowed out on license in 1926, and at the be- ginning of 1928 he got three years’ penal servitude for malicious wounding. By Lord Brentford —‘Jix” CARTOONS This record is, as a matter of fact, a true one. The man came under my notice at the end of my period of office as Home Secretary for violently assaulting an officer in the prison where he was serving his sentence. This is one of the few crimes for which corporal punishment may be in- flicted in prison; the others being mutiny and incitement to mutiny. These latter are, of course, of very rare occur- rence, but violent attacks on officers are perhaps not quite so rare, although comparatively so. In no case can a flogging be ordered until the case has been investigated and an inquiry held by a board of prison visitors or the official visiting committee of the prison, two members of which must be justices of the peace or magistrates. These prison visitors and visiting committees are appointed by the Home Secretary and are composed of men and women of experience in dealing with crimes and criminals; some of them experienced mag- istrates in the local courts, and all of them P—Lay WATCH YOUR STEP! MERBERT persons of intelligence and éeuses knowledge. But even then these boards cannot order a sentence of flogging until! it has been confirmed by the Secretary of State. It is, of course, a horrible duty; in some ways one of the most hor- rible that I had to perform, because my act was not merely ministerial, it was the decision of a judge from which there was no appeal; in fact, one of my colleagues whom I asked to take over the duties of the Home Office when I had once to go away for a month's complete rest, expreased his will- ingness to do it, but said that under no circumstances could he undertake the mental anxiety of dealing with a case of flogging. Happily, as I say, the cases are rare. In 1927, for in- stance, I had twelve cases, one of which I declined to confirm and another I reduced from twenty-four strokes to eighteen. In 1926 I had, curiously, the same number, but in that year there were circumstances in four cases which induced me to decline to permit the flogging to take place Of course your readers will understand that before this extreme penalty is inflicted, a most careful medical ex- amination is held on the man to find out whether he is mentally and physically a suitable case, and a doctor is always present while the punishment is inflicted. Flogging may, in this enlightened age, seem a barbaric survival which nothing can justify. I would answer that it is justified by its results. In the great majority of cases the punishment is awarded for personal attacks on prison officers, and they are, in my view, entitled to the fullest protection that the law can offer. The purpose of flogging is both punitive and deterrent, and I have never known a prisoner who has suffered corporal

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30 punishment to commit a second time an offense such as will render him liable to the same penalty. Strange as it may seem, the cat has even been known to exercise a re- formative influence. I received a report from Dartmoor that the change effected in a man by twenty-four strokes, which were awarded for gross personal violence to a prison officer, was almost unbelievable. I was told that “what was once a morose brute is now a reasonable human being with unbounded possibilities for good.” However, let us go back a little to find out what hap- pened to the typical prisoner about whom I have written, before he reaches the stage in the last paragraph. It is quite obvious that society is entitled to defend itself against predatory action such as that of burglary, theft, and, even more, against crimes against the person, such as assault with violence, rape and murder. I shall deal later with the improvement and possible redemption of criminals, but, undoubtedly, the very reason for the existence of a police force, the detecticn of crime and the administration of justice is to protect the noncriminal portion of the population. Without this branch of the work of the Home Secretary, one would tremble to think what the conditions of our great cities would be, and the nearer one gets to the certitude of conviction and the sureness of the punishment that follows, the nearer one gets to the abolition of crime in any civilized state. An effective police force and a properly administered prison service are the foundations upon which the civilization of today rests. At New View on Criminal Punishment CRIMINAL may, indeed, be thankful that his crime was not committed a hundred years or more ago. Then, indeed, the prison service was a disgrace to any civilized country. Our prisons then were simply scenes of riot and debauchery; the novice in crime was mixed with the har- dened and abandoned villain, so that the man who once en- tered prison, for however trivial an offense, herded as he was with confirmed jailbirds, was initiated into crimes of which he would never, out of prison, have thought, and would almost inevitably leave prison soaked in wickedness, re- turning to civilization not with a view to amendment or reform but determined to lead the life which ultimately might lead to its forfeit, for in those days the death penalty was given for many crimes of a far less serious nature than murder. It was these dreadful conditions which drove the immortal Howard and his coadjutor, Elizabeth Fry, along the road of reform, and I have been interested, in my study of prison reform, to realize that while Howard was at work in England there was a similar movement afoot in America. It was, I believe, Dr. Benjamin Rush who, in Philadelphia, in 1787, pressed hard the suggestion that the retributive and punitive character of imprisonment should be subordinated to the reformative. This has now been applied in practice. I cannot claim that the change in the prison service is due to myself—it began long before my time—but what I can say is that I have encouraged to the ut- most that alteration in our prison system. To my readers in America, living in forty-eight different states, with the pris- ons matters of local administration and not under the Fed- eral Government at all, it may be remark- able that the respon- sibility for and the direction of every prison in the country are in the hands of one man—the Home Secretary —and that man, as I mentioned in my first article, one who has many THE SATURDAY EVENING POST other subjects with which to deal besides the detection and the punishment of crime. Under the Prison Commissioners, who are appointed by the Home Secretary, who are respon- sible to him, and who have to obey any directions which he may give them, there are now five convict prisons, thirty- two local prisons, five Borstal institutions and two preven- tive detention prisons. The policy of the commissioners was determined by myself. Naturally, if there was any conflict of opinion between them and myself, we used to meet and talk things over; but from the public point of view and that of the House of Commons, I was responsible, and if I were to give way against my better judgment to the view of the Prison Commissioners, or, indeed, to any other branch of any of the services controlled by the Home Secretary, I should be responsible to Parliament and would not be able to shelter myself by saying that the opinion in question was that of the Prison Commissioners, or the Commissioner of Police, as the case might be, because I had the power to make them do as I thought right. Accordingly I de- termined the policy of the Prison Commissioners; I made or approved the appointments to the prison service, and in case of the dismissal of a warder or other official for bribery, trafficking with prisoners or any other serious offense, the matter had to come before me, and my de- cision was final. I remember once the case came before me of a prison governor who had been misappropriating some money. The commissioners advised that he should be dis- missed from the service. It so happened that I had recently visited the prison, had seen the man and formed a poor opinion of him. I had made certain inquiries and found that he had been promoted to a position beyond his capacity, and I came to the conclusion that the mistake was on the part of those who had recommended his pro- motion. Accordingly I declined to dismiss him, but reduced him to the position from which he had been un- suitably promoted. The prisoners’ diet and any alteration in it also came before myself, and in this matter I was helped by my wife, who used from time to time to visit prisons with me; and when I was investigating certain portions of the prison work and discipline, she always went round to the larders and kitchens, and there investigated—indeed, tasted the prisoners’ food, and inquired into the method of cooking it. I naturally wanted to see for myself the sort of diffi- culties with which prison governors had to contend and the life that the prisoners led. I wanted to see what they had to wear, what they ate, what they worked at, and what kind of punishments they underwent; in fact, to see the life of the man from early morning until he was locked up A Criminal May, Indeed, be Thankful That His Crime Was Not Committed a Hundred Years or More Ago December 14, 1929 in his cell at night. It is the thousand and one details which make up a prisoner’s day that are of importance in prison administration. With this object in mind, I visived the convict prisons at Dartmoor and Parkhurst, the local prisons at Maidstone, Pentonville, Dorchester and Man- chester, the women’s prison at Holloway, the remand prison at Brixton, the preventive detention prison at Camp Hill and the Borstal institutions at Portland and Feltham; and I can say without fear of contradiction, and I hope without fear of being misunderstood, that I have spent more time in prison than any previous Home Secretary. The Prison on the Moor F THE prisons I did visit, by far the most impressive is Dartmoor, built a hundred or more years ago to take the unfortunate prisoners of war captured in the Napoleonic wars with France; though I think that Portland, which was a convict prison before it was converted into a Borstal institution, is, in some respects, a close rival. Standing in grim isolation on the height of a wild and desolate moor, Dartmoor prison, seen from outside, seems to dominate the landscape. Once in sight of it, there is no possibility, how- ever fine the day, however clear the sky, however gripping the beauty of the moor, of driving its presence from your consciousness. The hopes, fears, hates of the generations of convicts who have passed long years of their lives there are still vibrant in the air, and they speak so insistently of the tragedies of life as we have made it that the voice of Nature dies in our ears. But once inside the building the impression !s very different; then the moor dominates the prison and all within it; the prison walls may be the boundaries of the convicts’ world, but the moor is the whole of their visible universe. It is curious, too, the different ways in which the moor reacts on different temperaments. One of the prisoners—obviously a man of refinement—was commenting rather than complaining to me of the food. I told him that he couldn’t expect the stat« to supply him with the best moor-fed mutton. At the men- tion of the word “moor” he became almost violent. “T should damned well hope not,” he said. “Anything fed on that ——— moor can stay on it.” There are others who develop for it a quiet affection. It is onto the moor that they will take their first step of freedom and the moor seems to them to be waiting through the years of their confinement to welcome them on release. They see in it not a constant mockery of their captive state but a lasting message of hope. I am thankfui to think that during my term of office there were very few prison riots and very few escapes. And here I should like to pay a well- earned tribute to the prison governors and their staffs. I am convinced that if the prison service were not so admirably manned the tale of disorder would be a far longer one. I have heard the opin- ion expressed that a warder’s job must be a soft one. Nothing is farther from the truth. The strain of constant vigilance, whether against es- cape and the like, or personal attack, of maintaining disci- pline by means other than those which se- cure only a grudging obedience, of oppos- ing a cheerful front to the monotony which the work and in some cases the situation of the prison entail—the strain of these, which by no means consti- tute the whole of a warder’s tasks, makes of his job one of the most ex- acting in the public service. Much of the success of our prison (Continued on Page 140) “|

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32 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST Now Clients Came tin to Teli Us Biuntiy What They Were Going to De and What They Expected Us te De— Sinister Persons With Coldly Sinister Plans ‘a vi 8 SOON as I could get in touch with my burglars I asked them to decide between themselves which should plead guilty in return for a suspended sen- tence, and which should stand trial. Settlement of this question called for expert diplomacy on my part because the two young men had turned traitor to each other immediately after their arrest; when facing what they regard as certain conviction thieves often do, in spite of romantic legends to the contrary. Under my encouragement, however, they renewed their rough-and-tumble friendship and good- naturedly settled the matter by matching coins. Thence- forth, I explained to them, I would be attorney of record only for the one who stood trial. The other would repre- sent himself as having no attorney, which would be reason- able since he was throwing himself upon the mercy of the prosecutor. But I promised to look after him when the appropriate time arrived The case went to trial with three important items of testimony confronting my client. First, there was his own onfession of guilt; second, there was the testimony of his accomplice; third, there was the testimony of the fence who had received the stolen goods. Outside of a court of aw this would have been a formidable case, but in the ourt room it is net incontestable. A confession can be disposed of fairly easily when the defendant repudiates it and swears that it was obtained under duress. Next I excoriated the fence on cross-examination and forced him to refuse to answer more than a dozen questions on the ground that to do so might incriminate him. In fact, I proved such close connection between himself and my client that I could set up the legal point that he was vir- tually an accomplice. Any juror could see, after this cross- examination, that the fence had turned upon the thieves in order to save his own hide. And that was the truth. But what I did to him was only a warm-up for the handling of my other burglar when he took the stand. —* a . ™ “y . .- First, I proved his long criminal record; then I made him tell where he had lived during the preceding two years, and the list of addresses grew and grew until everyone in the court room laughed. He gave thirty-two and admitted that that probs ly wasn’t half. Over and over again I fired at him the charge that he had been promised some- thing in return for his testimony. Under his agreement with the prosecutor he had to say that there was no prom- ise, but he said it weakly. Every indication pointed to such an agreement. And, of course, there was one. However, my client was so covered with guilt that I expected an adverse verdict from the jury in spite of all these efforts; my purpose in making them was to raise the legal point that a man cannot be convicted upon the testi- mony of accomplices unless this testimony is well corrobo- rated by others. I felt sure of reversing the case on appeal, but the terrific pounding I gave the state’s witnesses so damaged them in the eyes of the jurors that my client won an acquittal. Immediately he was arrested and held as a material witness against the lad who had just testified against him. Prosecutor and detectives tried to strengthen their case while I demanded prompt trial. With one client acquitted I could now appear as counsel of record for my other bur- glar. The prosecutor managed to bolster his case a trifle and we went to trial. This case was simply a duplicate of the first except that my two burglars had reversed their roles. The former defendant was now a witness and the former witness was now defendant. If the same jurors had tried both cases they would, no doubt, have found my pro- cedure astounding, for I now gloated over the long criminal recora of my acquitted burglar and utterly broke down the credibility of his testimony. Fortunately a different jury witnessec| this performance. The fence received the same grilling as during the former trial, and my client repudiated his confession, explaining it on the ground that he had been December 14, 1929 By Chester T. Crowell ILLUSTRATED Br ROBERT w. STEWART = threatened. The state's case had been somewhat strength- ened, but it was still entirely inadequate to meet the test of appeal to the higher courts. The jury disagreed. I de- manded a prompt second trial or dismissal. The prosecutor was inclined to let matters stand with the case pending, but the police had gathered more evidence against the fence and now decided to proceed against him. Evidently their agreement with him, whatever it may have been, didn’t hold if his testimony failed to convict my burglars. Or they may have broken their promise; I don’t know. At any rate, in order to clear the way for my second burglar to testify without the embarrassment of an indictment pending against him it was dismissed. As soon as the fence was indicted he sent for me. When I arrived he told me that he had just supplied my burglars with funds to leave the state and remain out of the juris- diction of the court until after his trial. Payment of my fee had left them broke but appreciative, and they were now enjoying a vacation. However, I saw in this new case the opportunity for a marvelous stroke of business so I called them back and informed the prosecutor where they could be found. When the case went to trial both of them testified with delightful frankness that they were burglars, that they had stolen the goods in question, sold it to the fence who was now my client, and that he knew the goods had been stolen because they told him so. They could give this testimony with absolute safety, because they had already been in jeopardy and could not again be arrested for the specific transaction in question. I did not pound them very hard this time because there was no need for it and I had a deeper plan. My fence was convicted, but on appeal the case was not only reversed but thrown out of court. My burglars had plainly proved themselves accomplices of the fence and the appellate court upheld my contention to that (Continued on Page 34) = iE AR SRS

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effect any I ry aC ry Centinued from Page 32 lr couldn't be convicted on the adequately corroborated testimony of his accomplices more than they could be convicted on his testimony. had liberated three of them, not only in spite their confessions of guilt but partly because of these ‘ry confessions. Thereafter any fence who found him- f in trouble was more than likely to employ mé even short, my fence now ough he had other counsel. Business came to my office » torent it is an g to me that so many peace officers and rosecutors seem to feel that they don’t have to work hard onvict a known criminal. Their attitude apparently is: Why, everyone knows that that fellow isa crook. Just to k at him is enough. We're not going to let that skunk und on his constitutional rights and privileges."” I don’t “an to intimate that all peace officers nor even one- arter of the prosecutors are guilty of this absurdity, but sre to help the criminal’s lawyer mightily. hat amazes me is the fact that even ugh of them ; nd as I said before, w ne of them should make such a silly error. The criminal’s ghts are no less guaranteed than any other is far more essential for him to take Occasionally an innocent man is de- mstitutional 1 an’s; moreover, it ivantage of them 1anding and expecting complete exoneration from the and jury; he not only intends to prove himself not yurt ruilty but he is determined to go farther and prove himself K went, but no real criminal ever bothers about such atters. All he wants is a clear exit, and if any peace ficer or prosecutor will just be so kind as to violate his he has it, guilty or not. 1 was especially glad that my fame brought me the busi- leniabie rights, ness of those who traffic in stolen goods, because they are much more prospercus than the thieves. sually reckless young fools, but the fences and receivers The latter are ake money. Nearly all of them operate under the advice 4 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST of counsel, whom they consult with a view to remaining out of the toils of the law. I advised a group that I finally brought together to es- tablish a warehouse business that made their operations much safer. In fact, before three years had elapsed that warehouse had kept every one of them out of the peni- tentiary. And time after time it saved the thieves with whom they did a regular business. I can explain very easily the reason for this warehouse. Asa rule, stolen goods must be identified in order to complete the prosecution's ease. That will not hold good in every instance, but it is generally true. Now there are many types of goods that once mixed up with similar goods in a warehouse can searcely be identified at all. We found, too, that experi- enced warehousemen knew where to look for identification marks on bulky goods such as bolts of fine cloth. Jobs of this kind are carefully planned. Before the stolen goods arrived the warehouse would have on hand a suitable assortment of similar goods owned by various merchants, jobbers, retailers or speculators. When the stolen property came in new identification marks would be provided, or at least the real marks would be removed, and the stuff suitably scattered through what was on hand. The warehouse brought me many clients whose business claimed very little of my time and brought large fees. I recall only one dissatisfied patron of the institution. He was a bootlegger who made wine on a large scale and scoured the country for old wine barrels. The longer they had been used, the better they were for his purpose, so he sent out scouts to find and ship them to our warehouse. As soon as a carload had been assembled they were sent as railway freight to his winery. One of these precious car- loads of barrels was smashed in a wreck and as part of the job of clearing up the wreck the pieces were burned. My client nearly burst a blood vessel. He wanted damages, damages, damages! The barrels, he protested, were almost December 14,1929 priceless to him. The railway company offered new oak barrels. Again he went into hysterics. New oak barrels would make his wine taste like poison. I couldn’t possibly collect damages nor sue nor do anything else except say “thank you”’ for the railway company’s small check and lose that client forever. He protested bitterly that there was no such thing as justice. The law was a joke, and I was an incompetent fool. If the Government wished to prose- cute him for bootlegging, all right; let the officers first eatch him; but in the interim his barrels were worth what they had cost and he wanted fair payment for them. He was an amusing fellow, but I must admit that I found a certain amount of justice in his contention. Casey had political affiliations that brought us business. These affiliations did not mean much in the way of power or influence, but his numerous friendships in a realm marked by turbulence and graft resulted in clients. I had had enough of seeking political power and frequently warned him of its dangers. However, he was too exces- sively Irish to take the advice as seriously as I meant it and let politics alone. One of the cases he brought us added enormously to the firm’s prestige and eventually served to draw Katzen- jammer as well as Casey into the whirlpool of politics for profit. I handled the case in question. The defendant was an employe of a contracting firm that was active in politics for business reasons. Such a firm usually burdens its pay roll with lame ducks and the poor relations of office- holders, and this one was no exception. Our client was a political lame duck and grafter who, while employed in the office of this firm, stole about twelve thousand dollars of its funds. On being arrested he hastened to summon his friend, Casey. At first it appeared that nothing we could do would save him, but to our amazement he was indicted for conspiracy to steal the money instead of the actual Continued on Page 161) —_—— “That's All Right,’’ Casey Assured Him. “You Get the Money. And Bring it to Me. Then Don't Wait to be Arrested’’

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| Mobiloil Ar } | — — — om, -~ *- a A ———

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& ° . Make this chart your guide It shows the correct grade of Gargoyle Mobiloil for certain prominent cars. If your car is not listed below, see complete Mobiloil Chart at your Mobiloil dealer's Follow winter recommendations when temperatures from 32° F. (Freezing) to 0° F. (zero) prevail. Below zero use Gargoyle Mobiloil Arctic (except Ford, Models T, TT, use Gargoyle Mobiloil “E”) 1929 1928 1927 | 1926 NAMES OF Eng ne Engine bagi t ngine PASSENGER . : . CARS i H E E [els ei ile 3 2 3 3 Auburn, 6-66 4 “Bey BB BB BB ‘ other models A A 4 A Buick BB BB KH 4 Cadillac BB BB BB HB Chandler Special Six A A “ other models A 4 4 Chevrolet A A 4 4 Chrysler, 4cy! \ A 4 “Imperial 80 and Imperial. | BB BB 4 4 “ other models 4 4 A 4 Dodge Brothers A A A 4 Durant \ A A Flcar, 8cy!l BB BB BB 4 - aher model A 4 A 4 Erskine 4 A 4 Essex 4 4 4 ‘ Ford, Model A A A Mode! T f it Franklin BB BB BB | 88 Gardner, 8-cyl BB BB BB | A , other mode if Hudson A A 4 1 A Hupmobile BB BB 4 1A La Salle KK BB BK | Lincoln BB BB BR | BB Marmon, 8-cy! Q 4 | other mode BB 4 | A Moon A ‘ | 4 Nash, Adv. & Sp.6. | BB BB BB } A . other mod. A A aN i A Oakland A A A ; A Oldsmobile 4 A A iA Packard A 4 4 1A Peerless, 72, 9, 91 BB BB BB BB “other model A A A \ Pontiac A A 1A | Reo 4 iN | A | Studebaker A A 1A Whippet A A | i A Willys-Knigt it, cy! | | ; * &<yl BB BR BK ist nee ee eee

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 37 RD ILLUSTRATED BY ALBIN HENNING There Was Another Outburst of Shouts From the Graders: “The Traint The Train! Rally on the Train!’ The Railroad Builders—By F. Britten Austin ULY 1, 1862. A room in Washington. It lay amid a pile of other papers and parchments—a document whose first words were engrossed with ornate elabora- tion: AN ACT to aid in the construction of a railroad and telegraph line from the Missouri River to the Pacific Coast, and to secure to the Government the use of the same for postal, military anc other purposes. A gaunt, wearied man, seated at the table, picked up paper after paper of those superimposed upon it, assured himself of the correctness of their contents, signed them: “Abraham Lincoln, President.” He worked his way down to that heavy, many-folioed document, picked it up, scanned it with shrewd thoughtful eyes, sighed deeply as from an interior relief as he read it. At last was authentically to be born that great project which for ten years had dominated the imagination of the American people, the then visionary project for which Asa Whitney had prematurely sacrificed himself and his for- tune in the 40’s. More than 1500 miles of but sketchily explored prairie, mountain and desert divided the extreme western outposts of the East from the eastern outposts of that new America on the Pacific shore; an America so isolated that not a few of the wisest and most patriotic statesmen had counseled its establishment as an independ- ent republic. Distant 19,000 miles around the stormy Horn, or five weeks’ travel by the Panama route, with an alternative of seventeen precarious days between the Missouri and California by the coaches of the over- land stage, frequently galloping for dear life from swarms of hostile Indians, that independent Pacific republic became, indeed, ever more probable in de- fault of rapid and effective communication with the East. The entire nation had long ago awakened to that necessity; its ominously differentiated sections hotly endeavoring to wed it to their partisan ambitions. During the troubled years before the bombardment of Sumter had proclaimed secession an embattled fact, the South had vehemently orated and intrigued for a Southern railroad to the West which should automatically carry with it an extension of their “peculiar institution,” which—so their politicians imagined—should make the South for all time pre- dominant. The impossibility of raising a dollar from the North for such a scheme had reduced Southern- controlled Administrations to a stubborn thwarting, by time-honored congressional methods, of the rival Northern projects, playing off against each other the competitive claims of a northwestern or central route. Those quarrels were now over. For more than a year the nation had been rent in twain. Only a Northern Little Congress now sat in Washington. A Union Pacific Railroad had become a political possibility. The germ of it had already sprung into being. Far away in the West, three weeks before Bull Run, on THE MIL Leland Stan- ford, governor of the state; Charles Crocker, proprietor of a June 28, 1861, four prominent Californians store in Sacramento; Messrs. Huntington and Hopkins, hardware and miners’ supplies, Sacramento, together with a brilliant young engineer, Theodore D. Judah, had formed themselves into the Central Pacific Railroad Company of California, with a proclaimed program of surmounting the Sierra Nevada and pushing eastward. Huntington and Judah had come East to secure Federal aid for their undertaking. They had made contact with that some- what flamboyant railroad enthusiast, Dr. Thomas C. A Gaunt, Wearied Man Picked Up Paper After Paper, Assured Himseif of the Correctness of Their Contents, Signed Them: ‘‘Abraham Lincotn, President"’ Durant, of New York, conspicuously connected with the original Mississippi and Missouri Railroad, and with cer- tain of his friends already veteran lobbyists for a trans- continental road that should start from the Missouri. In that wartime Little Congress, unusually subservient to the wishes of the Administration, their jointly agreed bill had passed the House on June 24, 1862, by 104 votes to 21, had passed the Senate four days previously by 25 to 5. Such, briefly, was the history of the document now presented for that presidential signature which would make it law It provided that the board of commissioners for the Union Pacific Railroad and Telegraph Company —not yet constituted — was authorized “to lay out, locate, construct, furnish, maintain and enjoy a continuous railroad and telegraph, with the appurtenances” from “a point on the one hundredth meridian west between the south margin of the valley of the Republican River and the north margin of the valley of the Platte River, in the territory of Nebraska thence running westerly upon the most direct, central and practicable route, through the territo- ries of the United States, to the western boundary of the territory of Nevada, there to meet and connect with the line of the Central Pacific Railroad Company of California.”” East of the hundredth meridian, two other railroads were authorized to build to connect with the Union Pacific, and the Union Pacific itself was to build eastward to a point ‘to be fixed by the President ’’ on the western border of lowa, and, there- fore, on the eastern shore of the unbridged Missouri River. The Government would assist both companies with subsidies, payable on each forty completed and accepted miles, of $16,000 a mile across the plains $48,000 a mile through the mountains, $32,000 a mile between the Rockies and the Sierra Nevada, together with a grant of vacant lands within ten mile sides of the line for five alternate sections per mile, a total of some eleven million acres. The track throughout was to be “of uniform width, to be deter- mined by the President of the United States, so that, when completed, cars can be run from the Missouri ol both River to the Pacific coast The whole line of said railroad shall be operated as one connected continuous line.””’ Connection at the Nevada-Cali fornia boundary must be made before July 1, 1874, and there must be “a continuous line of railroad ready for use, from the Missouri River to the navi- gable waters of the Sacramento River, in California, by the first day of July, 1876.” Such were the main features of the act, complicated by many minor provisions, which President Lincoln scanned through on that first of July when a d laden telegram had informed him that McClellan's huge host, bloodily foiled in what should have been saster- an overwhelming advance on Richmond, was now Continued on Page 39

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST Who wouldn't drag her friends out into the Really, you can’t blame her. kitchen to show off her new General Electric? There it stands, gleaming white, strong as a safe, incredibly quiet ... the envy of all who see it. For a gift that gives all-year usefulness, that makes every-day tasks lighter, that safeguards health, the General Electric is really ideal. It makes a generous sup- ply of ice cubes and, of course, freezes those luscious desserts which every hostess enjoys serving. When you buy a General Electric you are choosing the one and only electric refrigerator which has an all-steel cabi- net. It is rust-proof, warp-proof. Its doors are finished with trim black Textolite edges, an attractive contrast to the whiteness of the cabinet. The inside corners are rounded so that they are Happy to own it.. .proud most easy to clean. And the graceful legs leave plenty of broom-room under the cabinet. In fact, this refrigerator has every detail that makes for greatest sanitation and cleanliness. And the General Electric is the only refrigerator which has all its mechanism mounted on top in an hermetically sealed Prices on the new all-stecl models now start as low as $215 at the factory. GENERAL @ELECTRIC ALL:*STEEL REFRIGERATOR to show it steel casing . . . out of the way, dust- proof. It never needs oiling and leaves the greatest cabinet area for food stor- age. It allows the heat to rise above the cabinet—not up through it. It has an accessible freezing regulator and it creates absolutely no radio interference. When you are deciding on the gift that will best serve the whole family, consider the sound value which the General Electric offers. The operating cost is but a few cents a day and not a single owner has thus far paid a dollar for re- pairs or service. No other refrigerator approaches this record. Conveniently spaced payments can be arranged. For complete information about all the models, write to Electric Refrigeration Department of General Electric Com- pany, Hanna Building, Cleveland, Ohio. Ask for an illustrated Booklet—S-12. December 14, 1929

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4 i THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 39 (Continued from Page 37) fighting for its life at Malvern Hill; the best that could be hoped from its panic-stricken Little Napoleon a retreat in which the wreck of that army might precariously be saved. In that black hour, he, the President, had just drafted a letter to be shown confidentially to the governors of the loyal states: “T expect to maintain this contest until successful, or till I die, or am conquered, or my term expires, or Congress or the country forsake me.” His mouth was grim-set now with that resolve as he glanced through these legally phrased clauses, forced his mind to turn from the crisis of the cause he personified to this ambitious railroad project, which would be but a mockery if that cause were lost. It was already ultra-familiar to him in all its details, was framed in close accordance with his own views. Three years before, in 1859, at the optimistically styled Pacific Hotel in the Iowa frontier settlement of Council Bluffs, overlooking Omaha on the other side of the Missouri, he had met a twenty-nine-year-old railroad engineer, by name Dodge, just returned from six years of surveying across the prairies and the mountains to Salt Lake City. For two hours he had talked with that extremely intelli- gent young man, had been convinced by him that the emigrant trail from Omaha up the Platte, over the Rockies and by the Great Salt Lake was the one practicable route for a transcontinental railroad. Young Dodge would have been just the man to have built it. Pity he wasn’t avail- able—he was now a general somewhere in the Army, he seemed to remember. But with what was at hand, the line must go through. The Trent affair last year had demon- strated the danger of war with England. If in existing circumstances it occurred, the Pacific States would be utterly isolated. The projectors of this railroad and their friends in the lobby thought only of the dazzling profits unquestionably assured by a through route to the fabulous wealth of the Orient. He saw the road as the means of conveying the military strength of the United States from Atlantic to Pacific without interference by anyone. He saw it as more than that—as a vital bond between the far-scattered American people, from ocean to ocean linking them in an enduring and impregnable unity. The mere decreeing of it now, in this hour of disaster, was defiantly eloquent of his faith in the eventual triumph of that Union, purchased at such dreadful cost. He bent his head for a moment, President Leiand Stanford Struck. The Telegraph Instrument Clicked: shadowed his eyes with his hand. “Almighty God, vouch- safe that this great undertaking be carried to successful completion for the permanent good of these United States.” He took up his pen, dipped it in the ink, wrote his signa- ture: “Abraham Lincoln, President.” He pushed the document from him, stared at it for a mo- ment. It was no longer a mere document. It was a vi- sion—a vision of shining rails stretching beyond sight into the Western distance—a vision of peoples yet unborn filling the intermediate empty spaces—the people of the United States. It was July 10, 1865, at Omaha, a straggling mushroom town of tents and wooden shacks. The Union was recently triumphant in overwhelming victory. President Lincoln was recently dead. At the “initial point’’ of the Union Pacific Railroad on the western bank of the Missouri River, a group of men in professional broadcloth stood at the extremity of a roughly graded track. Close to them were unkempt Irish workmen, standing ready by piles of timber, by piles of iron rails; other workmen ready with sledge hammers and spikes, chairs and bolts. The first rail of the transcontinental road was at long last to be laid. It was, nevertheless, not the first ceremony at that spot. As far back as December 2, 1863, the exuberantly spec- tacular George Francis Train had made a grandiloquent oration while Governor Saunders of Nebraska had dug the first sod of the new line. There had been fireworks, a brass band and much enthusiastic cheering. The celebration had bankrupted the company’s treasury. It would re- ceive no money from the Government until its first forty miles, costing $1,000,000, had been completed. The cap- italists of the East had stood skeptically aloof, reluctantly taking up small lines of shares on a 10 per cent initial pay- ment. At the end of 1863 its cash subscriptions had pitifully totaled $217,700. Not until the fall of 1864 had the company even started to grade the first line of track. Far away in California, the Central Pacific had bridged the American River, had completed thirty-one miles of track by July, 1864, despite the furious opposition of the stage lines and the Pacific Mail Steamship Company, monopolist of the route via Panama, despite an appallingly empty exchequer necessitating the employment of the last cent of the personal credit of its chief promoters. But the Central Pacific had Leland Stanford, Collis P. Hunting- ton, Charles Crocker, Mark Hopkins, and that brilliant young Theodore D. Judah, knowing the Sierra as a lover knows a difficult sweetheart, who had lamentably died in October 1863. The Union Pacific yet waited for a man equal to one of them. In 1864, a revolutionary change for the better had im- proved the financial status of the two companies. The lobbyists of the Central and of the Union had worked desperately to induce Congress to amend the Act of 1862, had—untruthfully—sworn that, if the Pacific Railroad failed, California would be lost to the Union. A bill had been rushed through, perhaps, or, indeed, perhaps not, the bill which had been recommended :n committee, had been signed by the President on the second of July. By that act the government advances had been degraded to a second mortgage on the roads, the companies had been authorized to issue their own bonds to equivalent amounts as first mortgages, while simultaneously the land grant was doubled to 12,800 acres a mile. The Union Pacific let the contract for its first hundred miles. In January, 1865, the chief engineer, Peter A. Dey, resigned in indignation at the doubtfully honest terms of that contract. The contractor himself broke down on the task almost at the outset. The company decided to do its own work, formed its chief stockholders into a construction company styled the Crédit Mobilier. Sidney Dillon, in 1834 a train boy on the puffing clanking brigades of cars of the Albany & Schenectady, and all his subsequent career a railroad contractor, came into that concern. President Lincoln sent for sturdily honorable Oakes Ames, maker of the Old Colony shovels, and begged him to take hold and see the company through. “By building this road,” he had said, “you will become the remembered man of your generation.” The Union Pacific had at last found the first of its men. That was all ancient history, stale to the eager little group of professional engineers standing in the heat of that July day at Omaha. A whistle blew. Workmen carried up ties of zinc-impregnated cottonwood— procured at great trouble and expense from far up and down the Missouri laid them transversely across the raw track stretching nakedly into the prairie. Two other gangs carried up a pair of rails, laid them on the ties. An over seer adjusted them parallel at the correct gauge of four feet, Continued on Page 92) ““Det-Dot-Det! Deone!t’’

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST ae ro — Bi PH tA RY CL ti fei Baseal: pec ONT Bddbsns.. December 14, 1929 me EBL Pd extra sales/of $150,000 oe using obsolete equipment . . . Myers J hasn’t ordered in six months. . . Brown not using his register at present . . . Salesman hasn’t called on Scott in three months. ”’ On thousands of accounts of the United Auto- graphic Register Company of Chicago, Kardex flashed these vital bits of information. As a result, the executives immediately sent out letters, bulletins to salesmen and advertising mate- rial . . . all aimed at dormant customers. One letter alone stimulated 42% of them to the tune of # $150,000 in extra purchases! 1 and even from the standpoint of the bape service Kardex enables us to give customers, ’’ gtates Walter R. Barker, president of the United’ Auto- graphic, Manifold, and Globe Register Cgmpanies, “‘our investment has been justified.”” £ With the help of Kardex, thousand cerns are getting new pictures of and with results as remarkable as f other con- eir businesses, ARCO. Whether put to work on salegfcredit, personnel or - . a Z / a stock control, Kérdex can bring in greater profits to every business/in America. Rgduces selling costs 95% When Kfardex flashed the simple fact that 14,000 of its 9) ssi did not warrant the expense of a salegman’s call even once a year, a large chemical KARDEX VISIBLE RECORDS Remington * Library Bureau * Safe-Cabinet Dalton * Baker-Vawter * Kalamazoo Remington Rand BUSINESS SERVICE BUFFALO, NEW YORK Pe 0 150 |e CHAMBERLAIN GEO. R. CIRCLEVILLE, OHIO manufacturer was able not only to cut selling costs 95% on these accounts but also, by increased sales efforts on other accounts, to increase materially his volume of business. Decreases back payments 50% Hearn’s department store in New York used Kardex to cut its delinquent installment payments over 50%. Simply and clearly this system of color signals flashes the exact condition of every account to the credit manager. Costs little—easy to operate In clear and simple signals on its visible edge, Kardex flashes the information you want—right on the dot. No waiting for clerks to search through bulky ledgers. No hunting for misfiled cards. Let a Remington Rand man tell you more about it. Expertly and impartially, he will show you a dozen ways to make and save more money. Phone the nearest branch today, or write to Rem- ington Rand Business Service, Inc., Buffalo, N.Y. HARDWARE @ Red Using obsolete equipment. & Orange Hasn't ordered in nine months. & Green Salesman hasn’t called in four months. M B/ue Buying only 50% of what he did last year.

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 41 Fifth Avenue=Once Removed LUMBER’S helper Pi: called myself ever since I married my mas- ter plumber, nearly forty years ago. And plumber’s helper, I once signed my name in a vicomte’s visitors’ book right under His Eminence Cardinal Hayes himself. I recollect, though, that a prominent film star’s mana- ger, when he got a bill headed Plumbing Supplies—it was my husband’s billhead—for thirty dresses, threw up his hands in surprise. He said he’d paid many a bill for cos- tumes, but it was the first time he had ever known an act- ress’ wardrobe to be supplied by a plumber. Or even a plumber’s assistant. So, maybe it’s time I changed my title, or, anyway, added to it. There’s a French word —commissionnaire—that might suit, because I sell most everything you can think of for 1400 of New York's Four Hundred, and charge Als Told to Mary Margaret McBride TLLUSTRATEDO Br HENRIETTA MecC AIG tires have blown up at once and he’s stuck in Fifth Avenue.” The jeweler, in turn, sold that car to a taxi driver who wanted a smart-looking bus, and one night when he was on his way to the opera, he heard a clankety-clank, and there was his old friend, stuck, as usual. I have the grace to blush when he talks about that car. A member of another jewelry firm estimated not long ago that at least $500,000 worth of silver and jewelry has passed through my hands to them since I began to deal with them in their little shop more than thirty years ago. Now they have a great big place on Fifth Avenue. Why, them 10 per cent commis- sion. In forty years my busi- ness has run into the millions and my 10 per cent commissions have bought me a home and other houses on Long Island, a car and chauf- feur, and more stocks and bonds than I dreamt were in the world when I was a young one in Ireland. Yet I’ve never adver- tised, never had a card or a billhead printed. More than that, I’ve always carried on my business in my husband’s plumbing shop, in New York City. I’venever needed signs and advertising, though. “Who ate you in New York if you don’t know Annie?’’ a society woman said one time at a fashionable luncheon. And everybody laughed and agreed. They all knew me. Hundreds of other society women that give me their things to sell know me, and so do hundreds of stage women that buy them. Secondhand HIS is how it goes: If one of my clients has a lot of dresses, shoes, un- derwear, furniture, jew- elry or goldfish she doesn’t want —and once! had an alligator to sell! she puts them up in a bundle and sends them to me. I sell them to folks who can use them. on iy ey hi * One auctioneer and I have sold the entire con- tents of at least forty homes that, before they were broken up by death or di- vorce, belonged to some of the richest people in New York City. Then again, some client may want to buy a family portrait, a parrot or the like, and | take care of that too. Generally, I get bargains. But selling’s what I like best. Once I went up to the Plaza Hotel for luncheon with four friends, wearing four diamond bracelets on my arm. Al! the bracelets changed arms and I came away with four good-sized checks. A wholesale jeweler I’ve dealt with for many years likes to tell a story about my salesmanship. I sold him a so- ciety woman’s car that she’d had in storage quite a while. It looked wonderful, but a few days afterward he tele- phoned, all flustered. “Annie, what kind of a car did you sell me, anyway?” he shouted. “My chauffeur just called to say that all four The Fine Ladies'd Gather There and Sit Around on Odd Pieces of Plumbing Fixtures and Tatk the senior partner will tell you that one day alone I sold him 680 diamonds—brought them in loose in my pockets and handed them over. I often have as much as $75,000 worth of jewelry on hand. A good deal of the silver is duplicate pieces people get for wedding presents. I know one bride who had twenty sets of candlesticks, all the same pattern. They get lots of doubles in clocks, too, and ladles and finicky silver things. One time I had a consignment of duplicates worth probably $5000 from a wedding. I was so worried about keeping it in the plumbing shop that a jeweler let me put the stuff in his vaults and sell it from there. The way I went into buying and selling for the Four Hundred was that a society woman I knew had a lot of dresses left her that she didn’t want, and she said, “See if you can’t sell them for me, Annie.” JIVIGMU 14 SATIN GOs This was after I married my plumber. I said to him, “ Be- lieve I'll try it,” and “Suit yourself,” said he. It was be- fore most houses had tele- phones, but there was a pay station in our shop that lots of actresses in the neighborhood used. I just put the dresses on a rack close by the telephone where no woman that came in could help looking at them. My, I sold the whole batch out in no time! She was so pleased about it that she told all her friends, and two or three of them said, “Ask her if she'l' sel! some things for me.”” So I did that too. I didn’t realize they that I was starting a business that would do more than plumbing to take care of me in my old age, but whenever they'd ask me, I'd sell their things. The first year, I made nice spending money for myself. Still, I didn’t think much about it, net even when the women I sold for be- gan to ask me to buy for them too. But after a } year or so, it begun to be areal business and I got | in Laura to help me. Ev- | ery body along Broadway and Park Avenue knows Laura. She's a fine sales- woman and all the force I've needed. STARRETT My First Client REMEMBER the first thing I was asked to buy wasa stained-glass window to go into a pri- vate chapel. It cost $5000. The business grew so gradually, year by year, that it never came to me that I needed a place of my own, and, besides, the fine ladies got used to our dusty plumbing shop. In fact, they seemed to like it. They'd gather there and sit around on odd pieces of plumbing fix- tures and talk. That was handy for me, because |! could go on being a plumber’s helper at the same time | sold dresses That's all there ever has been to my business just people sending in clothes to sell and others coming in te buy them But it was all started by that first client certainly good to me When she died she left me a piano and a picture of herself, painted by Waugh. I've been offered $2000 for that picture The way | met her was through nursing her aunt, a woman that was the flower of charity and goodness. I've wake up in the night thinking of things te do for others. | went to her soon after | came to this country, and stayed until she died. I nursed in two other rich families before I married. I expect I've already said I’m Irish or given it away somehow. They all say I'm Irish as Paddy's pig. I was born in Limerick. My father had an estate, but lost it when I was a year old. After he died and the rest of my family came to America, I was looked after by a doctor who was consulting surgeon to Her Majesty Queen Vic- toria. He had me brought up in a convent and trained to be a nurse. Afterward I helped him in his practice. He was a fine man and knew ail about human nature as well as human anatomy. I'll tell you an exampie She wa known her to Continued on Page 44

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 750. O00 SIXES in | Mylig Yuji TTT * va. a. Whe ' December 14, 1929

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 43 gain - CHEVROLETS Greatest Year! At the conclusion of the greatest year in its history, Chev- rolet wishes to express its appreciation for the public con- fidence that has made this record possible. Since January Ist, a million three hundred and fifty thousand six-cylinder Chevrolets have been delivered . . . the fifth consecutive time that Chevrolet has established a new yearly record. In keeping with its long-established policy, Chevrolet pledges itself anew to use the savings of this increased production in building better automobiles, at prices within the reach of all. As a result of this policy, there has been made available to buyers in the low-price field a measure of quality that was once provided only in the highest priced cars. And in the future, as in the past, Chevrolet will continue to bring greater quality and value to a larger number of people. CHEVROLET MOTOR COMPANY, DETROIT, MICHIGAN | Division of General Motors Corporation . A SIX IN THE PRICE RANGE OF THE FOUR

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(Continued from Page 41) One day an old Irish farmer came in and wanted some- thing for his rheumatism. The doctor had me fix up a little water colored with logwood bark and put it in a bottle. Then he told the man to rub the liquid briskly on the af- fected part every night and morning. When the patient was gone I said, “But, doctor dear, that was only water. How can that help him?” The doctor laughed and patted my shoulder. “It’s all right, Mike’’— he called me Mike. “It’s the rubbing will do the work, but he never would believe that, so we must give him something to rub in that he does believe in.”” We had calls for thousands of bottles of that medicine. When.I was sixteen there was black typhus in a village near Limerick. Nobody would go near the victims except my doctor and me. He said, “‘ Mike, we've got to pull them through"’—and we did. I was eighteen when I came to America to seek my fortune. I was poor, and when I got to New York one of my cousins said I'd best do general housework if I was to earn my own keep. I didn’t know what that was, but she told me it was cooking and cleaning. I said mighty quick that I could cook all right. Molly, the cook at home, often bribed me with a shilling to do the cooking for her when she felt lazy. So it was decided that I was to do general housework. But next morning I went for a walk along Madison Avenue and, lo and behold, the first person I ran into was Kitty Sullivan herself, of my very own parish. When I told her that I was going to do general house- work she said: “But you're trained to be a nurse.” I told her indeed J was, and under the best doctor in the world. “Weil,” said she, “I'll get you a better job than that. The lady I work for is needing somebody right now to take care of her. You come along and see her.” A fine woman she was too. And she wasn’t the only good woman I've known among the Four Hundred, by a long shot. Most everybody believes society women are hard and cold. I know better. The average society woman—and I mean real society now, not the climber that wants to break in and has money that comes from nobody knows where—does all kinds of good deeds that she never ad- vertises. Of course everybody asks, Why, if they’re so generous, should rich women sell their old clothes? Why don't they give them away’? The answer is that they don’t often know people to give their kind of clothes to that would need or could use them. So they have me sell the things and then some charity gets the proceeds, except for my commission—and in some cases I even forget to deduct that. Rich women race with one another to see who can have the most to give to organizations for looking after orphans and old people and sick ones. They do, for a fact. Charity That Really Helps OST of them give to organized charities the money they get for letting their names be used to advertise cosmetics and the like too. Besides that, they do good privately. I have a list of society women that I call on regularly when I hear of anybody in trouble. I recollect very well the day that Miss Margaret Wilson came in with some friends to pick out a coat for a poor old woman. Each one wanted to pay, and they bought the old woman an outfit that a queen wouldn't be ashamed of, before they were through. I remember that day particularly because I'd just said, “I do believe everybody except the President of the United States has been in this shop,” and in walked Miss Mar- garet Wilson, a President’s daughter. And then another day, not long ago, a little actress came into my shop looking very seedy—-hungry, I expect she was. A lovely dress a wealthy woman had just sent in was hanging near the door, and the actress said: “Oh, if I only had that, I know I could get an engage- ment. But of course you wouldn’t take $7.70 for it. That's every cent I've got.” I telephoned my client. She said, “Sell her the dress, Annie, for seventy cents, and tell her to keep the seven dollars for carfare!"’ Wasn't that nice? Another time a kid from the chorus was in to try to find an outfit so she could look decent to go out and get a job. She was married a year ago and now her husband's got consumption. “He ought to go away, Annie,” the kid says to me, great big tears oozing out of her brown eyes and rolling down her cheeks. ‘The doctor says he’s got to have good care and different air, but I don’t know how he’s to get it. I haven't even got a job and we're almost broke.” Well, I don’t sob with them over things like that, no matter how sorry I feel, because it doesn’t do any good and 44 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST gets me all stirred up besides. But I let her pick out a dress and buy it on time. And the minute she walks out of the shop, I march over to the telephone and call up one of my clients. “Say, Mrs. X,”’ I tell her, “I’ve had a kid from the chorus in here crying because her husband's got con- sumption and ought to be sent away. She’s out of work and neither of them’s got a cent.” That was all that was needed “How much do you want, Annie?” asks the woman. “T’ll send you a check—no, I'll come down and bring it.” She did, too, next day and we had a long powwow in the shop, with her ending up by asking me to luncheon. You’d be surprised how often they do that—and to dinner, tea and their daughters’ weddings too. I often eat at Pierre’s or the Marguery or the Metropolitan Club, right among the dowagers and debutantes. Pretty good for a poor plumber’s wife, I say sometimes. On such occasions I’m a walking advertisement for my own business—dress from this one, coat from that one and shoes generally from one well-known society matron. Wherever I see her, my eyes just naturally drift to her feet. Then she laughs and says, “You can soon have them, Annie.”” It just happens that I can wear all her shoes with the greatest comfort. It’s not only New York women who are my customers. Thousands of society women all over the United States— Los Angeles, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Boston—send me things to sell. And one woman said she heard of me in Monte Carlo. I even got a letter all the way from Ger- many the other day, addressed to me care of my auto- mobile license number. Somebody with clothes to sell. Ahead of the Styles ORTY dresses came in recently from a customer who married a Texas rancher last fall. She wrote that it didn’t look as if she was going to need many party dresses on the ranch. But she’s glad of it. She likes riding the range better than playing bridge. Rich women buy a lot of dresses in a year. We've had in as many as 150 dresses from one woman at a time. Some think nothing of ordering twenty to thirty dresses at once from their dressmakers, and do that as often as the spirit moves them, which may be every month or so. These dresses cost from $150 to $500. When they come to me they sell at different prices, depending upon how much they've been worn. I’ve seen dresses that never cost a cent less than $400 sell for nine dollars and ten dollars. Others, in better condition, bring twenty-five dollars to fifty dollars, sometimes seventy-five dollars or even more. Generally, for a dress in good condition that originally cost $150, the selling price would be fifteen dollars, about 10 per cent of the original price. There’s a lot of wear in most dresses I sell for fifteen dollars, and a lot of style too. A dress that cost $250 would bring about twenty dollars or thirty dollars, and so on up. Shoes—some cost $100 when they’re new, because they’re made especially for the person—sell for from fifty cents to three or four dollars, and many a little actress is glad they’ve been broken in for her when she’s trudging New York streets looking for a job. Coats bring the best prices. Once I sold a fur coat for more than it cost in the first place. It was seal, which doesn’t show wear so much as many other furs. Silver and the like which hasn’t been used sells for about a tenth off the first price; jewelry the same, though sometimes an old piece of jewelry brings a good deal more than was paid for it. I remember one ring, very old, that a society woman valued at $1000. I sold it for $1600 for her. Some of the dresses that come in are hardly worn at all. Yet a client that never wears most dresses more than twice sent me one the other day so frazzled out that I said to her, “Nobody would buy that thing.” “No, I suppose not,” she agreed, fingering it as if she’d a mind to take it home with her again. “‘ Well, give it to some nice girl, then. Wearing that dress just naturally brings good luck.” Sometimes I'll get a whole package and not one dress that’s ever been on anybody’s back. That may mean that the owner’s gone into mourning suddenly or retired to the country for a rest; but, more likely, it’s just that she didn’t like what she ordered after she got it home. Or maybe Friend Husband said, ‘‘ That’s terrible.” Or, again, she might have seen somebody else with one like it. Big dressmakers have to be mighty careful about making up the same model for women that may run into one an- other at Palm Beach or Southampton. It used to be that when prominent women ordered their clothes from Paris, they got guaranties from their dressmakers that the models they picked out would be made up for them exclusively and wouldn't appear in New York for at least a year. They paid more on account of this guaranty, and I’ve known December 14,1929 more than one woman to get her money back when the promise wasn’t kept to the letter. Some houses still give certain women this guaranty. Dresses made special like that stay in style for years. I remember, when one well-known actress was playing in New York, fashion artists from all over used to come to her dressing room to sketch her latest models. She had a lovely sapphire-blue velvet, an orange satin, and an em- broidered chiffon—all French models bought from me. The three cost nearly $1000 when they were new. The woman who owned them was worth perhaps $25,000,000, but had to go into mourning. And when a fashion magazine requested another ac- tress to come and pose in a new model, she arrived for the appointment wearing the Paris original of the copy they had ready for her. The original was from my place. Its first owner had bought it more than a year before. I had to get an actress through the customs one time when she came back from Europe. Her dresses, all bought from me, had French labels and looked so stylish the customs men couldn’t believe they weren’t the latest models from the Rue de la Paix. I don’t wonder that authors write stories around shops like mine. There’s so much romance going on all the time that you get, used to it and forget a lot of it. Many a time girls have come in to buy dresses to wear on week-end parties, but I only remember once that a purchaser ever ran into the original owner, as always seems to happen in the stories. This was when an actress bought from me a gold-colored evening dress that had grown too small for a Long Island lady. The Long Island lady invited the actress to spend the week-end and the actress took the dress along to wear while she was there. The hostess recognized her dress and told me about it afterward, but of course we never let on to the actress. Actresses are my best customers on the buying side. Many motion-picture companies buy several hundred dresses at a time. I remember how one actress who's quite famous today got a chance, when she was working her way up, to have her picture printed in a big magazine. It was going to mean a lot to her, but she didn’t have the right clothes to wear and no money to buy them, so I hunted around till I found a dress that suited her. My, it was a beauty—probably cost $300 or more, and had hardly been worn at all. I told her I’d lend it for the picture, but it was too long and we didn’t dare cut it off, so she had to stand up on a stool and let the dress hang down. But the picture was lovely. Identifying President Roosevelt LIKE people who know their position is secure and can be comfortable about it. Importance is all in the point of view, I sometimes say. Whenever I see a woman thinking so much of herself, I always feel like telling her a story I heard former President Roosevelt tell at a wedding in Oyster Bay some years ago. I guess it was just after he was out of the White House. He said that he went down to his home in Oyster Bay to put in a few quiet days at writing. The very first morning he couldn’t work because of the noisy small boys playing outside on his grounds. He went out and told them to go away. They went, but came back. Again he sent them away, but they wouldn’t hush their noise, so finally he drew himself up to look as impres- sive as he could and said: ‘Do you know who I am?” Two of the boys just stared, but the third—his coach- man’s little boy—looking him over carelesslike, said: **Sure, I know you. You're de man dat rides in me fadder’s carriage!” To tell you the truth, when people get upstage with me, I throw them out of my shop. I did that to one woman not so long ago—threw her out, and her dresses after her. She was a nice woman, though, underneath her nonsense, and had a good sense of humor. This is how she came back at me: Next day a messenger brought a package, handed it in, and started away, walking fast. I said, ‘‘What’s this, boy?” Over his shoulder he said, mentioning the lady’s name, “Well, ma’am, she tol’ me to trow dem in an’ run.” Well, I had to laugh, and then, of course, I sold the things for her just like I’d said I wouldn’t. If it weren’t that I was taught as a child to keep a quiet tongue in my head, I might be telling more stories than I ever shall. For instance, there’s the one about the gold bag that we found in a chair from a society bachelor’s apart- ment. The bag was marked with the name of a rich matron, and had no right to be where it was. I sold it for charity —charity which covers a multitude of sins. Or I might tell of the lady who is known by an assumed name on our books. She doesn’t want her real name con- nected with anything secondhand. (Continued on Page 182)

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FRO Sk SN hs a ll NS Se Ri al tn es

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 45 A. sun-room of any house. _.~ but MODERNIZED

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Al Ple TRI VERYBODY connected with the At- las Advertising Agency — dramatized by the familiar Atlas advertising trade-mark depicting the familiar male figure supporting the world on his shoulders as he studied the book of human knowledge sup- his bare knee; the bent one a square on the great chart of ported on occupied organization which hung on 1e English’wall of the reception room of the Atlas Advertising Agency large pink oblong at chart, from which all things administra- tive, creative and mechanical th very I he 1 the top of the emanated through a compli- cated system of lines, or tracks, contained the name of T. Tattersal Byrd, Presi- dent. The name of this dis- tinguished publicist is, of course, familiar to all as the author of Are Human Beings Really Human?, Do We Think—and When?, The Bible, the Sales Manual of the Ages The favorite pic- ture of the head of the Atlas Advertising Agency is also easily re- callable by all of The Inspirational Monthly—-the darkly probing eyes under heavy brows, the wide mouth with its quiet smile of toleration, the heavy chin, supported by the palm and little finger of the right hand. A newspaper once con- fused the half tone of T. Tattersal Byrd, in town as the guest of Rotary, with the picture of the Archbishop of Canterbury. Directly below the large pink oblong were twosquares, side by side. The one to the left, tinted to a delicate lemon, contained f Alvin Ashley readers the name of Mudge, Vice President and Account Executive. The one to the right, in a complemen- tary shade of light blue, pro- claimed another Vice Pres- ident and Account Execu- William Alexander Though the names of both of these gentlemen may be quite unknown out- side the world of advertising, their creative efforts are known wherever people read. Alvin Ashley Mudge may mean nothing to milady, but what modern woman is unacquainted with La Belle Cliquette? What modern woman, indeed? What was it the Count- ess of Blashford—-née The Honorable Lydia Lee-Leigh said in an advertisement only last month? tive Brodie. La Belle Cliquette is a confirmed habit with me, and my mother’s-- the Duchess of Sperl, née Eleanor Bothewell, of Phila- delphia —-dressing table is never without the delicate witchery of La Belle Cliquette preparations. To me they symbolize the charm of smart people. . Cricket week at Sperl. . . . Tea at the Ritz Moonlight playing hide and seek among the roses in the formal garden at Leigh-on-Moor. Or the accompanying comment: Mrs. PRUDDEN VAN ALLYN PRUDDEN Secects La BELLE CLIQUETTE PREPARATIONS As Sue Se_ects Her THOROUGHBRED HUNTERS. The brilliant young matron, known to her intimates at Aiken and Pinehurst as Mrs. Pruddy Van Prudden, a fair descendant 46 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST By Everett Rhodes Castle seg CPs Tea Fes sd Br R. mM. ri Through a Sort of Haze He Remembered a Choked, Small Voice Which Disclaimed Any Interest in, or Responsibility For, the Acts of People to Whom One Was Polite of the first Reynard Colfax of Virginia—formerly Fifi Colfax knows her dressing table as she knows her stable. “Nine otit of ten of the homes I visit,’’ she tells us, ‘‘ provide La Belle Cliquette preparations as a matter of course. But I never take a chance. Imagine the horror of that tenth time! Think of descending to dinner without that subtle aura of allure that La Belle Cliquette so charmingly provides.” La Belle Cliquette preparations are not, as so many peo- ple suppose, the product of the beauty chemist nearly so much as they are the children of that amazing mind which lurks behind the severe wrought-silver spectacles of Alvin Ashley Mudge. When Hubert J. K. Sparks, head of the new-business department of Atlas, dilates upon the service the organization headed by T. Tattersal Byrd renders to its clients, he dwells, almost lovingly, on La Belle Cliquette. “This account,” he explains, “‘came to us as a small manufacturer of toilet preparations. Ever hear of Excello Vanishing Cream? Or Excello Ashes of Roses Perfume? Or Excello Night Cream? Neither did anybody else. They were sold at cut prices. The company was spend- ing forty thousand a year in advertising, and getting cROS BY December 14,1929 nowhere fast. What happened? After a care- ful study of the situation by Mr. Byrd, the account was placed in the hands of our Mr. Mudge, vice president and account executive. “‘A wonderful fellow, Mudge. A great marketer! A born stylist! Almost overnight Excello prepara- tions vanished, together with their cheap jars and their thirty-nine-cent price tags. Came the dawn. La Belle Cliquette. Mudge put his heart and soul into that ac- count. He worked for a week alone evolving, with a noted sculptor, a series of con- tainers which would breathe the very spirit of beauty and distinct- iveness. He lavished months upon the monu- mental task of evolving a campaign to make women aura-minded. He poured his genius without stint into ob- taining not just the tes- timonials of persons but the statements of the smart, the rich, the cul- tured, in order to obtain universal acceptance of La Belle Cliquette. He wrote words in praise of La Belle Cliquette that Byron might have en- vied. And what hap- pened? La Belle Cli- quette is spending more than a million dollars a year in making people beauty-conscious.”’ And for every person that knows the six feet of freckled, tousled gen- ius that is William Alex- ander Brodie, a million know WET SMACKS Are youtired? Have you dandruff? Are you timid in a crowd? Is your mother-in-law coming for the winter? Try Wet SMACKS The confection of the cen- tury! Build your body and your spirit with this delicious combination of yeast, toasted almonds and rich milk chocolate. Try a bar today. All up-and-doing stores five cents. Or the advertisement that made fifty million people Wet-Smack con- scious last year. Would You Pay a Nickel to See an Earthquake? Buy a Wet Smack bar today. Eat it! Look at yourself in the mirror. The tingling vitamins of the yeast! The invigorating tang of the generous portion of salted almonds! The blood-building zip of rich milk chocolate! Whoopee! As Hubert J. K. Sparks puts it to the prospective client: “Nobody in the profession is closer to the hearts of the masses than Big Bill Brodie. S. Bullfinch & Co. are spend- ing a million and a quarter on Wet Smacks, and Big Bill is selling more than a million bars every week for them. Think of that for public acceptance of a five-cent article that didn’t exist two years ago. A million people a week every week— Wet-Smack-minded! “That’s what we have to offer to the prospective client who knows the value of imagination in business. The triple threat to American desires and appetites. The inspiration of a great broad mind attuned to the wide aspects of com- merce and industry to guide and lead. The genius of a man like Mudge that is as precise, and yet as delicate, as the (Continued on Page 48)

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Continued from Page 46) knife of a surgeon. The lusty power of a man like Bill Brodie that kindles sales consciousness by looking straight into the eyes of everyday people and talking to them in the same simple fashion. That is what we have to offer every advertiser in America. Imagination! Real creative sales effort! Great menta! balance! Teamwork that brings home the bacon!” And it was into this smoothly working machine of adver- tising, merchandising and sales promotion that Fate, grin- ning malevolently, tossed five-feet-one of seductive monkey wrench. A little square near the bottom of the Atlas chart soon gave her name and place in the Atlas scheme of things: Miss Patricia Whelan—Layout Artist. And al- most as soon T. Tattersal Byrd found himself with a deli- cate problem staring straight into his dark and probing eyes—a problem with a small white face, pert blue eyes under brows as black as the India ink that spread so deftly on the drawing board before them, and a mop of hair like rusty iron in the summer sun; a problem which threatened not only to disrupt the teamwork which brings home the bacon but gave every evidence of destroying the mental balance upon which all great creative sales effort is founded. In the language of the Atlas Advertising Agency, Alvin Ashley Mudge and William Alexander Brodie, from being Whelan-conscious, had suddenly both gone love-minded! cfd HE peace of mind of two million dollars of billing is a problem which admits of no de- lay in correction. The trouble had obviously started by Payton Petrie, art director of the Atlas Agency, hiring the girl. Equally obvious was the fact that it was up to Petrie to do something about it. T. Tattersal Byrd re- quested the telephone operator to ask Mr. Petrie to step in, and “=a then, still frowning, proceeded to . fill his pipe from the contents of a large bronze jar on the huge table desk before him. It was the pipe which Mr. Byrd so fre- quentiy referred to in his maga- zine articles as “my beloved problem solver.” Mr. Petrie arrived in a flutter of nervous genius. A smudge of 6H lead ran across his thin nose, and his pink silk shirt fluttered with the quick- ness of his coming. Some art directors might never remove their coats and never go about with 6H smudges, but they wereadministrative rather than creative. Mr. Petrie took off his horn-rimmed glasses and tenderly massaged the red creases they had left. “About this girl you took on a month or so ago " T. Tattersal Byrd began abruptly. “I know,” Mr. Petrie broke in hurriedly. “* Mudge is out there now, reading her the copy for that full page in the March issue of Modern Women. The stuff he is going to hang on that Russian princess that Benjamin dug up for him. You know, the one that goes: ‘If I never see my beloved Russia again, the glamorous, haunting beauty of those golden nights of long ago will always remain with me through the magic of La Belle Cliquette.’”’ “Never mind all that,’ said Mr. Byrd impatiently. But Mr. Petrie had a point te make and would not be shut off. “As I Started for your office,” he went on darkly, “she was telling him he played upon words like some master of the violin might play on the instrument of the im- mortals’’—Mr. Petrie sniffed—‘‘and Mudge was smiling down as tenderly at her as if she was a jar of La Belle Cliquette Night Balm that was going to some Park Avenue address to be photographed.” “He was, eh?” observed Mr. Byrd bitterly. “And it was only yesterday afternoon,” continued his incensed art director, “that I heard her tell Brodie that his double spread for Wet Smacks in February—the one that has the heading: A Million Smacks a Week For Wet Smacks— was a masterpiece of simple, friendly phrase- ology.” * . * =, a ‘ . ~ ~ T. Tattersal Byrd puffed vigorously on his problem solver. “This must be stopped,” he declared. ‘“‘Why, do you know what happened in this morning’s creative confer- ence? Mudge was reading his outline for next year’s La Belle Cliquette campaign when Brodie interrupted him to ask when La Belle Cliquette was going to make a nice tasty embalming cream for love-sick advertising men. Mudge immediately countered by inquiring with extreme heat when S. Bullfinch & Co. were going to make a Wet Smack for mental cases that were laboring under the delusion that the trash they wrote was advertising.” “Dear me,” clucked Mr. Petrie sympathetically. His principal dropped his pipe with a clatter. “Petrie,” he thundered, “‘ you must do something about this. I won’t have this once happy, busy, creative organization dis- rupted by this—this =a . ‘3 ~> : ti i a ~ SS y oe “She Was Telling Him He Played Upon Words Like Some Master of the Violin Might Play on the Instrument of the Immortais"’ “Miss Whelan,” his art director supplied weakly. “___ this little chit of a girl!’’ roared T. Tattersal Byrd. ‘You created this situation, Petrie! Now correct it!” But an art director is not to be driven—even by a prin- cipal; especially an art director who feels that he is more sinned against than sinning. Mr. Petrie replaced his glasses slowly. “I suppose,” he asked loftily, “I am responsible for human nature? I suppose it is my fault because everybody of any consequence in this agency is a bachelor? I suppose it is my fault that one of my assistants, hired because she possesses unusual ability in her line of endeavor, is made the subject of absurd attentions by officers of this com- pany? Are these assumptions correct, Mr. Byrd?” “You are a fool, Petrie,” the great man told him shortly, but with less heat. After all, good art directors do not grow on bushes. ‘What I mean is this: I don’t know this girl from Adam. I don’t want to know her. But she works for you. I can’t afford to have the stars in my cast fighting THE SATURDAY EVENING POST a ~e December 14, 1929 like a couple of alley cats over one of the chorus girls. Use your head.” “TI am,” Mr. Petrie assured him gloomily. “ Are you?” T. Tattersal Byrd picked up his pipe and stared. “What I mean is this,” his erstwhile stage manager, not- ing the stare, went on hurriedly: “You are afraid that if she picks Mudge over Brodie, out the window goes Brodie and, most likely, the Wet Smack account; or, on the other hand, if she hands the mitten to Mudge, off Mudge will walk to some other agency with La Belle Cliquette under his arm. Am I correct?” A match flickered over the blackened bow! of the prob- lem solver. The silvery head nodded slightly. Mr. Petrie removed his glasses and rubbed the newly created indentations with infinite satisfaction. Then he nodded his head. “Suppose I followed your implied sug- gestion and fired the girl. What would happen then? We couldn’t say that the girl quit, because she wouldn’t let us get away with it. I can’t let her go because her work is unsatisfactory, because it isn’t. Quite the reverse—and I’ve had occasion to tell her so. So that horse won’t jump. What’s left? Only thetruth. And what happens when we come out flat-footed and tell her the truth—that—that she is making fools out of the organi- zation?”’ “Part of the organization,”’ Mr. Byrd corrected him austerely. ‘“‘An important part, but still only a part.” “The point remains the same. Do you think Mudge with his pride and Brodie with his temper will enjoy the situation? I don’t. The way it looks to me, if we fire the girl we stand a chance of losing two men and two accounts rather than one man and one account.” “How about finding her another job? Have it come to her as a real opportunity.” “Where?” “Your job,” stated T. Tattersal with equal brevity. The delicate pink of disturbed temperament which had been gradually stealing over the thin face of the art director turned sud- denly to the outraged carmine of open revolt. He replaced his glasses with extreme deliberation. The lenses glittered balefully. Mr. Petrie was an artist. He was an important part in the creation of advertising which sold the services of the organization. He was nota bookkeeper. He was not a clerk. He was not an office boy. He said so, heatedly. “And furthermore,” he con- cluded, ‘“‘you may act as you see fit, but I donot feel that I should— or can—in justice to my self- respect, discharge a person who has almost a genius for balance and form, just because people make fools of themselves over her.” Mr. Petrie raised his hand dramatically. A hand which seemed about to say: “If thie be treason, make the most of it!” Unfortunately for the cramatic unities, Mr. Petrie’s glasses tumbled from his heated nose at this critical mo- ment. When he had recovered them from the deep blue pile by means of a dignified side stoop, and once more stood erect, he found Mr. Byrd regarding him with a smile of evident apology. The smile was followed by an outstretched hand as T. Tattersal Byrd arose. “Petrie,” he said, ‘“‘you were right and I was wrong. This job is not in your department. I admire your spirit and courage in telling me so. If there is anything we need in modern business, it is these two quali- ties. This is a problem for me alone. Everyone else con- nected with it is too close to the picture to get the proper perspective. You—er—er—because of your art and the girl’s ability; Mudge and Brodie because of their alleged feeling in the matter.” The little smile of toleration for other people’s weaknesses twisted the corner of the great (Continued on Page 76)

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST ANIBNIRN- POWERED BY LYCOMING ealers Are Successful because— Auburn cars have been oversold every year for five years. because—Auburn cars give the public greater value for less cost. Comparison proves it. because— Auburn design has not been obsoleted by radical changes. Therefore the invest- elaelene) a@attletietMelisioet luc protected. eae li hiceevattleltiuems emilee Quucmueiiilisniceentineomsicneloes because— Auburn Straight Eights sell for less than many Sixes, eae-tthicmemvattleltiunMyl (cm laluacrticeMenteeltcetiaentmorstuys me meme CMrlakuclar lire the year before ). oelthicevattleltiveM MauecitiucteemetullistcmrleleM@uc eltiuuc Mile. merce ieclccl aces seemii eel industry; Auburn owns or controls many vital sources of supply and has large elucoe(owimcavcemelticcusel@eletcs because—Auburn’s policy is farsighted, not based om expediency. Its record is one of con- Segttushy uae carteemisiseme(clicet ehar imams li Becnriimimetoiiccmeceieleyty and render service to their customers. because—Auburn’s financial position is one of the strongest. erettticmemattleltiaeMmoetulelccetelme(ave eutcim ices Srmelicie tele MOmicBeee ues kyoto Witness Auburn’s leadership in introducing the Cord front-drive car of un- qualified success, and Auburn has led the industry in beauty of design for five years. awl cevattleltiesM eo qelcelselucs eilemuciitelcemcekercmeriilom@elie Bucur lellartiemehyon.o fied. Auburn builds Six cylinder cars for less than $1000, Straight Eight Auburn cars, Cord front-drive cars; and the Duesenberg cars, the chassis of which costs $8,500. because—the public confidence in the Auburn management and demand for the Auburn elaeretttucmtme-teytelhmcehnatelee elaett hone Ohi siloeke) Mattie isekertat teckemusteci@eeelcoes AUBURN AUTOMOBILE COMPANY Auburn, Indiana

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50 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14,1929 YOUR ENEMY, THE CROOK HE sympathetic mind of the Amer- ican people, in its overconcern about who are in difficulties, has swung too far from the family of the murdered man to the family of the murderer.” I heard President Hoover utter these words before the members of the Associated Press in New York City several months ago, during the course of an address on crime and law enforcement. The President is the first man I've heard discuss crime and criminals sanely and sensibly. I have heard neurologists, criminolegists, university presidents and prison-reform workers discuss crime and criminals for twelve years and I have never heard one of them give expression to a sound idea. And so it was a relief and a source of much pleasure to hear the Chief Executive discuss my old profession intelligently and with no little wis? dom. In the paragraph quoted above, he gave one of the most important reasons for the increase of crime. Too much sympathy for crooks. Too much mollycoddling. Too much of that old stuff about the poor fellow never having had a chance and too little sympathy for the victims of crooks. But if we paraphrase the President's remarks to read, “The sympathetic mind of the American people, in its de- sire to temper justice with mercy, has swung too far from the welfare of society to the welfare of the criminal,” we get the paramount reason for the tremen- dous increase of crime in this country during the past fifteen years. Society has been entirely too merciful with its enemy, the crook. The crook does not appreciate mercy. Spoiled by Sob Sisters F COURSE, the sob sisters and sob brothers who think a crook can be redeemed with a kiss will be properly shocked by my views. Recently one of them, a lady, to whom I had expressed the opinion that society babied crooks too much for their own good, responded by quoting the Bard of Avon’s imperish- able verse on mercy. “But, my good woman,” I replied, “there were no twentieth-century crooks in those halcyon days when the master dramatist wrote, ‘It is twice blessed; it blesseth him that gives and him that takes." There is beauty and sentiment in the phrase,”” I added, “but no wis- dom. ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child’ is all wisdom.” “Nonsense,” the lady said. ‘Punishment brutalizes.”’ “No,” I protested, “punishment does not brutalize. It is a great deterrent when properly applied. If the Bard of Avon were living in this day and age, he would undoubtedly change his famous lines to read that mercy—too much mercy—corrupteth him that receiveth it.” The lady was disappointed to hear an old offender like me talk such nonsense. When I tried to convince her that my conclusions on the futility of mercy and the efficacy of punishment were born in the womb of experience and nurtured by many years of serious meditation, she turned on her heel and walked away from me. I should have known that contempt is the reward of the man who tries to destroy a popular creed. I believe that punishment is a deterrent, because I have been deterred by it. I believe that too much mercy cor- rupts, because I’ve been corrupted by too much mercy. And I do not speak facetiously, you may be sure of that! When I first started out to get my share of this world’s goods by my wits, I frequently fell into the hands, and oc- casionally into the arms, of men and women who petted and pampered me. These sentimentalists said a boy at my age should not be punished. I was too young. I was a first offender. I had never had a chance. I was a victim of my environment. I was not responsible for my trans- gressions against society; society was responsible. So I didn’t go to prison. I was released to carry on my depre- dations until I became a hardened criminal. By The Rambler—A Reformed Convict After That Experience I Was a Hero in the Eyes of the Gang. I Had Been Pinched. 1 Had Spent a Night in a Celt Today the same breed of sentimentalists who, if you will pardon the expression, put me on the bum with their do- good-for-evil philosophy are putting hundreds--aye, thou- sands—of young criminals on the bum with the pernicious creed that sympathetic treatment will convert a young crook into a law-abiding citizen. I know better. I know that seventeen years of sympathetic treatment converted me into an underworld buzzard. What this country needs more than a good five-cent cigar is a few good prisons and justice. I speak as an authority on how to combat the crook, and as a preface in qualification thereof I submit a summary of my career. I began my criminal career as a gangster. In turn I was a petty-larceny crook, a house burglar, a stick-up man and finally, the aristocrat of all criminals, a bank burglar. Over a period of seventeen years of criminal activity I landed in several prisons. At the tender age of sixteen I was an in- mate of a reformatory. I have registered in penitentiaries in four different states. The total of terms imposed on me during my seventeen years of cheating is thirty-three years, of which I served ten years. Let all parties con- cerned—sleuths and prison keepers—be advised that there are no rewards out for my scalp. I have long since ad- justed my affairs with those states wherein I played hide and seek years ago. It would seem that there must have been something wrong with your protective system, else how could a fellow with my record get away with serving about one-fourth of the terms imposed and still manage to carry on a criminal career? The next natural assump- tion is that there must have been something wrong with me or I wouldn’t have spent seventeen years of my life trying to beat an unbeatable game. Well, the answer to the first supposition is that your protective system was not, and isn’t today, worth a plugged nickel. The answer to the second supposition is that I am O. K. physically and mentally, and always have been. I’ve never been addicted to drugs. I never drank to excess. The first-class crooks tnat I’ve known all ate well, slept well, and were the personification of indus- try while they were after loot. At other times they were lazy. Busy Being Crooked UT now I recall that a neurologist once pronounced mean incorrigible criminal. I was twenty when the mo- mentous decision was rendered. He said I was suffering from emotional instability due to maladjustment of the working of my endocrine system. He added that I lacked social adapt- ability and would always be a menace to society. The judge before whom the man of science rendered this opin- ion forthwith gave me eighteen years in a state prison. I thought that wes much too long to remain in one place, so I escaped after I had served eight months. The neurologist erred when he said I lacked social adaptability, for I’ve been earning a pretty decent living with a typewriter for twelve years. He was talking through his hat, as neurologists frequently do nowa- days, when he said my endocrines were all shot to pieces. The honorable judge was guessing when he concluded that eighteen years would cure me. Eighteen years in the prison would have been like eighteen years in an old ladies’ home. When I wasa criminal I didn’t know why I was one, and neither did any- body else. I was no more concerned about it than were the various prison keepers, policemen, court officials, and all the softies with whom I came in contact. The only matter about which I was seriously concerned was how to rob banks and get away with the coin. Crooks seldom think of anything outside of crooking. If they did, they wouldn’t be crooks. I did very little thinking on the subject of why I was a crook, until I got away from crooks and stopped crooking. But the first flash came to me while I was in a certain prison. I shall have something to say about that prison later on. Teday I know why I was a crook for seventeen years. The matter is crystal clear to me. I know that intelligent treatment would have saved me from a criminal career when I first began to steal. And society would have saved the many thousands of dollars it cost to pursue, capture, try and convict me during my seventeen years of crime. Like all criminals I was an expensive liability to society. During my career I robbed about thirty-two banks for a haul of approximately four hundred thousand dollars. It would have been good business to salvage me. I am the only one of my family of seven, three girls and four boys, that turned cheater. My parents were as poor as the proverbial church mouse. My mother, like all mothers, was a saint. My father was a hard-boiled, two- fisted autocrat. Both were clean and sound as a dollar. Pop also was something of a dunce. He had little use for schools and less for churches. He said a boy knew enough if he could read and write; therefore he had us working when we were quite young. I was employed when I was ten. Pop knew the neighborhood in which we lived very thoroughly. He had the pedigrees of all the neighbors at his finger tips. There were only a few families with whom we could associate. All the rest were on the Index. He was a disciplinarian extraordinary. He ruled with an iron hand. We went to bed at a certain hour. We got up (Continued on Page 52)

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Continued from Page 50) at a certain hour. He made us walk to and from our re- spective places of employment. Car fares were tabooed. When we took our seats at the table he handed out the food. If we failed to utter a hearty “thank you, pop,” we didn’t get any more food. I was a good, hard-working kid while he lived. Indeed, I had to be. He made me toe the mark. I was afraid of him. I was eleven when he died. After his death I began to drift. My mother couldn’t control me as he had done. First I quit my job. Then I began toassociate with the members of a well-known gang. From till tapping I went into prowling sloughs—houses of the rich, vacated for the summer. I staged my first rob- bery in a house on Riverside Drive. Several days later I was arrested trying to dispose of the loot in a pawn- shop. It was my first experience with the law. Immediately my mother was on the job, pleading for me. When I appeared before the magistrate, a lady from a society, with the society's attorney, was there to defend me. The minister of our church and the man for whom I had worked were also on hand to testify that I was not such a bad boy. The attorney argued that it would be a crime to send a boy of my tender years to prison. The mag- istrate agreed with him, gave me a lecture—most of which. | didn’t hear or understand—and then dis- missed me. Well, as I look back at that experience now, I am convinced that the judge made a great mistake when he let me off so easily, and the good people who pleaded for me also erred. There is where society should have begun to teach me that breaking the law was a very serious matter. After that experience I was a hero in the eves of the gang. I had been pinched. I had spent a night in a cell. I had beaten my first rap. I had a reputatior asa burglar. I was proud of that reputation. And young as I was, I had a sneaking idea that beating the rap was an easy caper. I was sure that I could beat another as easily as I had beaten the first one; so I went on crooking. in and Out of Reformatories OR a year or more I got away with mur- der, as the boys put it. Then came the second rap. I was glued for breaking into a clothing store. Once again the sob sisters and sob brothers came to my assistance with pathetic stories of my home life, my environ- ment and my heaith. But this time the judge was not so lenient. He committed me to the reformatory for an indefinite period. Right here I should like to dynamite the time-honored fallacy that reform schools ruin juveniles. I have heard it said hundreds of times that reform schools are schools of crime wherein first offenders receive a thorough education in every sort of crime. Most of the kids that land in the reforma- tories are not first offenders. They may be first offenders in the sense that it is their first conviction or the first time they were caught. Most of them were criminals, hard- boiled, wise-cracking brats, long before they ever got as far as the reformatory. I know the reformatory didn’t ruin me then. I hasten to qualify that statement. My first reformatory experience really did me more harm than good. There was absolutely nothing in the life of the institution calculated to make me regret my past transgressions against society or deter me from future transgressions. The officials made no effort to discipline me. If I violated the rules I received a lecture. A second offense brought another lecture. For the third offense I was sometimes isolated and deprived of privileges. A few lectures and a day or two in solitary didn’t intimidate me at all; therefore, I violated the rules at will and got away with it. Some of us had better times in the reformatory than we had outside. We were well fed, had good beds to sleep in, and medical attention when we were ill. The con- sequence of all this kindergarten stuff was that we didn’t fear the reformatory. My mother was able to obtain my release after I had served six months. I promised her that I would be a good boy and go to work if she got me out. But as soon as I got out I went right back to the gang and resumed my criminal career. The younger members of the mob looked upon me as a great guy and [ reveled in their admiration. I was an ex-con! Three months later I was arrested again, charged with breaking and entering. I was fifteen. Back to the reforma- tory I went for another indefinite term. On this trip I THE SATURDAY EVENING POST served nine months before the sob sisters and sob brothers were able to spring me. The gang was all shot to pieces when I came home after my second trip to jail. Some of the boys had gone straight, some had emigrated to other parts of the city, while some had gone to prison. I had outgrown the gang anyway. I was, I thought, fitted for more important activities than prowling sloughs and breaking into candy stores. I went up a step in my profession by turning holdup man. My first job was a flivver. I was caught in the act and shipped to the peni- tentiary to serve a two-year term. I probably would have got ten years if my old stand-bys, the soft-hearted ladies and gentlemen, hadn’t come to the front for me again with the old yarn about my environment and youth. These My Parents Were as Poor as the Proverbiai Church Mouse. My Mother, Like All Mothers, Was a Saint well-meaning people were gluttons for punishment. It seemed that I couldn’t possibly destroy their faith in me, for, regardless of what I did or how many times I did it, they still came to the front for me. And by so doing they strengthened the impression that grifting and beating the law were soft games. In the big house I met the big shots of the crime world. There was one fellow there, a’ safe cracker, who captivated me the first time I laid eyes on him. I liked the way he walked and glared at the other cons when they tried to get acquainted with him. I liked the way he wore his prison cap cocked over his left eye and the manner in which he carried the big wad of tobacco in his mouth and expec- torated through his front teeth. Immediately I began to imitate him. I wore my cap cocked over my left eye. I bought a plug of tobacco and always had a big wad of it in my mouth, and practiced ex- pectorating between my teeth. In my cell at night I would rehearse for an hour or more until I had mastered walking like the safe cracker walked. My next ambition was to talk with him. That, I thought, would be a great experience; so one day I ac- costed him in the yard. I had the cap down over my left eye and a wad of tobacco in my mouth. He smiled at me December 14,1929 when I spoke to him, asked me my name, what I was in for, and how long I had to serve. He was a little reticent on our first meeting, but on the second one he warmed up and recited some of his safe-cracking escapades, which charmed me beyond expression. One day he expounded his philosophy. He said crooks were the salt of the earth, the greatest people in the world. He said one crook was worth more than a hundred square shooters. He said square shooters were dingbats, chumps. He said nobody but chumps worked for a living, and that all cops, judges, prison keepers and prosecuting attorneys were rats. I agreed with everything he said. He had so I thought then—the right idea. He knew what he was talking about. When I left the penitentiary I knew as much about the construction of petes as the men who made them. The stretch in the big house made a finished raw-jawed crook out of me. I left there with the firm conviction that there was nothing about prison life that could possibly deter me or anybody else from a criminal career. The routine was pretty much like the reformatory—little work, lots of di- version, good food, good beds, newspapers, magazines, cigars, cigarettes, baseball games, and band concerts by the prison band. It is my unqualified opinion that breaks and riots occur only in prisons that are mismanaged, in prisons where there is comparatively little discipline and where there are trusties and corrupt guards through whom prisoners make connections with the outside world. Riots invariably are staged for the purpose of effecting an escape, and for no other reason. You can bet all the tea in China on that! One Real Prison T SEEMS to me that society has the faculty of arriving at conclu- sions which have utterly no founda- tion in fact when the criminal is concerned. Before the Baumes Laws a twenty-year term meant approximately fourteen or fifteen years. Today twenty years means twenty years. There is no com- pensation for good behavior. And there shouldn’t be. The crook who demands rewards for good behavior should learn how to behave himself outside, where the rewards are in- finitely more substantial. In the old days a fourth offender got away with three or four years. Today hegetslife. Speaking as a man who knows his crooks, I say it’s fine business. The way to stop crime waves is by putting away for all time the people who create crime waves. Of course the crooks don’t relish such harsh treatment; there- fore they stage riots to arouse pub- lie sympathy, and the sap public always responds with the sym- pathy. Already the softies are be- ginning to plead for the abolition of the Baumes Laws. A riot is not a thing of the moment when all the boys sud- denly get together and say, ‘‘ Well, fellows, let’s stage a riot.’”’ Oh, no. A riot is a carefully arranged affair. It requires time, organization, patience, skill. Numerous consultations are necessary. The ring- leaders must send out the wire to the rest of the cons to get their reaction to the scheme and to steam them up by telling them that they’ll be able to hop over the walls to liberty when the riot is staged. The writer once served a term in a prison in which a riot never occurred. Further still, I don’t think an escape ever occurred from the prison I speak of. It is the Vermont state prison, the one in which I was brought to the real- ization that crime was an unprofitable business. And,mark you, I arrived at this conviction after I had been crook- ing for seventeen years. Gentlemen, there is a prison! I don’t know what it is now, but when I was there it was a prison. Let me give you a picture of this stir which transformed me into a square shooter. I was thirty-two when I checked into the Vermont bastile at Windsor to serve a seven-year term for the rob- bery of a bank that I didn’t rob. I was ten miles away when some unknown underworld brothers staged the job for which the Vermonters locked me up and threw away the key. (Continued on Page 128)

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54 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14,1929 ILE OF APPLE TREES ———— “"l Min't Saying if They Did or Either if They Didn't,’’ Said Muckethouser S THERE anything in human experience that is trivial and inconsequential? In the year 1898 a new rope in a summer shower shrank an inch; thirty years later, in the year 1928, as a direct consequence, war ensued between two men who had never even known of the rope. Amaziah Pfantz and Otto Muckelhouser owned the rope n common, though Amaziah had bought it. Muckelhouser had offered in a still small voice to pay for his share, but \{maziah, with a wave of his palm, had negatived the pro- posal. Afterward he wondered vaguely why he had done wondered why he was always more quickly generous with this neighbor of his than with anyone else. It was because—though he himself never reasoned it rough—he was so fond of Muckelhouser that he could t bear to acknowledge even to himself the one flaw in he other. Let Muckelhouser’s black pupils begin to draw those ugly pin points of calculation, and Pfantz, before knew it, would wave away any small matter between tnem. So, in that summer of 1898, upon mention of the rope, which seemed a desirable factor in their new project, when Muckelhouser’s eyes veered from Pfantz and the wrinkles sbout them began setting inward, as though to push the pupils to painful pin points, Pfantz waved his palm and aid quickly ‘But I will pay out for the rope. I have got yet some oats laying that I will trade for it. Ach, I guess anyhow, for uu have made a good thought, Otto. Yes, your brains have used your head good this time, that I have got to give you.” l'o which Muckelhouser made answer modestly enough, ill the little wrinkles running smoothly away: “ Well, for ill, | guess it ain’t just so many fences where could be a fence and at the same time make a crop still.” By Oma Almona Davies rTrELVUSsS TRA TE O Br Lu In truth, Muckelhouser’s plan was a canny one, and in all justice to the little wrinkles, they had been the insti- gators of it. For one day after Pfantz, for the twentieth time, had been urging the expenditure for a new line fence between the two farms, the little lines had run together to such sharp and pricking points as to etch upon Muckel- houser’s brain the vision of a row of fruit trees with laden branches sweeping half upon his own land, half upon Pfantz’s. “A fence where will make crops yet! A fence where every year will be paying out for itself again!’’ Pfantz cried in solemn admiration. “And what for trees will we be planting then? Apples, not? For you mind, apples can be living till they are fifty years aged or whatever. Ach, what it makes that you have got a head with brains at, Otto!” “Apple trees could be for the children from our chil- dren,’’ mused Muckelhouser, who was a pious man; “for so far forth as you and me go, we have lived the biggest half a’ready of our years.”” It was true. For a moment the two aging men stood looking in silence upon the rotting timbers of the stake-and-rider fence which their fathers had made before them. ‘“‘Them fence’’—Muckelhouser pointed somberly—‘‘where is them a’ready where made them fence? Till a little we could be by them, not?” “Ach, well" —Pfantz broke away—‘“‘I ain’t for being packed out till a while yet! Not, anyway, till I get the dare to eat down some of these here fence apples. What wonders me is how we can come at the line for the trees. For it’s easy seen that dumb fence ain’t for helping us much.” “T ain’t for renting one of them fancy fellers with inster- ments at,”” warned Muckelhouser quickly. “‘We would be K Ii wMEL poor souls if we couldn’t have gumption to measure our own land.” “We had ought to be able to bring it off,”’ murmured Pfantz puzzledly. For a moment the problem seemed acute; then Pfantz had the idea for the rope. Each owned three hundred and twenty acres in even rectangle; they had, therefore, the same frontage upon the highway —two thousand six hundred and forty feet, as they later calculated. By the aid of a rope one hundred feet long they could easily arrive at the median line be- tween their holdings. The rope was purchased upon a cloudy day in July. In- deed, the rain descended with such vigor before they had fairly started that Pfantz threw the new coils over a fence post and the two did not resume operations until the fol- lowing day. From the old section monument, then, at the outer corner of the holdings of Muckelhouser, they laid the rope upon the ground twenty-six times; the final forty feet they measured with a tape measure from the sewing basket of Mrs. Muckelhouser. Twice they measured me- ticulously this latter fraction, for, as Pfantz remarked, “Somepin female could go squeasy on us mebbe.” Along the ruins of the fence they tramped then, across Amaziah’s cornfield in the front, across his hayfield in the rear, and they measured again, beginning from Muckel- houser’s rear monument. At this second median point they drove another stake, and they looked at each other, well pleased. There was no need, both agreed, to measure also from Pfantz’s monuments, their acreage being pre- cisely the same. Muckelhouser thrust the questionable female tape measure into his pocket, Pfantz coiled over his arm the unquestionable male rope—which during the rain had shrunk a secret inch—and the two, prompted by some dim urge for ceremonial, shook hands. (Continued on Page 56)

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Continued from Page 54) ‘One mile of apple trees,”” mused Pfantz, his eyes reach- ing over the windrows of his hay, over his cornfield and be- yond toward the highway. “And the shade from them won't be nicking into our crops, neither, for we have got to have, anyhow, a road for to fetch our hay to the barns out, and we can put it at the edge of the cornfields underneath of the trees. Ain't so?” Muckelhouser, in whom the unusual transaction reaching so far beyond their own lives had induced a reflective mood, nodded absently and repeated: ‘‘A mile of apple trees yet! 4 much can come to pass before them trees go laying to their doom like that fence there.” ‘But it won't be quarrels among the two of us any- way” smiled Pfantz—-“nor among Otto and Jonas neither —that much I can prophetic. I guess it’s Otto you will be inheriting to, not?” returned Muckelhouser. “Them girls can ‘To be sure,” look a little out and marry farms for themselves. ‘If Amaziah wouldn't have died for u " sighed the other. “Ach, but, well, anyway, Jonas will have need for t, | guess, and before long too, I make no doubt, the way he is making up to that Shentel.” ‘Shentel?”’ cried Muckelhouser. “That girl from Levi Shentel? Why, my Otto is making up to her. For six months or what he is making up to her hed But it’s anyhow a year that Jonas s keeping company with.” For a moment the two eyed each other with sharp paternal concern. ‘hen Muckelhouser smiled. ‘Ach, well, she will be fetching off for herself a good boy, whichever way she jumps.” “That 1 give you, too," conceded Pfantz heartily, “and it won't be mak- ng bad friendship among the boys, whatever. Too thick they have been always for a iittle thing like a female to make any matters among them. If your Otto stands up with the Shentel, I can pass my word for Jonas, anyways, that he won't be spited too much.” Muckelhouser opened his lips, but he closed them suddenly. He was a truth- ful man, and the conviction had flashed upon him that he couldn’t in honesty say what his own son would do, should the situation be reversed. Otto Muckelhouser was a quiet sort who had, ever in boyhood, taken his life into his own hands with an inexorable- which had baffled parents when they had attempted to plan for him. To do him justice, he planned well, but if he should be thwarted His father, standing there that July - day, awkwardly easing the tape meas- “~~. ure up and down in his pocket, had, for the moment, nothing to say. But after all, he might have spared himself this odd moment of .embar- rassment, for it was his Otto who married the Shentel gir! three months after the apple trees were set between the two holdings. The contest for her hand had been a spirited one; the girl had veered first toward droll Jonas Pfantz who made her laugh and then toward high-colored Otto Muckel- houser who made her heart leap to his compelling eye. After all, it was an affair of the heart, and she chose Muckelhouser, though she did so with a wistful sigh. The elder Pfantz had, indeed, known his son; young Jonas’ tongue silenced for some weeks and his blue eyes looked as though they would never lose their young per- But within a few months he began roving into and one day returned with a youthful Celia Criddlebaugh, as blond as himself and twice as huxom ness his pet ual pain the next county He even chuckled to Otto Muckelhouser: “I have got more woman than what you have got anyway.” lo which Otto made response, with a glance toward the plump and pleasant Celia: “Yes, I won't agree against you there.”’ And it may be remarked of Celia in passing that her gen- erosity was not that of appearance only; early in her mar- ried life she contracted the habit of presenting to the world n general every two years a new blond edition of herself and Jonas. Amaziah became a doting old planet whirled ubout by bobbing yellow suns. THE SATURDAY EVENING POST Young Otto, on the other hand, drew away from the old Muckelhouser home. In his self-contained way he set up his own domicile in the extreme corner of the cornfield; the apple trees, indeed, were to border his meticulous lawn. In his neat, square house his wife painfully bore him a single son and a single daughter. This small, ordered family pleased Otto; he wished neither the expense nor the care of a large brood. Everything—that which he planned for himself and that which befell him by chance—seemed to turn out for the benefit of Otto Muckelhouser. “Ain't it is wonderful,” said old Amaziah to old Otto one day during the fifteenth harvesting of the apples, ‘how it goes yet freundlich among the two families of us? Look oncet how it makes.” Indeed, it was a pleasant sight upon which the two gazed as they sat at the edge of the grape arbor in Otto’s side yard. The younger men were picking the last of the apples, their women and the older children were sorting them into fragrant heaps. Soon would come the dealer who would Jonas Rested, as Aiways, in the Round Bright Sun of Her Face. No Use to Cloud That Sun!—‘'Il Been Ad Solum Ad Calum" “" Been’’— He Hesitated — take them away; then there would be, as always, the even division of the price. “Unto the third and the fourth generations still,’’ mut- tered pious old Otto. Jonas, from within the cool arbor, set down the glass of cider, wiped his steaming forehead and laughed: “Ach, but you two are young yet! When you have got the years I have got a’ready, you will know that satisfied folks ain’t ever fighting folks. Look oncet on them apples! Ten bushels off every tree, one hunert seventy trees, seventeen hunert or either eighteen hunert bushels fur to divide among us. We ain't fighting over that. Ain’t so, Otto?” The women laughed, and the children; only the man to whom the query was addressed did not. Otto Muckel- houser, upon his ladder against a near-by tree, neither smiled nor made answer. This was not remarked. He was a silent man, increasingly so. But a moment later he turned and stood for a moment, his eyes ranging from heap to heap of the apples below. Good looking those intense brown eyes were, even better looking, perhaps, because of that black point in the center of each. Always there it was, that intensive pin point, not intermittent, as in the case of his father, not driven there by fluctuating circumstance always there. December 14, 1929 It was as well, perhaps, that the two old men never sat again to watch the harvesting of the apples. Old Amaziah was not there the following year; two years later, in the season of blossoms, old Otto was preparing to follow him happily enough, being a pious man. He never suspected anything untoward when his son asked him: “ How, any- way, did you come at the line for those trees?” With the seeds of death all but ripe within him, old Otto yet managed a chuckle: ‘‘A rope oncet.” Young Otto stiffened slightly backward. ‘A rope only?” He bent over the bed, his compelling eyes ravaging the other’s face. “Did you say a rope, pop?” “A hunert feet,” wagged old Otto. “Ach, yes, men was smart them days.” His son left the room, stumbling over a chair, though it was mid-afternoon. Outside, with the same strain of va- cancy upon his face, he stood looking down the mile-long bouquet of pink flush. The blossoms showered their sweet breath upon him, but though his nostrils widened and he drew their very essence into himself, he was not conscious of the perfume; petals, tiny, dawn-pink like liberated in- fant souls, played together in the light breeze before his eyes, but he did not see them. He saw instead branches sweeping before him like laden plumes, rich, heavy with golden freightage. High upon a hay wagon he stood and the cool, round, yellow spheres bobbed against his cheeks as he went riding along—-cool, round, yellow like gold. Gold! Goldsmooth against his cheeks. And the two old men had measured with a rope. it Otto Muckelhouser shook his shoulderssuddenly, wheeled about and went, stepping high and quickly, toward the house. Two months later, leaving a store in the village with laden ‘ arms, he stopped. There was é that same coil of rope which had ' seemed always in his path for the past weeks; tawny, coiled, waiting, it might almost have seemed, for him to stumble over it. This day he bought one hun- dred feet. For, after all, what could be better for purposes of measure- ment than a length of rope pre- e cise to the inch? Men had been smart in those days. But ac- curate—had they been accurate? He told himself that he wanted only to satisfy his curiosity as to how accurate they had been, and then drop the matter. But the matter did not drop him. No, Otto Muckelhouser made his measurement from that old section monument at the far corner upon the highway to the row of trees, and be- yond. Beyond! The carpenter's rule by which he meas- ured the final forty feet lay full two feet beyond the trunks of the trees. He laid the rope again twenty-six times upon the ground, again he laid the rule; the rule ex- tended full twenty-six inches beyond the trees. He stood then with the new rope coiled over his arm, as had the elder Pfantz thirty years before, but there was a difference: The new rope upon Muckelhouser’s arm was a dry rope. It had not lain upon a fence post during a drenching summer rain; it had not shrunk a secret inch. It was a dry rope, precise to the inch, which coiled there next to Otto Muckelhouser’s heart; only its head, which he fingered indecisively, frayed slightly, its two strands, as he dropped it finally, pointing directly toward the Pfantz do- main like a forked tongue. Indecisively, even then; for, as he turned his eyes the branches seemed to sweep slightly downward before him, as though the better to display their thickening trays of green nodules. And the trunks through which they drew their sweet strong life were upon his soil—all of them upon his soil. Again Otto Muckelhouser shook himself suddenly and went from the place, stepping high and quickly. But the rope was in his own barn now; he saw it, coiled hard and tawny, twice, thrice a day, when he entered the doors. And when he went toward his house he saw, just beyond, branches dipping before him, tipping to his eyes a faint flush growing more yellow each day. Soon he would be riding upon the hay wagon and the spheres would be bobbing against his cheeks—cool, round yellow like goid! He began to stand trancelike, staring at the trees. Al- ways an equable man, he grew irritable within and without. Continued on Page 58

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(Continued from Page 56) Even his food displeased him; a thousand imps seemed tearing at his very vitals. Pfantz, too, saw the unusual promise of the freighted branches. ‘I will be owning them twins till a while yet!” he cried one day as he came up unexpectedly behind his neighbor, who had halted his horses and sat gazing at the trees. Muckelhouser started. Who knows what secret thoughts were in his mind? For his rich color flared even deeper as he demanded: ‘‘ What fur twins?” “Dory and Cory, to be sure,”’ grinned Pfantz. ‘Them last ones. I never feel to be owning my kids till such time as I pay off the medical doc where fetches them. But with this here crop of apples “TI guess you could feel to be owning them all right,” Muckelhouser cut in. “Far as I know, nobody wants to pack them off you.” “And neither nobody could pack them off me!”’ came back Jonas. The smile had faded from his face; his blue eyes wondered upon the other. “All I mean,” he added in his usua] slow way, “it gives a geod crop for us this year, our ap- ples."’ The very patience of his tone whipped on the furies within Muckelhouser. Everything whipped them on: The pain in the blue eyes which he had himself evoked; even the fact that the other was shorter and slighter than himself; most of all, the revelation of dependence upon the apple crop. All these were in reality a rebuke to Muckelhouser's secret thoughts, and he was not a man who could take rebuke consciously or uncon- sciously. Now he knew only that he was irritated beyond endurance; he hitched his shoulders as though even his clothes galled him unut- terably, and lashed out: “Our apples!" Jonas looked at him, his face so blank that not even surprise was written upon it. Muckelhouser burst into loud, unmirthful laughter; he laughed as though he would never stop. “You think a half of them trees belong to you! They ain't; they are mine, all. They set onto my land, all.” “But my pop and yourn, they set them. They set them for a line fence."’ Jonas’ lips scarcely moved; his eyes had not left the other’s face. Muckelhouser threw up a hand, the whip in it, before his own eyes, then brought the lash smartly down upon his horse's astonished flank. “Take another thought if you think it!” he called back incoherently. “But they did set it,”” Jonas insisted ten minutes later, as he stood in Muckelhouser’s barn. Jonas had sat quite still upon his wagon, staring after the other until he had turned in at his gate; then he had turned his horse about and followed. “T ain't saying if they did or either if they didn’t,” said Muckelhouser. Now that the storm of indecision within him had lashed to climax, it was subsiding to dead, in- exorable calm. “‘What I know is them trees are on my land, all. And the law puts it out that the fruit. belongs to the owner of the trees; even the fruit from the over- stretching branches yet.” Jonas started. “‘ You have went and set the law between us then!"’ he cried in solemn agitation. “‘ You have been for to see a lawyer a’ready!” Muckelhouser slammed the harness upon its nail with unnecessary vigor. “I’m telling you the rights of it,” he evaded. “It means to say then’’—Jonas forced his lips—‘‘ where the apples ain’t anyways mine?” “Take and figure it out for yourself. But if you don’t feel for taking my words about the line, go to work and measure it. I will leave you borrow the lend of that new rope there.” Jonas’ hand made a swift, instinctive move behind him; his eyes smarted from the proffered rope. ‘I could git one for myself,”’ he said, and walked evenly toward the door. Not Muckelhouser’s noisy eruption in the road was half the climax between the two as was this involuntary shudder from the rope on the part of Pfantz, the toneless finality of his rejection. After all the lifelong friends had shared in common! . . . Muckelhouser was panting slightly; his lips hung open in a sort of ghastly disarray us he stood by THE SATURDAY EVENING POST the harness wall, gazing after the slight figure as it drove from him. In that moment he would have given much to retract the entire scene between them. He was not an evil man; the trouble was simply that he had not checked that one inherited flaw of his; through the years it had grown, until now it was like to choke out all of his good qualities. But even now those good traits arose and cried aloud within him as the friend of his youth hurried with bowed, hurt shoulders from his premises. But as he went toward the house, and the trees dipped and swayed their panniers like courtesans before him, his nostrils dilated with their faint, sensuous perfume, and he said to himself that he was glad that all was settled and that now he would have what was rightly his. Rightly—a queer word that, forthright sounding, and yet capable of many and diverse interpretations. Pfantz did not purchase a rope to measure the land; he hired, eventually, a surveyor. Eventually—for some days he looked and acted as one in a partial daze. Even the un- observant Celia noted his demeanor. “‘Ain’t you anything so well?” she would cry at him. For Jonas, contrary to his He Stood Then With the New Rope Coiled Over His Arm, as Had the Eider Pfantz Thirty Years Before, But There Was a Difference usual candor, had told no one of the matter, not even his well-loved Celia. He had a notion she would be noisy over it, and he had an instinctive wish for quiet. When he spoke, his voice was low, as though that upon which he brooded had somehow a flavor of death. Perhaps it had, consider- ing the hands now peaceful which had drawn the line for those trees; perhaps it had, considering that which was come to pass between himself and the one whom he had esteemed his closest friend since infancy. Then, too, the death of an ideal is the hardest death of all; and for all of his life Otto Muckelhouser, with hi: stronger body, his quicker resolution, his greater efficiency, had been an ideal for Jonas; even now Jonas had an odd reluctance to confess to anyone the perfidy of the other. In the confusion into which his mind had been thrown by the shock, he was thus in some strange way not only protecting Otto but also something deep and precious within himself. But despite his appearance of daze, his brain had never been so active as during that short interim before he took of his scanty store and hired a surveyor. His mind, in its readjustment, began to set its memories in order; freeing itself of the glamour of Muckelhouser’s strong personality, it began to see incidents in the past as they really had been. December 14, 1929 Why, even in their boyhood young Otto had always taken from Jonas. All through their years he had had what he would. ‘‘He even took my girl off me,’’ thought Jonas now; and in his clarifying vision he saw that since that marital triumph the other had been more overbearing than ever. There had been the time when Muckelhouser had com- plained that the ground about the apple trees at the rear end of the row was too soggy, but it was Jonas, to his own aurprise, who found himself paying for the tile. There was the time when he had puzzledly paid for imputed damage to the other’s corncrib, though he had been sure all the time that his own bull had not strayed afield. There had been so many times —— ““Mebbe if I would of made down on him a little, he would of gave me more respects,” Jonas murmured aloud to himself one day; and in that puzzled speculation, though he knew it not, lay the entire solution of the matter. That was the day upon which the surveyor came and laid his steel tape. The calculation tallied precisely with that of Muckelhouser. Jonas had felt that it would, for Muckelhouser was an accurate man, but the moral aspect was not affected thereby. Those trees had been dedicated by kind, dead hands for the usage of both families; no small matter of inches now could change that. ‘And neither it ain't going to be changed,” Jonas’ soft lips hardened to a new grim line. Day by day within him was growing a slow and relentless resentment—the inexorable resentment of the patient at heart. With a hard breath he took again of his scanty hoard and went to see one Schindler, an attorney. Young Schindler’s black eyes were as quiet and shining as his black hair, his upper lip closed tightly over the ’ower. Eyes, hair and mouth re- mained smoothly still as Jonas made his re- cital; then said the very young Schindler, pulling a large tome from the small book- case at his right, but immediately rejecting it as though its knowledge, after all, was of slight import as compared with his own: “‘Lands, tenements and hereditaments; in this particular case, lands, property rights. Ancient vested property rights are what we got to consider into here.”” He paused and gazed portentously upon his client. ““Wested oncet?’” ventured Jonas. “‘But it ain’t been any mention of any clothes between me and him. It’s apples only.” “Vested rights, vested interests, vested legacies, vested remainders,’ frowned the legal gentleman—‘‘all them things us at- torneys have got to consider in cases like the present.” Jonas felt vaguely of his ears. “To be sure, in a case like this the legacies are fixed. In other words, to say the vested rights are not in a state of contingency or suspension. They are fixed, Mr. Pfantz— fixed.” “You mean,” said Jonas hopelessly, ‘“‘where the line was fixed mebbe?”’ “Not so fast, Mr. Pfantz—not so fast,”’ cautioned the other. ‘‘We’ve got the ancient vested legacy; now we are going to come at the ancient vested property line by de- grees. By degrees. Now, first, Mr. Pfantz, leave me ask you: Can you prove to me that when the two original gen- tlemen set that line they says to each other, ‘Now, this here’s the true line’? Can you prove that they used the same and similar language between the two of them?”’ Jonas roused. “To be sure I can’t be proving where they said either this or either that on a day thirty years back a’ready.” “Aha! And they are not here to testify for themselves either,”’ pursued the other triumphantly. “They been packed out,”’ agreed Jonas solemnly. “Well, then,” said the other briskly, ‘‘if you can’t prove where they agreed and set it up among themselves that the row of apple trees was to be the true line between the two parcels of property, why, it can’t be claimed that it is the true line. You can see that, not?” No, Jonas could not see it, not even after the expositor had elaborated upon it for the second time. “If you mean to say I ain’t to pick away the apples ———’’ Jonas kept interpolating. “Now listen on me again. The law states—the law ex- pressly states, Mr. Pfantz—that trees belong exclusively to the man upon whose land their trunks stand. In other words to say, a man owns ad solum ad celum.” “Them words ain’t familiar with me,’’ objected Jonas, now thoroughly aroused. “The law says’’—the attorney pointed an inexorable forefinger toward the soiled ingrain carpet below, then to the water-stained ceiling above—‘‘that a man owns not (Continued on Page 72)

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60 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December i4, 1929 Wuat Better Girt — PN OTN PE Apne Oy" ty a EB IN og hd ME Wer Only the same care need be exercised in the use of the General Electric Suniomp as with actual sunshine in summer. It will give you the bronze tan- glow, so expressive of abundant well-being, in about the same time. It builds you up as Nature does, aiding you to maintain health. It provides the tonic qualities of the sun's light. JOIN US IN THE GENERAL ELECTRIC HOUR, BROADCAST EVERY SATURDAY AT 9 P.M, E.S. T..ON A NATION-WIDE N. B.C. NETWORK, AT THE FACTORY GENERAL @ELECTRIC than health Nature’s greatest gift to mankind is sunshine. Everything depends upon it—health, happiness, life itself. It is in the summer-time that Nature lavishes her gift of sunshine—her rays of health—most profusely. Then men, women and children alike are more buoyant, more carefree, wreathed in smiles and playfulness. But Man has a gift season too—the Christmas period of universal joy and cheer, with which he breaks the mo- notony of winter. It is a time for bring- ing brightness into the home, for spreading happiness abroad. There is no better way of doing this than by following Nature and making it easier for friends or family to enjoy good health. How? Through the use of the latest development of Science. Make them a present of a General Electric Sun- lamp—then they may have July sun- shine in December, and through all the dismal days of the year, whenever and wherever they wish. This new type of sun lamp is made expressly for home use. It is simple, practical and elegant. It furnishes the sun's health-giving rays—as on aclear summer's day at noon. But be sure you buy a General Electric Sun- lamp—it is the most modern device of its kind, produced by General Electric engi- neers and research workers, who for many years have been the leading specialists in matters of light and electrical energy. (1, \ _— “THE HEART OF THE G-E SUNLAMP IS THE GENERAL ELECTRIC TYPE S-1 BULB’ —_—__—_MAIL THIS TODAY! Section L-3112 Merchandise Department, General Electric Company, Bridgeport, Conn. Please send me your valuable booklet ‘Sunshine When You Want It’ and tell me where | can purchase one of your Gen- eral Electric Suniamps in this vicinity. Name.

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 61 New England, Eastern, Middle States, Mid- dle Atlantic, Missouri Valley, Southern, West- ern, Northwestern, Scuthwestern, Texas, Intermountain, Pacific Northwest, and Cali- fornia. Schools, colleges and park associations and all other organizations not included within the term “club” can also be members, but do not pay dues and have no voting power. The dues for clubs belonging to the national as- sociation are not high. They are determined by the number of members in theclub. If a club has a membership of fifty or less, the annual dues are ten dollars. Along with this is the right of fifty votes. Larger clubs pay slightly more and have a larger number of votes. The executive committee, which conducts the affairs of the national association, is made up of the president, vice president, secretary and treasurer, eight delegates at large, one sec- tional delegate to represent each section of the country, and such ex-presidents as shall ROM &e HES OY WISE WHER Senorita Liti de Alvarez HE popular spread of tennis as a game is creating a problem in this country. With all the players who show ability and who want to play in the national tournaments, how is it going to be possible to keep the meetings from becoming too large and unwieldy? One suggestion has been to hold two national meetings—one for Class A players, and a preliminary one for Class B players. Each year many entries for the national championships have had to be turned away because of the limited number that can be taken in. By having a Class B tournament several weeks in ad- vance of the main event, all players would be able to have the privilege of taking part in a national event. Here, players who had not appeared in competi- tion in the larger events could have their tryouts, us well as the players concerning whose ability there was some question. The four players reaching the semifinals, or the two finalists, could then play in the Class A national meeting and meet those who had been given a ranking the year before. The French association has been successful in ranking its players in classes, the winner of one class advanc- ing into the next order of play. It seems that eventually there will have to be some change made, as the small number of players who are allowed to play in the national champion- ship competition is hardly in proportion to the enormous number of tennis players in this country. What relation is there between tournaments and the United States Lawn Tennis Association? Any group of people can hold a tournament, but how can the tournament receive the designation of “ official’’? First, one must under- stand something of the working of the tennis association. Government in Tennis T WILL be necessary for the reader to wade through a brief, but somewhat technical, description, but if he does, he will be informed as to the workings of tennis in the United States and will learn something, also, about the amateur rule. The first president of the association was elected in 1881, and since then a far-reaching organization has grown up. Active membership in the association includes clubs and district and sectional associations which pay dues and have voting power. The term “club” includes organizations of permanent character not conducted for commercial gain, having tennis-playing facilities which are under control of the body of its members. The whole of the United States is divided up into sec- tions, within whose limits are the clubs and district associa- tions. There are thirteen sectional associations; namely, M. Jean Borotra be elected yearly at the annual meeting There are, as well, committees, the number of which would surprise anyone not familiar with the workings of the tennis association. If the reader can get through this long list, he can obtain an idea, from the names of the commit- tees, of what their various duties are. The principal ones are as follows: Advisory and Finance Committee, Amateur Rule Committee, Constitution and Rules Committee, Davis Cup Committee, Davis Cup Selection Committee, Wightman Cup Committee, Girls’ National Hand Court Com- mittee, Honorary Membership Committee, Intercollegiate Committee, International In- tercollegiate Committee, Investment Commit- tee, Junior Ranking Committee, Junior Tennis Development Committee, Membership and Proxy Committee, Men's National Indoor Championship Committee, Men's National Singles Championship Committee, National Doubles Championship Committee, National INIZED TENNIS=By Helen Wills Committee, Ranking Committee, Sanction and Schedule Committee, Tennis Educational Committee, Tennis Sup plies Committee, Umpires Committee, Women’s Nationa! Indoor Championship Committee and the Women's Na tional Championship Committee. There is ah annual meeting of the national association between the first and fifteenth of February, and in the past it has been at these meetings that questions of very great interest to the tennis world have been decided. Pxpecially was this true when the questions involving the amateur rule arose. What is a Professional ? HE tennis association has drawn up a series of rules which its members must follow, and it is under these rules that the official tournaments are conducted, Unless a club is a member in good standing, it cannot hold a tournament under the auspices of the U.S. L. T. A. Tennis players who desire to remain in favor with the association and who do not want to be barred from playing in the tournaments sanctioned by the association, do not take part in any un sanctioned affairs. Neither do they break any of the rules which the tennis association has drawn up for the players who compete in its tournaments. The asso ciation is so widespread and so thoroughly organ ized, and has such good control over ite member clubs, that the player who breaks any of the rules is quickly discovered and barred from the sanctioned tournaments. Even the matter of the value o prizes is regulated, so that the gaining of a prize can in no way be the motive for a player's entrance into a tournament. It is recommended that al! clubs limit the value of first prizes to fifty dollars The question of the amateur ih tennis has beer one of the most perplexing problems that the tennis association has had to handle, and it has drawn up & list of rules which its players must observe. Be cause the question has arisen from time to time, and because there has been endless discussion upon the point, it is interesting to see the rules, as they were made by the association. Much of the confu sion which has arisen in the minds of those who have heard about the amateur rule in tennis has been because the rule itself was not thoroughly un derstood. First of all, we can start out by asking the question, ‘What is a professional?”’ Continued on Page 198 Public Parks Championship Committee, Na tional Parks Tennis Committee, Nominating M. Rene Lacoste

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14, 1929 ee The same advice I gave your Dad...1N STERINE, offen * . Do you remember— with their medicines. When the good old family doctor came into the Listerine’s success against infection is due to one house how your heart began to thump? You didn’t know —quality—its amazing power against germs, particularly Fu. Gargle with full strength Used full strength it kills even the virulent Staphy- acc tralia a lle Then his firm gentle hands poked you here and lococeus Aureus (pus) and Bacillus Typhosus (typhoid) of sore throat, and checks there. His bright kind eyes looked down your gullet. germs in counts ranging to 200,000,000 in 15 seconds. it should it develop. And, oh, what a load left your mind when you learned Tests by three great bacteriological laboratories that your trouble was only a badly inflamed throat and _ prove it. that Listerine would take care of it? but what you had cholera morbus or something equally those lodging in the throat. dreadful. You saw yourself dying in no time. Yet Listerine is so safe it may be used full strength The basic things of life seldom change: Listerine, in any body cavity. today, is the same tireless enemy of sore throat and Make a habit of gargling systematically with full colds that it was half a century ago. strength Listerine during nasty weather. It aids in pre- It is regularly prescribed by the bright, busy young venting the outbreak of colds and sore throat. And physicians of this day, just as it was by those old timers often remedies them when they have developed. Lambert —bless their souls—who mixed friendship and wisdom Pharmacal Company, St. Louis, Mo., U. S. A. f It checks SORE THROAT quickly KILLS 200,000,000 GERMS IN 15 SECONDS lj }

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ET us turn back the pages of time a few years, to the beginning of the century or thereabouts. So, in perspective, one can see a clear gain, if not so much in sales and dollars, at least in understanding, and a distinct change in atti- tude toward books. What did we have, then, in the way of books, writers and makers of them, stores to sell them, and governing tastes? For an illuminating picture we might stroll down the village street of that very American village of Shelbyville, Indiana. No cars are in sight, only buggies and buckboards and sur- reys; and the maples and sycamores droop with the heat. To the country lawyer's office no clients come—all are away fiskhing—and tossing aside the powdering Blackstone and old Torts, Charles Major picks up a piece of foolscap and starts to write a story he cannot get out of his head. The months pass and the mailman brings it to its natural goal, a publishing house at- tached to a bookstore in the center of culture, the capital of the state. The Civil War monu- ment is near, and the Capitol Building, and old English’s, where Julia Arthur and Viola Allen stop. Tom Taggart has given up his restaurant in the Union Station and is a rising political power. Up the street a mile or two, Booth Tarkington is receiving royalties from Beaucaire, and is writing The Conquest of Canaan. Across that circle, only recently, Benjamin Harrison and the famous war gov- ernor, Morton, used to stroll, and in his deep chair on shady Lockerbie Street an old man writes of Little Orphant Annies and old sweet- hearts. With Boston, Concord, Cambridge, New York and New Orleans, the city vies for the title, The Athens of America. With this reputation to uphold, Messrs. Bowen and Merrill read the manuscript, smile, then laugh, and yet are engrossed. History has been distorted, dialogue is anachronistic, amateurish the style. But there is something in the crude manuscript. The tale itself is prot robust, very much alive. And Jack Curtis, since the white-haired president, takes it down the street to the office of the News, where, at an old desk, sits a lady of culture and background who writes reviews. Yes, she will take the job. And while Miss Nicholas reas- sembles the history, dilutes and strains the dialogue, leav- ing the main tale intact, Jack Curtis at nights reads Keats, forgetting to slap the insects that gather around the Me- ridian Street night light as he lands on a line. Charley had given it a title, Charley Brandon, but here was a better: When Knighthood Was in Flower. A good title was half the battle. Jack Curtis slept no more that night. Though he usually arrived at his office at eight, he was there next morning at seven. The presses began to revolve, salesmen were given hurry calls, and—well, you know the rest in the books you have read The Best Sellers in the Nineties OT quite coincidentally, but roughly, in those dear dead days, Harold MacGrath sat him down in Syracuse and wrote The Man on the Box; Jack London sailed with oyster pirates off the Golden Gate, and wrote of them, of sea wolves and those of the wild. Owen Wister, too, re- cuperated in a cottonwood cabin in Wyoming or walked by the Charleston battery wall, dreaming of The Vir- ginian and Lady Baltimore cake. Some of those books just cited are of real worth and may have a long life. Books of sentiment have their place, bringing joy and surcease from care. But an adult public does not want always to feed on pastry, whether Danish, French or Chicagoan, or on the raw meat of obvious phys- ical action. Indigestion lies that way. Yet such, in the main, were the characteristics of almost all the titles that crowded into the best-selling lists between 95 and the Great War. Even the small section of the book-buying public which considered that it really loved good books and, genuinely or because it was good form, praised Lady Rose’s Daughter, had not wholly grown up. They followed convention; there were too many taboos and anathemas books it was bad form to discuss. Joseph Conrad’s Typhoon FROM KEYSTONE VIEW COMPANY, 1% The Late Joseph Conrad and Nigger of the Narcissus, not liked by all now, but truly great books for those of the right temper, sold eleven hun- dred copies apiece over a period of years; and none of Gals- worthy’s books totaled, in America, more than seven thousand over several years——up to about 1917 were nearer three. Public taste has changed startlingly, discouragingly, in a way, and yet most encouragingly But first let us drop into a few of the old stores which purveyed these wares. There were, considering our size and population, only a pitiful few. Boston had, as might be expected, one or two with real atmosphere, like Lauriat’s in the shadow of Old South Church, and The Old Corner, where Emerson, Francis Parkman, Longfellow—al! of the old Concord school—and the Eddie Guest of his day, old Martin Tupper, used to Olympianize. Chicago had dear old Frank Morris, where his friends, Gene Field, Ade, and the rest, used to congregate. But there were not many, at best. Cities of the size of Peoria and Altoona had practi- cally nothing at all, except a counter or two filled with fiction, baby-record books, Mother Goose, line-a-day dia- ries, and, for the sweet girl graduate, a padded-leather volume of Shakspere or Mrs. Browning. like Madison, Beloit and Iowa City had sometimes two stores, but these were mainly filled with textbooks; though they might have had several shelves sporting Crothers, Laurence Hope, Swinburne and Maeterlinck. But actual centers as large as Fall River, with its hundred thousand population, or Bismarck, the capital of a great state, had no efficiently run or well-supplied store, sometimes not more than a corner of a store next to the tinware and notions; and the department stores then had no interest in books as merchandise. The profits and gross were too small. In the metropolis of New York half a dozen historic stores were to be found in the shopping center-—-Twenty- third Street or Union Square— Brentano's, Putnam's and Dutton’s, most of which had begun far lower down on Broadway and moved up with the years. But in all the and most College towns THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 63 AME OF AUTHO By Robert Gordon Anderson other sections one could rove for 1 long time, past innumerable grocery stores, barbers, druggists, candy shons and saloons, without smelling printer's ink or even musty old morocco and calf. Wher one did chance on one, stationery held most of the show windows; the was the stepchild book department I remember, as a youngster, one very dis tinctly that had, it would have seemed, a won- derful chance to prosper. It was situated in the most thickly populated region in the world Skyscrapers rose all around. They poured out each noon and sunset, millions of book buyers, to pass that store on to the ferries, and it lay in the Wall Street in the very bailiwick of the finan- potential their way shadow of cial barons. Half of the deep cool place was lined with dusty books on shelves or in capacious bins, but the front and center held counters with new fiction reared in mighty columns, essays and miscellaneous works in smaller piles of fives, and near the door were long glass cases with imposing volumes in red and green and blue morocco or brown calf, with gilt tops and elaborately tooled The Reading Public N SHORT, there was something for every taste. And in window dressing and other baits for the passer-by much ingenuity was shown. When Sir Gilbert Parker's Ladder of Swords came out, the manager, who, summer and winter, always wore a straw hat, follow ing one of his assistant’s tips, visited his friend Bannerman, who had grown rich buying up old Civil War weapons and built that castle on an island near West Point, and rented a row of cavalry sabers to illustrate the title in the window. But did the public pay any atten- tion? No! It wasn't candy or dresses or soda or shoes that were on sale, but such du!) things as books. Only when Elinor Glyn'’s Three Weeks was displayed did they come in to buy True, eminent lawyers happened in, to go away with Francis Weliman's Art of Cros Examination or Wells’ War of the Worlds and, later, Tono Bungay. The dignified jurist, Judge Dillon, and Supreme Court Justice Cullen, United States Attorney General Griggs, and H. H. Rogers purchased the things worthwhile And there was an ex-baseball bush leaguer from a Connecti cut town who had bought out a towel supply and wanted to know what Sherlock Holmes and Watson would do next; also the assistant manager of a paper mil! who ran down from Glens Falls and who liked The Rubaiyat and The Tam- ing of the Shrew, after seeing Otis Skinner and Ada Rehan And, of course, Christmas rolled round when Fanny Cory illustrations and Kate Greenaways were bought for the chil- dren, or perhaps by some plutocrat a dozen copies of the good Abbe Wagner's Simple Life which he, the p did not follow, and a set of Thackeray or Harrison worth in that beautiful tooled morocco. And an publisher thought of getting Howard Chandler Christy to utocrat, Ains- ingenious do Riley’s Old Sweetheart, and, further gilding the lily, put her. in a box with red ribbons, stamped For My Valet tine, so that six hundred brokers remembered for once their wives on February fourteenth. But most of those millions that passed by on their way to the ferries seemed insensibl to the life that pulsated and coursed in those st ooking octavos and duodecimos. Only the brows: knew, and the man in the straw hat and his clerks. They » aware, not only of the full life within those dull and bright covers, but knew what fun there was in dispensing it. lt was alla delightful game—unpacking the cases of new books in their new wrappers and with the captivating smell! of fresh paper, ink and binding, just off the pres to rank according to class, a phabet or color arrangement on the shelves, or pile them in pyramids; to strip the windows of the old, and skillfully display the new me ingenious fashion, with crude materials, crépe paper, worn velvet, frontispieces or symbols carrying out the titles. It was better than fishing to guess what a new M Roberts Rinehart would do, or a Morgan Robertson sea story, And the boy who guessed that that volume ginal yet Continued on Page 66

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14, 1929 GIVE A 1950 HUPMOBILE & 1930 HUPMOBILE EIGHT FIVE-PASSENGER SEDAN . . . Styled throughout 1930 HUPMOBILE SIX FIVE-PASSENGER SEDAN .. . The greatest in the smartest modern manner and powered for exceptional performance ... Spacious and dollar-for-dollar value in performance, beauty and comfort that Hupmobile ever built extremely comfortable .. . Standard equipped $1595 .. . Custom equipment at slight extra cost. into a Six .. . Standard equipped $1060 . . . Custom equipment at slight extra cost. 1930 HUPMOBILE EIGHT TOWN SEDAN... A new body type of pronounced 1930 HUPMOBILE SIX CONVERTIBLE CABRIOLET . . . 2-passenger, modernity and comfort. Top and rear panels are fabric . . . Standard equipped $1715, including with rumble seat. This all-weather model, with its beige fabric top, is particularly smart 9 dise wheels and handsome, custom built trunk ... Custom equipment at slight extra cost. and striking .. . Standard equipped $1075... Custom equipment at slight extra cost. 1930 HUPMOBILE EIGHT TWO-PASSENGER CONVERTIBLE CABRIOLET 1930 HUPMOBILE SIX TWO-PASSENGER COUPE .. . Ideal for busi- .. Rumble seat. Smart, speedy, powerful, comfortable. Note unusual range of vision af- ness usage or touring. Spacious rear deck of graceful shape and contour holds two forded by wide windows. Standard equipped $1670. Custom equipment at slight extra cost. steamer trunks. Standard equipped $995. Custom equipment at slight extra cost.

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 65 Thristmaso. Give a next year’s car this year. Step a year ahead of the Christmas buying parade, as Hupmobile OR has stepped a year ahead in motor car performance and design ... Perhaps next Christmas there will be cars to match the whizzing speeds, the overwhelming power, the original and dis- tinguished beauty of these new Hupmobiles ... Perhaps next Christmas the ease of control, the safety, and the luxurious riding qualities of these revolutionary new Sixes and Eights will be a twice-told story... But it’s a new story now... The newest and most fascinating story in motordom ... One look, one ride, and a half-hour at the wheel tell the tale... A true tale of achievement that confirms, for the twenty-second year, Hupmobile’s right to be called “The Car of the American Family.” HIGHLIGHTS OF THE NEW 1930 UPMOBILE: EIGHT 80 miles per hour . . . 100 horse-power, Acceleration HItGHLIGHTS OF THE NEW 1930 HUPMOBILE:SI 70 miles per hour . .. 70 horse-power, Acceleration from 5 to 25 miles per hour in 7 seconds: 5 to 5Q m. from 5 to 50 miles in 106 seconds ... The first metor p. h. in 20 seconds . .. The famous Hupmobile engine car ever designed in which a single style motif is used improved with counterweighted crankshaft. 4-wheel throughou’. presenting a unit of harmonized beauty Hupmobile steeldraulic brakes ... Foot operated ..+ Dual elimination of vibration by counterweighted dimmer control . . . A big car, 50% inches across rear crankshaft in addition to vibration damper . . . Oil de- seat, 49 inches across front seat ... Generous head livered under pressure to 10 points in engine . . . New ‘ room ... Smartened by cleverly tailored sheet metal hydraulic shock absorbers, deep cushions, longer ..» Sweeping fenders of the new French type. . wheelbase, more width, greater comfort ... larger sieel- draulic brakes . . . Cam and lever steering gear, safest New 6-inch chromium hub caps... New front fender parking lights ... All prices quoted f. o. b. factory, and most responsive ... Prices quoted f. 0. b. factory

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‘Continued from Page 63) homely wisdom, The Letters of a Self-Made Merchant to His Son, would reach a hundred thousand was given a at Smith and MecNell’s, at twenty-five cents a throw, when, two years later, the publisher’s traveler brought word that it had reached a million, including the supper Japanese edition More: Those young men knew that when they sent a customer out of the store with one more good book tnan he had intended to buy when he came in, they had sold him no gold brick or blue sky; only real gold and the blue sky that covers a world into which each of those passing, indiffer- ent millions should have been glad toenter and therein dwell. Of system there was not much in any stores THE SATURDAY EVENING POST contracted for in the newspapers, and the powerful pub- lishers, realizing the plight of the bookseller, granted more encouraging discounts or effected the same result by raising the prices from one dollar and fifty cents, with the expectation of a cut to one dollar and eight, to one-fifty and two dollars net, with the old discounts and no cut prices. And a young Scotchman named Grosset and a bookkeeper called Dunlap scraped together two thousand five hundred dollars, borrowed a set of plates from a publisher, and issued reprints of successful novels to sell at fifty and seventy-five cents. Before many years had passed they had to hire three dozen wholesale salesmen and were going out into the highways and byways, carrying, it is true, only the lighter books, but, none the less, spreading the gospel of reading. In this one, as in many others, orders were entered in an old daybook with- out copies, so that one would have to thumb many pages sometimes to reply to an outraged those days. customer. Sales were recorded on sheets without titles only thesums -- letters were painfully put in a weighty letter press; the words ‘‘ Dupli- eate’’ and “‘ Tripli- ate’’ were unknown, and carbon paper for recording was conspic- uous by its absence For the lack of methods and aggres- siveness that pre- vuiled, lack of interest on the part of the pub- ic in books was partly responsible. A great Meantime, up to the threshold of the Great War, public taste gradually im- proved. Better books began to appear on the best-seller lists; at least more well- written books gained a place there. And good, sound writing does make a difference. Though exceptions can be cited, content and matter have an odd way of improving in exact ratio with manner or style. Locke’s craftsmanlike novels took the place in public affection of the more super- ficial romantic and saccharinely senti- mental. Better still, Arnold Bennett and H. G. Wells, with his prophetic books, had wide sales as 1915 and '16 dawned; Joseph Hergesheimer was spoken of as promising, Willa Cather’s Song of the Lark and, a little later, My Antonia, were popularly taken up; and the characterizations cf demand will bring not only a supply of the commodity but brains to present it and market it properly. But the system of prices was also responsible. The bookseller man in the straw hat bought a new novel wholesale for ninety cents and, though it was listed at a dollar and a half, was forced to sell at a dollar and eight, at the same time the clothier next doer was paying for his dollar-and-ten- ent-priced articles not more than fifty-five cents, or at most sixty-six. Imagine anyone conducting a profitable business with a profit of eighteen cents on an invest- ment of ninety, with overhead for clerk hire, lighting, fixtures, depreciation and insurance. Even when one did plunge and bought twenty-five copies, the whole- sale price was eighty-five and a half cents, with the selling price still one dollar and eight; and a hundred secured only a discount to eighty-one cents, a gross profit of twenty-seven cents on the dollar and eight. And with seven thousand nine hundred books being issued each year, there were only a very few titles ever ordered in hundreds. It was almost like what buying a new car is now. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow When Janice Meredith Charmed HE publishers were not so much further ahead. They loved good books, but their offices and methods were like those of old country lawyers. Each publisher dressed his output uniformly in wrappers—-Harper’s in pumpkin yellow, Macmillan in apple green, Lane in mauve, Putnam's in gray or lavender, and so on, except for holiday and gift occasions. But way back in Janice Meredith days a change was started when Frank Dodd, now the president of his house, wired in from the road suggesting that a figure of janice designed for a frontispiece be put on the wrapper or Herbert Stone, talented son of a talented father, Melville E. Stone, manager of the Associated Press, both now dead, formed with Kimball a new firm and issued a brilliant lot of wrappers. Bobbs-Merrill went them one better; each salesman’s sample room blooming like Wash- ington in cherry-blossom time, not only with wrappers but posters and cut-outs and clever souvenirs which they gave to each dealer who sufficiently patronized MacGrath and the little gray poet who wrote about old sweethearts. More cities were now added to publishers’ routes, sales- men taking the hack to the hotel in Concord now, or Rochester, Minnesota, hard by the Mayos; and jobbers were better suppiied with information, catalogues, display material and imprinted circulars. More space, too, was jacket Py RMT SY LONDON STEREOSCOPIC OC George Eliot Edith Wharton and the solid worth of Ellen Glasgow be- gan to be popularly appreciated. And surely the four hundred thousand and more of Ibanez’s Four Horsemen bespoke a better public discernment than Janice Meredith and Rosa Nouchette Carey. The war did something, too, to letters, if only to arouse in the public a hunger for actual facts, genuine human documents, as witness a long line of honest and poignant personal narratives. And following hard on these and the Armistice, the same instinct that recognized truth now clamored for the real in biography and history, and the public bought Walter Page’s Letters, lives of Roosevelt and Washington and Gladstone. And when Beveridge, out in the old Athens of America, forsook politics and sat him down to thresh out the life of John Marshall in four vol- umes, and book clubs bought it and circulating libraries stocked it at a good price too—publishers began to realize that public taste would show itself fundamentally sound, if only it could be properly guided and supplied by some comprehensive scheme of marketing. There was a change, too, noticeable in book addicts, with whom style and manner had always been a steady factor. With all their love for good literature, they had been too December 14, 1929 much affected by anathemas and taboos. They began to throw these shackles off, to realize that what a man had to say was of equal if not of greater importance than his way of saying it. Mrs. Grundy no longer sat erect in her chap- eron’s chair at all the woman’s clubs and literary parties. Sometimes she got the gate. New voices, sometimes rasp- ing and self-consciously high-pitched, but revolutionary and salutary, began to be heard. But, as was to be expected, with the increasing flighti- ness of the times, one or two of these leaders and most of their school began to run a little wild. They had ridiculed off the map such absurd movements as that which brought perspiring housewives to wrestle with elliptical phrases of Browning on hot afternoons the long summer through. But they were not content with that. They must sweep that sturdy poet, too, off the map, with Tennyson and Kipling and Victoria and Napoleon and the apostle, Saint Paul. As Arthur Hopkins, the producer, who has fought for so much that is fine in the drama, remarked in the smoker the other day: “‘You can’t sweep away a mountain with a wave of your hand.” Nor can you chuck overboard like so much useless luggage our heritage of the past. The foundations are still there, four-square and strong. You can add the superstructure of the new order, but it is on the old that you must build. Biography More Popular Than Fiction OT, by any means, that all the new voices had this assurance; many had the amalgam of soundness mixed with their brilliance; but there began to spring up, on all sides, in the seats of critics, the newspaper posts, a flock of young people who kicked all the old academicians out, and who, however clever, appear now, on looking back, so pathetically callow, immature and young. “Attack, attack,”’ became the slogan, just for the sake of attack, for throwing stones. They were impish enfants terribles, who took the same delight I used to take when, from behind a tree in the village street, I used to shy snow- balls at each silk hat or heard the glass smash when I heaved a stone at the gaslight just after the lamplighter passed. Not only the youngsters fresh from college but older writers who should have known better were to blame. Freud became an obsession. If Leonardo painted a masterpiece, Shakspere wrote sonnets, Savonarola re- formed a city, it was because their mothers were batted on the nose by their fathers or yearned for their company when they were out drinking sack or eating spaghetti with someone else’s wife in Blackfriars or on the Arno. If you were drawn a picture of Washington, the high light was all on his false teeth and the claret stains on his vest. They should be painted in, but should not hog the high light. Any day between ten and four you can see those false teeth, with their crude springs, in a glass case in Old South Church, Washington Street, Boston, but they cannot blot out entirely another part of the pic- ture— Washington on his knees praying for those ragged fellows whose feet left deep bloodstains in the snows. Happily, the pendulum started to swing a little the other way in 1926, and Literature, like Nature, reas- serted her natural balance and began slowly to right herself. Perhaps ‘“‘pendulum”’ is an unfortunate figure, since it implies a complete return to old conditions; a spiral_an ascending spiral—is more apt. Anyway, people began to suspect that the writers and critics of the school in the limelight then delighted in smashing images and idols, not so much for the sake of truth as for the music of the smash. Another ghastly suspicion, too, dawned on us—-that they were apt to choose, when any alternative road or course presented itself, not the road that seemed to lead to truth but the one that would appear most startling and so enhance their reputa- tions as clever jacks; also that they were sometimes as guilty of pose, smugness and hypocrisy as the Victorians they assailed— perhaps a trifle more so. The net result was that, during these past two and three years, an increasing number of fine, sound and well-written books found their way into the much-abused best-seller fold. We have been observing the signs all along, how the Outline of Science, The Outline of History, Beveridge’s Marshall, and William Beebe’s Galapagos found their way in, but never before had so much biography and history, travel and exploration gained favor. Indeed, for several seasons now, biography and the hu- man document have, in campus slang, had fiction faded. And I have heard no less than six publishing-house presi- dents say, “I'd give a lot to find a corking good fiction manuscript. Novels are bound to come back.”” Come back! To what? To the best-seller lists! Imagine biography, at seven-fifty, crowding out the novel in the dear dead Janice Meredith days! Continued on Page 137)

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST TO MAKE PERCOLATOR COFFEE Use medium-ground (steel-cut) Maxwell House Coffee in the proportions of one scant cup of coffee to three pints or six cups of water. Place the coffee in the upper compartment of the percolator and put the water into the pot itself. Set over a gentle heat and continue the percolation until the coffee is of the desired strength, 7-10 minutes being sufficient time to allow. In making up a smaller quantity of percolator coffee, allow a heaping tablespoon of Maxwell House Coffee to each half-pint of water. THE OLD COLONEL today can look back with satisfaction upon the achievement of his youth. To his persistent pursuit of the ideal coffee flavor is due the matchless, mellow blend which gives Maxwell House Coffee its unusual character and individuality—its wide popularity. You will be delighted, also, with Maxwell House Tea . . . MAXWELL “Good to the last drop” “Hie thead o/; extra richness which became America’s irst nationally -_ over the United States tonight millions of men and women are fin ishing dinner with keen relish for the same brand of coffee. Tomorrow morning they will go out to work and to play cheered and heartened by the satisfaction they derived from their breakfast cup of this good coffee. And at noon, wherever they are, they may refresh themselves again with its deep, rich, sparklingly mellow flavor. For Maxwell House is the first coffec ever to win a national popularity. It is pleasing more people today than any other coffee ever offered for sale. Maxwell House is not a single coffe« flavor, but a blend of many choice coffees, each selected for its special contribution of excellence. ago, Dixie, a dreamed a dream of better coffee flavor Years down in man —and made his dream come true. He was an expert in coffees—familiar with the ‘ ‘ various “winy,” “mild,” “rich” and “pungent” types of fine coffees grown throughout the world. Through years of patient experimenting, he combined and re-combined these coffees until at last he achieved a new, mellower, richer flavor which delighted even his critical palate. preferred coffee With samples in his saddlebags he rode through the countryside carrying the news of his accomplishment One of the first to recognize its value was the famous old Maxwell House in Nashville renowned throughout the South for its marvelous food and hospitality, the bril- , the illus- liance of its balls and banque ts trious guests it entertained life- the demand for Max- well House Coffee has spread from coast From this beginning—within the time of its creator border of the the fine hoste sses to coast and border to l nited coffee from Newport to California, served daily Wherever you live, your grocer has Maxwell House States It has become¢ chosen by prominent in America’s foremost homes Coffee, nicely sealed in tin to protect its matchless fragrance and inimitable flavor £ ON THE AIR EVERY THURSDAY EVENING \ lively, popular program by the fa s Maxwell House ( offee Concert Orchestra is broadcast eact week from WJZ, WBZ, WBZA, WHAM, KDKA, WIR, KYW, WIM], WHO, WOW, KOA, KSTI KSD, WDAF, WBAP, KPRC, WSB, WSM, WMC, WHAS, WLW, WBAI WBT, WJAX, WEBC, WRVA You are most cordiall Th irsday evening an invited to tune in enjoy this delightful Maxwell House Coffee Concer every OFFEE

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14,1929 EXTENDING the Limits of | Only a few generations ago, the life of man was circumscribed by his own physical limitations ... the dexterity of his fingers, the strength of his back, the speed of his limbs, and the labor of domestic animals. ... The interchange of commodities was slow, difficult. There were no good roads, as we know them today, nor any way to travel swiftly, surely, over these roads. The deeply rutted wagon trail was a long, hard trail.... Though boundless acres were all about, it was only the adventurous few who traveled far. Many a man lived and died without ever having been more than fifty miles from home....Then was born an idea that was destined to reshape the frontiers and the future of the entire country—the idea of making a small, strong, simple automobile so low in price that it might be placed within the means of all the people. Tue coming of this new means of trans- portation not only changed the industrial life of the nation, but helped to change the private lives of every one for all the generations to come. It leveled hills, extended horizons, created new opportunities, furnished the means to earn more money and to enjoy the leisure which that increased income should bring. In creating and building a small, strong, simple automobile at a low price, and in using it, man became accustomed to think- ing of machinery as a servant. He made power work for him. More and more as time went on, in industrial plants and on the farm, heavy labor was taken off the back of man and placed upon the shoulders of the machine. The Ford moved everywhere, blazing the way over miry roads and rocky mountain trails, through gumbo and sand, creating a rising demand for swifter, smoother travel that resulted in the con- struction of hundreds of thousands of miles of cement and macadam highways reach- ing to all parts of the country. The benefits resulting from the intro- duction of the low-priced automobile have | | | (t

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST Man's Opportunity done more than perhaps any other single thing to increase the standards of living and to make this a truly united country. All the people are blended together by the flexibility and swiftness of automotive transportation. The prairie farmer, the industrial worker, and the city business man are governed by similar impulses, similar tastes, similar demands upon highly specialized machinery to serve them. Tus civilization can show no greater example of disciplined machinery than in the operation of the Ford Industries. The great miracle is not the car, but the machines that make the machine—the methods that make it possible to build such a fine car, in large numbers, at a low price. Craftsmanship has been put into mass production. Millions and millions of parts are made—each one so accurate and so exactly like the other that they fit perfectly to the thousandth of an inch when brought together for assembly into complete units. Men by the thousands and the hundred thousand are employed at the Rouge plant alone and there are hundreds of acres of plant equipment. Yet the purpose today is wholly the same as when the equipment of the Ford organization was housed in a single, small building. Everything that has been done has been done to give further scope and expression to the Ford Idea. Tuat idea is not merely to build auto- mobiles—not merely to create so much additional machinery and so many millions of additional horse-power—but to make this a better world in which to live through providing economical transporta- tion for all the people. For that purpose the first Model T was made twenty-one years ago. For that pur- pose the new Ford is made today. In 1929, as in 1908, it is again helping to reshape the frontiers and the future of the country and to further extend the limits of man’s opportunity. FORD MOTOR COMPANY Detroit, Michigan

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ag oe ie aie Jas" be.’ a “A . anwe By we “Pa, We're Going to Have Apfetstrudel for Supper” He OU'RE the darlingest and loveliest of SPOUSES, I'm the luckiest of husbands that I know; But there's one thing in your conduct that arouses All the fury that a man on shou ! When I go to cleanse my dentals in the bathroom, And the tube of paste is crumpled and awry, I need interstellar space to give my wrath room, ind my temper seems to boil and. , fry. All the virtues of true womanhood you' ve got ‘em ind your charms are multifarious and great, But why won't you squeeze the tooth paste from the bottom ? And why don’! you screw the cap on straight? Berton Braley. She Tou we're wed, and you are mine, J And I am yours, and we will dine Al seven every night together, And it will not matter whether We are eager to or not. It will be our daily lot To invariably share One another's bill of fare. And there may be lawless days When I weary of your face; There may come some hapless night When you hanker for a sight Of a different pair of eyes Juat to constitute surprise Still, we reay preserve our love If the cook is good enough. Margaret Fishback Chapter Chatter A New Member W ELL, fellas, I guess you all know how I feel about this lad Wee Wee Smith. But, anyhow, I'd just like to . say a few words before Brother Carrel passes around the black-bali box Fellas, this is what I think about it: I think if we pass up this Wee Wee Smith we are pulling what is probably the THE SATURDAY EVENING POST biggest boner this chapter has ever pulled. I guess you all remember last year, when I was so hot about old Harriss Jones. Well, some bright brother slipped a black ball in the box when old Jones’ name came up, and he went Omega Lambda. Well, I don’t have to tell you what a break that was for the Omega Lams. It looks like Smith was going to ride into the soph presidency without half trying. Well, all I hope is that anybody that balls this Wee Wee Smith thinks it over mighty careful before he balls a guy that might do our house as much good as old Jones has done the Omega Lams. We could use a few men like that ourselves, if we had 'em; but just try and get "em past this chapter. All right. Another thing I'd just like to say is that this Wee Wee Smith has got some swell rec- ommendations from the St. Joe Chapter. The brothers out at St. Joe think he is the nuts, and they ought to know. They say he has got the stuff, and if we don't take him a lot of the St. Joe alumni are gonna want to know why. Well, fellas, it seems to me that we ought to have some respect for what the St. Joe brothers think about this Smith. And, brother president, I'd just like to make a motion right now that the secretary be instructed to write RaAw™ BY ALO MC KEE Father: ‘‘Come Out and Fight Like a Man!"* to these St. Joe brothers and tell ‘em we appreciate their interest. Another thing. It seems to me this chapter is getting too darn particular for their own good. It looks to me like it would pay us not to care too much about whether this Smith is asmoothy or not. I heard a couple of the brothers talking about it at dinner, and it seems that these brothers didn’t like his hair- cut and they didn’t like his neckties. Now, fellas, I’m not going to tell you who these high-hat brothers are, but it seems to me that if a yellow necktie and a little too much hair are going to keep a good prospect like this Smith out of the chapter—well, it’s about time we snapped out of it and got wise to our- selves. There’s no reason why, after we take this Smith in, a couple of the brothers couldn’t sort of talk to him and tell him about cutting his hair and picking out better ties. i’d just like to say, brother president, that it’s a mighty good thing for some of the brothers who have been knocking this Smith that the chapter wasn’t so darn particular when they were taken in. P. MaJsor. December 14,1929 Vicarious Vacations Going away on your vacation IRST CITY MAN: soon? SECOND City MAN: No, my wife just came back from it. Now That You Tell Us OBART guard sold snails in summer, Princeton end a skillful drummer, Texas star had six divorces, Stanford back once kicked by horses, Jones of Lehigh good at Latin, Pittsburgh helmets lined with satin, Amherst coach likes walrus hunting, Dartmouth back says prayers while punting, Smith of Yale has solved three murders, Georgia center rivets girders, Williams ace a zither player, Rutgers captain runs for mayor, Colgate quarter weds in diner, Harvard end buys ocean liner, Kansas flash sports trick apparel, Cornell tackle sleeps in barrel, Star has job with local hatter, Fullback good at mixing batter Here's to better inside chatter. Parke Cummings. The Squash Racket r OU’RE getting a bit bulgy,” ob- served my friend Carson. “Ought to take up some game during the win- ter. Ought to play squash tennis.” “l can’t afford it,’ I said. “I’ve heard it costs money.” “Bah!” exclaimed Carson. “‘ Nosuch thing. I'll try and get you in the club; it’s cheap at double the price.”’ I fi- nally succumbed, as is my invariable wont under pressure of any sort. Car- son took me around. “This is Bob, our pro,”’ said Carson. “Tomorrow afternoon, at five,” said Bob, a suave and muscular gentleman in white flannels. “He'll be there,”’ said Carson, as I was about to announce an important committee meeting. ‘‘Get him an out- fit now, Bob.” (Continued on Page 72) we BY Ww. ANDERSON “I Suppose I’m Old:Fashioned, But to Me the Human Body is Much Lovelier Than Those Distortions" | ' } | f } _—

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ST ae oo ane ne ee THE SATURDAY EVENING POST For people who want a super-radio, we recommend SCREEN GRID PLUS WITH AUTOMATIC VOLUME CONTROL O POWERFUL is the barrage of the local broad- in the wheat country way out in South Dakota, and Theatre Mem'ries’’ every Friday 9:30 P.M. over the casting stations around most big cities, that the _ the nearest big city to me is Minneapolis, nearly a N. B. C. nation-wide network metropolitan radio owner who enjoys listening to thousand miles away.” For you too, the new Philco PHILCO HIGHBOY DE LUX] far-away stations has hitherto had little opportunity Screen Grid Plus has an important feature—enormous With Screen Grid Chassis $195.00 to indulge his hobby for exploring America by radio. power. You're not interested in super-sharp selec- With Neutrodyne-Plus Chassis $205.00 Are you one of the thwarted thousands who live in tivity, but you do care about power, because the With Screen Grid Plus Chassis $225.00 the city, and would occasionally like to spice the eve- nearest good broadcasting is fourteen si =e ning’s entertainment with a transcontinental program’ hours away by express train, and you Lowbovs . from $119.30 eo $148:90 If so, we have good news for you. Not only do we have to have enormous power in your Highboys . from $139.50 to $169.30 build fine radios for normal use, but now a special radio if you're going to hear the prize According to type of chassis selected radio for people like yourself — people who require _ programs of the air. Slightly higher in Canada, Rocky super- performance. This new set, Philco Screen Grid Plus, has such super-sharp selectivity, achieved by a double input circuit and a four gang armored condenser, that it will escort distant stations through the crowd of locals In addition, Screen Grid Plus gives you all the advantages of the other Philco models — built-in aerial like the Neutrodyne-Plus — wonderfully true, clear tone—furniture of exqui regardless of price Electro-Dynami« 245 power prices less tubes Mountains and West " tubes Each mx del ncludes a built-in Speaker with TWO push-pull All and bring right into your living room broadcasting _ site design. Unusual values, which ever PHILCO, PHILADELPHIA, PA from the other side of America. And what is equally —_ model y »u choose. Masters of she fameus Diamond Grid important, it will hold them at pleasurable volume See your dealer today and arrange ye A a : pow a — — for its automatic volume control automaticall) for free dem iistration — with easy pe sg maa tends to prevent fading. terms if you decide to buy. i Cota “But I don’t live in the city”, you may say. “I live Tune in on the Philco Hour of Philco Products, Lrd., Toronto View Tone, 7) Pictured at the left is the dist in approximate balance. Pictured at the which Philco achieves in every set by extraordinarily exact ba Se Ast A. NOC. &. Dee

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~J tm Watch This Column. Universal's Weekly Chat + + SBarbaras‘Kent see eee ereeaeaeeae eee ee Will you volunteer as my personal cor- respondent in your town and keep me informed of movie-conditions there? While this will be a “labor of love,” I figure that you are keenly interested, and that you will be glad to aid in bring- ing good pictures to your neighborhood. All your letters will come to me di- rect, and I will answer and discuss them with you personally. Suppose you write to me today and answer the following questions: What Universal pictures have been shown in your locality of late? How did you like them? How were they spoken of by your friends? Whom did you like best in the casts? Have you seen ‘‘Show Boat”’ and **Broadway’’? If they haven’t been shown there, do you know whether they are coming? Have you seen “College Love” and gorgeous Mary Nolan in “Shanghai Lady’’? Have you seen handsome Joseph Schildkraut and beautiful Joan Ben- nett in that fine romance, ‘‘The Mis- sissippi Gambler’’? Doyouknowthat Universal is producing two wonderful singing romances starring John Boles? What is your opinion of the beauty and talent of LAURA LA PLANTE, MARY NOLAN, BARBARA KENT, KATHRYN CRAWFORD~—all Uni- versal stars? Are you aware that Universal cap- tured the remarkable plum “‘All Quiet on the Western Front”’ and is pro- ducing it with extraordinary effect? Do you know that we are building an entire German camp, where most of the action is laid? What kind of pictures are most largely attended in your neighbor- hood? What theatre shows Univer- sals? Have you made it a point to be- come acquainted with the manager? I will look for your answer. Give ME a chance to write to YOU. Do you know that we are always glad to pay for ideas used in our pic- tures? If you have any, won't you send them in? Sincerely yours, Carl Laemmile, President UNIVERSAL PICTURES “The Home of the Good Film” 730 Fitth Ave. New York City THE SATURDAY (Continued from Page 70) “‘T’ve—I've got some running pants and sneakers,” I said timidly. “And I don’t suppose a tennis racket would do, would it?” They both roared. “*He’s a great kidder,” chuckled Carson, wiping his eyes. ‘‘ Didn’t I tell yeu he was a card, Bob?” Carson is independently wealthy. “You want to start right,” said Bob, not unkindly. “And all the good players wear this kind of a shoe. You'll want a pair.” “Well, all right,” I said, wincing as he wrote down twelve dollars. “‘Here’s an athletic shirt,” he continued. “Oh,” I exclaimed happily, “that’s just like mine. I'll bring it up.” “Better take three or four of these too,” | said Bob, marking it down. “You'll need | "em, and they’re only three bucks apiece. | What’s three bucks?” “Well,” I began, swallowing, “three | bucks is ——” “Now socks,” said Bob confidentially. “Socks are most important. Good players have as many as a dozen pairs. What size do you take?” “Eleven,” I said weakly. “I’ve got some old wool socks at home ——-” EVENING POST “Sure,” smiled Bob, scribbling, “but they’re no good. Once the fuzz is off ’em, you get blisters. Besides, these are only two-fifty a pair.” “Still,” I suggested, ‘‘it all mounts up, you know. I sort of figured out how much I could put into this game, and ——-” “Everybody does that,” said Bob, writ- ing down twenty-five dollars, “but you can’t always tell, to a dime. And you can make it up somewhere else.”’ I suppose he meant I could cut out lunch or move to a cheaper neighborhood. “The bat,” said Bob, handing me a youth’s size tennis racket, “has got to be good. Now, I could sell you a cheap one —— “You stagger my credulity,” I said, tak- ing it. “Shut up,” whispered Carson angrily. “‘Make him sore, and he won’t play with you. Last year a couple of pikers had to re- sign because they got to demanding itemized biils. Made Bob sore as hell.” “T don’t wonder,” I said. “Still, twelve bucks seems like a lot to pay for this child’s racket, all the ——-” “Bat,” corrected Bob gently. “We al- ways call it a bat.” “T beg your pardon,” I said. December 14,1929 “That’s all right,” said Bob. “‘Now I'll get you a sweater and a ball.” “‘I—I suppose a ball lasts indefinitely, doesn’t it?”’ I asked. Bob and Carson laughed heartily. ‘‘ You'll need a new ball every time you play,”’ explained Bob, as Carson left. ‘‘They’re only sixty-five cents—lunch money.” “That’s just about right,” I said, open- ing the door into the street. “Well, good night,” said Bob. “‘See you tomorrow, and I’ll send you a bill.” I took a deep breath, opened the door wider. ‘‘Itemize it,’’ I said. ““What?” he gasped, pain and amazement on his classic features. I was on the outside now. “‘Itemize it!” I shouted at him. ‘‘I shall want all my bills itemized! I have a passion for items!” He roared at me then, and sprang at the door, which I shut in his face. I fled down the street, at once terror-stricken and sur- charged with a tremendous relief. I am more bulgy than ever, as Carson points out on the infrequent occasions when we meet these days. But I am enjoying every bulge. And I have a little money in the bank, —STANLEY JONES. Ali MILE OF APPLE TREES only the surface of his land; he owns from the center of the earth to the sky. What- ever is under his land and whatever is above his land he owns, as well as the land itself. Now you heard the law and you heard me, so I guess you’re satisfied as to the legal aspects of the case. Not so?” But Jonas still shook his head. “If it means I ain’t to pick away the apples ——”’ The legal gentleman threw up his hands. “TI tell you the trees belong to Muckel- houser and therefore the fruit appertaining thereto, therefrom and thereof belongs to Muckelhouser, and if you pick any of it you are liable to him. In other words, Muckelhouser can demand a penalty against you, for, remember, he owns ad solum ad celum, and he knows that as well as you do. So if you wes. “So that’s how you come to know so much ofthanded that way,” deduced Jonas mildly. “‘You’re the one he come to con- sultation with a’ready.” The other swayed backward slightly upon his slender legs, which seemed none | too stable at any time, and his black eyes ravaged Jonas with question. Jonas’ blank face gave no answer. “Well, if he did or if he didn’t,” the legal gentleman flustered back to the idiom of his childhood, “what does that make? A | man where has the knowledge like I have got it, ain’t I got a plenty for both sides of any case? It’s a many of our best lawyers, | if you only knew it, makes the best part of their money spreading their knowledge to both sides.” “T guess, too,”’ said Jonas as he paid his fee. He might have saved himself the expense of the surveyor and the lawyer, Jonas brooded as he hunched beneath disconso- late shoulders on his way homeward. His money was gone, and what had he? From the surveyor only the confirmation of Muckelhouser’s assertions. From the law- yer nothing at all save a confusion of strange words which would seem to have no rightful place in the God-fearing English language. Some of them clung to his weary brain from their very oddity, milled round and round in it, finally, as he slipped from conscious thought, fitted themselves to the rhythm of the slow wheels: Ad so-lum ad ca-lum. “Where you been oncet?” Celia de- manded. Still upon his wagon seat, Jonas rested, as always, in the round bright sun of her face. “I been”—he hesitated—no use to cloud that sun!—“I been ad solum ad celum.” The whimsical idea amused him; for the first time in many days he smiled. (Continued from Page 58) “What fur place is that?’’ wondered Celia. ‘‘It sounds to be outlandish.” “Tt is outlandish,” agreed Jonas, and for the time would say no more. Ad solum ad celum—from the center of the earth to the heavens. Ach, what a fool- ishness them young squirts of lawyers had in their brains anyway! What did the dumb words want to stick to his own mind for? Hadn’t he enough to think about with seven insistent little mouths gaping continuously for food, seven pairs of bare feet soon a-chill for their winter shoes, and the apple crop gone? Celia, as he had foreseen, was noisy over the calamity—increasingly so. Each day some new phase of the desolation would arise in her meandering mind: “No apples to snitz fur the pies!’ she would cry. “What fur winter will it be without the apple pies or the mince yet?” Or: “No apples fur the dinner pails! Ach, how can the school look to learn them anything if they have got no apples fur to fill their stummicks?”’ “Stop still and be quiet oncet!” Jonas set his jaw in unwonted exasperation one night. “‘How can a body think with their brains with you a hollering deef at my ears always? I ain’t fur letting all them apples to Muckelhouser; now just take a notice to that and remember it. A half of them ap- ples are mine, inherited to me from graves yet, and I ain’t fur giving them up neither. No, sooner than you think it you will be setting to snitz the apples for the pies.” Indeed, such authority was in his voice that Celia fell silent, staring at him. Even to her casual eyes, he looked somehow dif- ferent; in that instant she seemed to see his chin and nothing else. But above that chin, as she glanced a few moments later, she saw the lips tremble into a weary droop, and she cried with her quick compassion: “Ach, but you have tired from the haying! Make quick and off your pants fur the bed now.” “T feel fur apple pie tonight,” Jonas cried gayly two days later. Upon the hay wagon he sat, dwarfed by the billowing, fragrant mass which towered around him and above him; a pitchfork thrust rakishly into its middle added to the carnival effect. As Celia rushed from the barn, clutching an apron sagging with eggs, he clambered upon the seat and began raking toward him red and yellow fruit. “Ach! But he will do you somepin fur that!”’ Celia clapped an agitated palm to- ward her cheek. “‘ You mind the legal law- yer said he could git you arrested or what fur picking away the apples.” “T ain’t picking them,” corrected Jonas. “The hay scutched them off. You mind the road from the hayfield runs underneath of the trees. Git oncet a basket fur to help Ziah. He’s got as many as what I have got, I make no doubt.” “IT bet you I have!” squeaked the twelve- year Amaziah, who drove up on his own wagon at the moment. He, too, climbed upon the seat and clawed, spiderlike, after colorful freightage upon the hay behind him. “‘Pop told me to crowd in underneath of the trees as clost as I otherwise could and, gee, mom, if I wouldn’t of looked a little out, the limbs would of raked my head off fur me.” “The hay picked the apples then !”’ inter- preted Celia. ‘‘Ach, the smart! Fur, of course, he can’t ‘be arresting no hay. But”’—she clutched tighter her apron—“ if he would ketch you! Ach, it makes me so creep! He can get so mad in his tongue, that Otto.” “Leave him ketch me!” her husband gestured valiantly. “Listen, woman! This here ain’t but a sample of the apples I am going to pack off them trees. I ain’t leay- ing loose till I have got the full half of the crop, like always. I,” said Jonas Pfantz, “have got rightness onto my side.” And, indeed, as Celia gazed up at him, standing high above her, his eyes grim to- ward the Muckelhouser domain, her mind flew for a confused instant to the present- ment of the Prophet Jeremiah in the parlor Bible, as he stood with fearful arm up- raised toward the tents of the wicked. “Ach, yes, well,” she murmured, “I guess we can anyhow have one apple pie before somepin happens us mebbe.”’ But the plump Celia was not one who was endowed with the gift of true prophecy. Within the hour, as Jonas was again cruising profitably beneath the weighted branches, Muckelhouser came scuttling through the trees, arm upraised: “T am onto the hint of what you are do- ing! You're a-picking my apples!” “T ain’t a-picking them.” “If you don’t stop picking my apples, I'll quick git you arrested!” “T’ll git you arrested fur trespassering.”’ “Them there’s my apples!” “This here’s my land!” “You stop picking them apples or I'll put you to the jail!” “T ain’t picked a one of them. The wag- on’s taking them.” “Pick ’em! Take ’em!’’ danced Muckel- houser. “Don’t you scatter your words at me! Pick—take! You're a gittin’ ’em, (Continued on Page 74) aad

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=r an | TT Mue AFTER MILE over the Pennsyl- vania’s giant system, automatic signal lights are placed . . . safely guiding the swift flyers of the rails. Now a new device has been perfected by Pennsylvania engineers and is being extensively installed . . . Electric cab sig- nals which reproduce inside the engine cab the shining lights of the signals ahead. Two miniature sets of signal dials shine directly in front of both the engineman and the fireman, on their respective sides of the cab. These lights shine day and night through every minute of the run and are instantly and continuously responsive to every change in the signals ahead. And with every change to an unfavorable signal, a warning whistle sounds which keeps blow- ing until acknowledged by the engineman. Thus the skill of trained men in the cab and the mechanical perfection of the most modern devices will be combined to in- sure the safety of Pennsylvania patrons. Read the official announcement at right. PENN THE SATURDAY EVENING POST ELECTRIC EYES now continuously reproduce, inside the engine cab, 73 the signals set miles ahead - .- - The Pennsylvania Railroad makes an important announcement to the traveling public HE Pennsylvania Railroad will complete this year the most ex tensive improvements in automatic sig nal installations ever undertaken by an American railroad. The whole program, involving an ex penditure of more than $16,000,000, represents an important advance in the art of railroad transportation from the standpoint of both public safety and operating efficiency The work includes not only additional automatic block signals and automatic train control, but also, in the region of densest passenger train operation, the installation of the Pennsylvania's newly developed continuous cab signal system This is the device referred to by the Interstate Commerce Commission in its last report on automatic train control devices in which it said: “the develop ment of cab signals of the type now in use on the Pennsylvania appears to be an important step forward in the art of signalling and worthy of special attention.” Three principal results will be effected by the new installations SYLVANIA 1. By the end of this year, the Penn sylvania Railroad's main line tracks, over which its fleet of blue ribbon trains operates between the Atlantic Seaboard and the Mississippi River, connecting New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, De troit, Chicago, Columbus, Cincinnati, Indianapolis and St. Louis will have the most modern automatic signal devices known to railroad engineers 2. Between New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Washington, the line will be equipped with a continuous cab signal system 3. The coming year will find the Penn sylvania embarked upon a program to extend its continuous cab signals west ward over its main lines ‘THESE installations will round out a program of increased train prote tion which supplements expenditures of many millions of dollars in recent years for all-steel passenger cars, heavier rail grade crossing removals, automatic warn ing devices at grade crossings and bridge renewals Of course, all passenger trains on the Pennsylvania Rail: System have had biock signal protection on all of the Company's 16,000 mil running track for many years O phase of the present program is quite as significant as the installa tion of the continuous cab signals in ali trains operating between New York Philadelphia, Baltimore and Washing ton This modern development in the art of railroad signalling has been per fected by the Pennsylvania Railroad through research and experimental work and has been incorporated int the automatic train control installations al ready established at the Interstate Commerce Commission's direction The Pennsylvania Railroad manage ment, while complying with the Commis sion’s orders on five divisions, maintains that no substitute can be f for the personal responsibility of the men oper ating the locomotive and that the best safety devices are th which afford the greatest degre ependat assistance in enabling the enginem«e and firemen to discharge their responsi)it This is accomplished by the « s cab sig nals with whistle ar } vledger RAILRO. Carries more passengers, hauls more freight than any other railroad in America

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hut it will make any nan as merry as a Christmas cricket 25 ROCKY FORDS in a sprightly holiday packet. 25 messengers of cheery good-will that will warm the stubbornest masculine heart. ROCKY ForDS, the finest 5¢ cigar that was ever lighted up after a Christmas dinner. The favorite of millions of smokers. Imported Sumatra wrapper ... finest domes- tic long filler. Can the most hopeful giver ask any more for such a modest fee? You can buy Rocky Forp holiday the packet at almost any cigar counter. Rocky Ford CIGAR WHEN IT'S GOT THE STUFF... A NICKEL'S ENOUGH © PF. LORILLARO COMPANY, ESTABLISHED 1760 | clod. THE SATURDAY (Centinued from Page 72) that’s what makes! You're a-gittin’ off me what ain’t yourn!” | “I'm a-gittin’ what’s mine,” gritted | Jonas, “and I’m a-goin’ to keep on a-gittin’ it.” The peaked face, as green white as the less-ripe fruit, stared gnomelike down among the leafy branches upon the red visage below. “I ain’t a-stopping off neither till I git the full half of the crop all.” “Stop slinging your words around me! I got the law onto my side; you know that!” “T got rightness onto my side; you know that.” Muckelhouser slipped backward over a “You can’t wind me around with | none of your hot airs. It comes down to this: Was you going to stop picking them apples or ain't you?” “T ain’t going to stop—gitting them.” “All right then. All right then. Now you will see oncet what you will git when you act contrariwise to me. You will see oncet what will happen you when you git me hot to my disposition. You will see— you will see! You wait oncet! You just wait!” Jonas waited. For the moment he could do nothing else. Trembling took him as he watched the other clawing toward his barn; a sort of empty nausea attacked the pit of him as he heard the door of the buggy shed slammed open. Muckelhouser was on his | way to town to see that squirt of a Schind- , ler. And what would he bring back with him? The constable? Jonas’ teeth were chattering as he called toward the hayfield, but it is worthy of | notethat they were chattering in astubborn- set jaw: “Hey, Ziah! Don’t pack that load into the barn yet. Make yet that hay a little higher, then drive backward and forthward underneath of these trees. Go crowding in under as clost as you other- wise kin, but don’t go touching at the ap- ples with your hands.” Why had he insisted upon that foolish difference between “pick” and “take’’? Was it because the lawyer had emphasized the one word to the exclusion of the other? Jonas did not know. Or was it, more likely, because, hard-pressed as he was, he was trying to squirm around the law or through the law some way, any way? Well, the law as he had got the notion of it through that confused hour with Schindler was largely a matter of squirming, and if he could man- age to squirm a little harder and a little faster Jonas chuckled wryly at this point. He? He'd probably be in the custody of the law before night. Why, at any moment now, for his neighbor must have been gone an hour at least. Trembling got hold upon him again. He, Jonas Pfantz, torn from the frantic Celia and thrust into a cell? What now about that boast of his that he would have his half of the entire crop? An idle boast, indeed, with the long arm of the law reaching out for him at that very mo- ment’ And yet, even so “T have got rightness onto my side,” he bolstered himself stubbornly aloud; then jerked his team to a quick halt at sound of hoofs in Muckelhouser’s driveway. Muckelhouser was riding alone. For a moment it seemed that the lone figure upon the seat must be some trick of defective vision. Jonas sat quite still, braced himself for that which Muckelhouser would do, would say. Muckelhouser said—did noth- ing at all. He came forth from his barn finally and went toward his house without so much as glancing in Jonas’ direction. It | might almost have seemed as though he wished to escape detection, for he traversed a roundabout route behind his chicken houses. Strange! So strange that for some mo- ments longer Jonas remained motionless | upon his seat. Then he addressed the boy Amaziah: ‘Pack your load to the barn now. I got to make a thought here.” He climbed down over the wheel and walked slowly back beneath the trees, thinking. At the rear end of the row he stood beneath the trees, thinking. EVENING POST He had had all the time an unformed no- tion that the lawyer had not advised him as to all his rights in the case; now this sur- prising conduct on the part of Muckel- houser seemed to prove it. The lawyer had expressly said that he could not pick the fruit without penalty; yet, when his wagon raked it off he was not held toanswer. Why was that? What was the reason under- neath the whole thing? Or, wasn’t there any reason? Was the law just a dumb foolishness, after all? But no, there was something here—something. Thus Jonas, standing under the apple trees, absently snapping a twig in his fingers and picking with his mind over the fragments of strange phrases he had carried with him from the lawyer’s office. Ad solum ad celum. He owned from the center of the earth to the sky, but the trees were not upon his land, se he did not own any of — Jonas started. He was staring at the ground, and between him and the center of the earth were the roots of those trees-—-he owned those roots! Between him and the sky were the branches of those trees-—-he owned those branches! And if a man owns a thing, it is his to do with as he will. Long Jonas stood there meditating upon the marvel of ownership and all that it implied. All thet it implied. “‘The law is a pretty dumb smart foolishness, after all,”” he murmured in some astonishment as he finally started home. Three days later, when he espied through the trees certain familiar preparations in the Muckelhouser yard, he halted Amaziah peremptorily. “‘Go backwards oncet and fetch the axes and the grindstone fur to sharper them with.” “Ach, pop! With the hay yet laying? It ain’t the time to git the winter wood.” “Don’t argue to me! If I say I am going fur to chop wood, I am going fur to chop wood,” announced Jonas with unwonted severity. “Yes, and put at the wagon the pick too.” He turned. Upon the other side of the trees a man carrying ladders from a shed had stopped and was watching him. Jonas began unconcernedly to whistle. He backed against the fence, thrust his thumb into his trousers band and squinted calcu- latingly at the trees. For the first time in his life Jonas was acting a part. Inwardly he was in panic. Could he do that which he purposed to do? His heart swelled as he gazed at the trees. So beautiful! So symmetrical! So living! Could he strike death into those smooth limbs so heavy, so aflush with life? The man in the side yard laid down his ladders, turned, stood, turned again and went into the shed. : “Now,” commanded Jonas some mo- ments later in brisk, loud tones, “‘leave me handle the axes and you turn the stone. I want to sharper them sharp, fur I got a big job ahead of me.” The sound of the grinding was low, but the window next door was darkened at once by the outline of a head. “This here one’s all right,” Jonas felt critically of the edge, ‘fur the first trees anyway. Now you take the pick and begin todig. Here, where I marked it off a’ready, three feet from them trees. Keep on a go- ing through the roots and whatever.” He himself began pitching straw from the bed of the wagon beneath the branches of the tree which abutted the highway upon one side and the pleasant lawn of the Muckelhousers upon the other. As one who could no more endure, his neighbor burst redly toward him. “What do you conceit you’re doing?” “T conceit I’m a-pitching straw,” re- turned Jonas mildly, “fur to ketch the bruise from the apples.” “Bruise oncet? Apples? you’re going to pick off them apples — “I’m a-going fur to cut them off.”’ Jonas felt caleulatingly of a limb. “Cut oncet! If you dare to touch onto one of them limbs ——— Here! You leave loose of that ax! Dumbhead! You know them trees are onto my land. You touch onto one of them and ——” If you think December 14, 1929 “To be sure, I know the trees are onto your land,” laughed Jonas, “but I just as good know the limbs are onto mine. Ain’t Schindler telling you a’ready where a man owns from the center of this here earth to that there sky? Take a look fur yourself and make a thought on it.” His neighbor looked at the heavens above, he looked at the earth beneath, he looked at Jonas; and the breath for a mo- ment went out of him. He kept looking at Jonas, kept looking at the little man swing- ing the murderous ax before him as though he had never seen him before. “But you ain't,” said Muckelhouser in a still voice, “‘you ain’t a-thinking you can cut the half of them trees off?” “IT ain’t a-thinking nothing about it,” re- torted Jonas. ‘I done my thinking a’ready. To see what’s yourn and what’s mine, it don’t take no dummy. To be sure, yeu own yet twenty-six inches from the trees ——-”’ He took a rule from his pocket and began measuring outward from the trunk. “It’s outlandish!” exploded the other, hopping from clod to clod. “‘I won’t have it! You can’t do me so underhanded! It’s a sleazer trick! I won’t ——” “Ach, no, Ziah,’’ remonstrated Jonas, “that there ain’t the beginning of the deep I want it. The ground’s soft there; it won’t take no time to git down ten, twelve feet.” There was at this point, curiously, a small silence. Then again in a still voice: **What’s the boy doing?” “Fixing fur to lay tile. If it’s good fur the hind end of the row, I conceit it is good fur the front end too.” “But ten, twelve feet—that will ruin up the roots!” “They are my roots,” reminded Jonas. For the first time in his life, the rich color drained entirely from Muckelhouser. Jonas, glancing at him, could almost have believed that old Otto stood before him with his pallid face, his hunched shoulders, his un- steady lips. “To be sure,” — Jonas stuck the rule cheerfully into his pocket —“‘ the twenty-six inches of the butts I will be leaving won’t be nicking into my half of the crop any, for apples ain’t natured to grow anyhow so next to the trees.” A woman who had appeared at the kitchen door to hang out a cloth hastened down the steps and across the lawn. “So you was going to have your half of the crop!” she cried joyfully. “I didn’t know”’’—she glanced at her husband—“I had afraid—-mister makes always so quiet, but I had afraid * “Of course I am having my half of the crop, Lena,” said Jonas kindly, “‘just like always.” “T have glad then. But I thought when he said Celia and the children wasn’t com- ing ” Her voice trailed away, her wistful eyes turned toward her husband. For no reason at all, it seemed, all three turned toward Muckelhouser; even the youthful Amaziah stood, quiet hands upon his pick. And Jonas had a strange notion at that moment that he himself was taller, larger, stronger than Muckeihouser; and that if the other should raise his eyes he would be looking up to him, Jonas. But Muckelhouser did not raise his eyes; not even when he suddenly threw out his arms as though in struggle with something deadly within himself; not even when he spoke in a strangled tone: “Come and git the ladders then!” Not even when he shuffled, head still bent, through the trees. “You see,” said Jonas, and his voice, too, was strange and toneless, as though lifting itself from nightmare, “‘he wants me to help him pack the ladders.” “*T have glad,” said the woman again. ‘‘I just thought it couldn’t be that anything could come between the Pfantzes and the Muckelhousers after everything.” “After everything,” repeated Jonas, and his lips were still grim. As though to him- self, he murmured: ‘Ach, well, what fur good would it be to think hard?” His lips broke to their soft, easy lines: ‘‘Ziah! Go oncet and git your mom and the kids. Tell them we make with the apples today!”

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 75

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“shone operator summon Miss Patricia Whelan to his private office. Because he had placed his own department in its proper relation to the rest of the organization in the eyes of the principal, it did not necessarily mean that he was unwilling to do anything within his power to relieve a situation. A friendly word of advice, a—a little hint that “You sent for me, Mr. Petrie?” There she stood, slim and black against the patch of north light which poured through the taller of the two windows of the room; an anxious suggestion of a smile on her small red lips, subtle appeal in the blue eyes. Rubbing his nose, Mr. Petrie was suddenly very glad that he had refused to be drawn into the conspiracy to put the skids under this poor kid. Standing there, she reminded him of a kitten on the door- step of a warm kitchen. “Just so. Exactly.’”’ Mr. Petrie nodded and achieved a fatherly smile. ‘That is— won’t you sit down?” i “Thank you.” “I—I want to havea little talk with you.” “Yes, Mr. Petrie.” To keep his eyes from the small white face that waited with such evident anxious- ness, Mr. Petrie took off his glasses and ob- served them through the light. “The fact is—that is, I mean—I want to have a friendly little talk with you, Miss Whelan.” “Yes, Mr. Petrie.” Still squinting, Mr. Petrie sought to place the conversation on a paternal basis: “I hope you will realize that I am speaking as a man old enough to be your father o Miss Whelan laughed softly. Her amuse- ment did not displease Mr. Petrie, however. It suggested skepticism rather than mirth. oa at least nearly old enough to be your father,”’ he went on. “I don’t believe it,” said Miss Whelan with deep conviction. ‘You don’t look it. Why —why - “ “None of my family ever looked their age,” Mr. Petrie admitted frankly. ‘I think it is because we are all thin. I think thin pecple rarely show their age, don’t you?” “T think lean people are much more dis- tinguished than fat people,” Miss Whelan stated with equal candor, and then stared intently at the corner of the rug. ‘‘ Don’t | you know in-in stories and things about the English nobility and—-well, it stands for breeding, doesn’t it?” Mr. Petrie smiled and mentioned his brother, Waterbury Petrie. Waterbury had a flair for looking up things. At the mo- ment he was studying about an English earl who had married a Mrs. Herbert Ashedowne (née Petrie) whose brother had started for America shortly before the Rev- olution. “I knew it,”’ said Miss Whelan with con- viction. “There probably isn’t a thing in it,’’ said Mr. Petrie carelessly. “T don’t believe it,” said Miss Whelan earnestly. ‘Blood always tells.” In the midst of a deprecating little smile a sudden thought seized the art director of the Atlas Advertising Agency. A cold chill of suspicion. He coughed, adjusted December 14,1929 his glasses with extreme deliberation and then went forward with the business in hand: “That—that is quite beside the point. “I am sorry,” broke in Miss Whelan humbly. “What I was going to say was this—as I said before as—as a friend. A certain amount of discord has arisen as the result of the attentions Mr. Mudge and Mr. Brodie— or rather, the time Mr. Mudge and Mr. Brodie have been spending in your. office.”’ Mr. Petrie coughed, and then went on hastily as the girl arose. ‘‘Not that there is anything wrong. Please, Miss Whelan!” Every true man is unmanned by a woman’s tears, and the art director of the Atlas Agency was no exception to the rule. The bowed little head, the twitching shoul- ders, the convulsive movement of the tiny bit of cambric as it twisted in and out of the agonized little hands reproached his man- hood as nothing ever had in thirty-six years of life. It is impossible to be calm and logical in the face of a woman’s tears. The normal functions of the mind are atrophied. The muscles of the body are impelled by strange impulses. The little accidents of life, such as falling glasses, pass unnoticed. There is no remembrance of movements leading up to certain situations. For example, it is in- teresting to note in this instance that Mr. Payton Petrie could not have testified, with any degree of accuracy, as to what happened in the five-minute interval between his last words and the moment when he found a little head of rusty iron buried in the folds of his pink silk shirt. He recalied indistinctly, some time later, that between pats he had tried to comfort and explain. Through a sort of haze he re- membered a choked, small voice which dis- claimed any interest in, or responsibility for, the acts of people to whom one was po- lite— people who took too much for granted; people who didn’t realize how they were jeopardizing a girl’s chances to get ahead under the real creative genius of an art di- rector like Payton Petrie. And then that sudden rift in the mental cloud. A rift which diselosed the face and form of William Alexander Brodie standing in the doorway, his arms crossed, his chin lowered. And lest this slight description fail to carry with it the sudden discomfort it conveyed to Mr. Payton Petrie, let it be added now that there was that something in Mr. Brodie’s eyes so often described as baleful. Vv HE great man watched the door slam on the ample form of his vice president and account executive, William Alexander Brodie, with that same little smile of tolera- tion previously described in this narrative and so familiar to thousands of inspiration- minded people the world over. He sat tap- ping the stem of the problem solver on the polished wood of the huge desk before him, beating time, as it were, to the dying foot- steps of outraged genius. David Belasco would have pinched himself had he peeped in the door at that moment; he might have imaged the presence of some cleverly ar- ranged mirror which projected him into a large leather chair, garbed him in smartly tailored tweeds and made him necktie- conscious. As a matter of fact, the head of the Atlas Advertising Agency was thinking of a recent magazine article which he had written, en- titled, Genius—Should Business Handle or Manhandle It? Particularly was he think- ing of the last paragraph, which set forth, in the inimitable Byrd style, the simple con- clusion that genius could be led, handled, raised to the heights or dashed to the depths by a proper understanding of that coy hand- maiden of genius-—-temperament. “‘Re- member,” read the last sentence, ‘‘that (Continued on Page 78

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THE SATURDAY (Centinued from Page 76) greatness has its weaknesses just as weak- ness has its greatness.” “ How true,” Mr. Byrd murmured softly as the sound of the last footstep died away. “How true, indeed. Oral surgery is truly to be preferred over oral medicine. A man unfamiliar with the psychology of tempera- ment might have been afraid to suggest that a certain layout artist, completely un- known to the undersigned, had said that the new Wet Smack advertisements were moron-minded.” Mr. Byrd laughed gently. “He might be afraid, if he were the em- ployer of this valuable piece of tempera- ment, that this valuable piece of human machinery might seek out the alleged caster of the slur and thus be faced with a doubly serious situation. But then, the average man wvuld not understand the profound influence of pride on temperament—pride that keeps the eyes cold and the mouth clipped tight.” T. Tattersal patted the gentle slope of waistcoat before him and then reached for his telephone. “Tell Mr. Mudge i would like to see him,” he directed. When the genius of La Belle Cliquette arrived he found his superior perusing, with evident admiration, a proof of a forth- coming advertisement of La Belle Cliquette, as he had been studying a Wet Smack double spread when Mr. Brodie appeared. He laid the proof on the desk in exactly the same fashion as he had Mr. Brodie’s crea- tion. “Mudge,” he said enthusiastically, “this is wonderful! Positively wonderful, my dear fellow!” “Tt does seem to hang together.” Mr. Mudge inclined his head with gentle modesty, but his lenses gleamed. “It’s perfect!”” Mr. Byrd insisted. “‘ Bal- ance. Simplicity! Everything is perfectly keyed. Take that line” — Mr. Byrd picked up the proof—‘‘where you have: ‘They moved slowly off the porch of the country club into the purple, swimming night. Moonlight blurred her outline with a magic softness and La Belle Cliquette—the elu- sive—the exquisite—sent his senses reel- ing.’ It’s as full of real salesmanship as an egg is of meat. I congratulate you.” “When Boynton out to La Belle O. K.’d it, he—he did say that it was a wow.” Mr. Mudge made the admission carelessly. “Tt’s a gem.” Mr. Mudge beamed. Mr. Byrd lit his pipe. “I’m going to have a route slip put on it and send it Some of our people—the newer ones—don’t seem to ap- preciate the job you are doing for La Belle Cliquette. Somebody was telling me the other day that somebody out in the art de- partment—some new girl on layout—said that our La Belle stuff reminded her of a moving-picture-theater illustrated song.” Mr. Mudge stiffened. ““Good joke, eh?” Mr. Mudge laughed shrilly. “In the— er—art department, you said?” Mr. Byrd nodded carelessly. “I’ve only er | seen her about once or twice. A very | capable artist I understand, but a little— | er er—given to jollying some of the boys | about the shop to their faces, and laughing | at them behind their backs. Of course it | doesn’t matter to you what she thinks about our La Belle copy, but —— “Of course it doesn’t,”’ assented its crea- tor hollowly. T. Tattersal concealed his triumph by lowering his magnetic eyes to his tobacco jar. “Know her, Mudge?” “T think so,” his vice president and ac- count executive admitted faintly. “Little girl with a white face and—and red hair.” EVENING POST “Probably,”” Mr. Byrd admitted indif- ferently. “I’ve never noticed her myself.” Alvin Ashley Mudge ran a thin hand through his thinning mouse-color pompa- dour. With this gesture he placed the sweeter, tenderer things of life definitely in the limbo of the past. “Rather ordinary.” He spoke as one de- tached from white-faced red-headed girls. “You wouldn’t care to speak to her about it? It might give her a better apprecia- tion ——” “Who, me?” The creator of La Belle Cliquette became convulsed with mirth at the suggestion. “‘Not for the world. Why should I interest myself in what—what an employe has to say?” Mr. Byrd nodded as one recognizing sound thought. He had nodded in much the same fashion when Mr. Brodie had stated, in the emphatic manner character- istic of him, that all women and all artists gave him a large pain. “And now I think I'll get back to the job.” Like the great artist in human nature that he was, T. Tattersal Byrd put the final high light on his masterpiece. He laughed heartily. “Even if it is only the creation of moving- picture ballads. Ha-ha!” Mr. Mudge walked slowly to the door. “Ha-ha!” he echoed. T. Tattersal Byrd waited until the door closed. Then, very gently, he reéchoed Mr. Mudge’s hollow mirth. In fact, a trace of amusement still lurked about the corners of his wide mouth a few moments later, when the door was again thrown open and William Alexander Brodie appeared. An air of elaborate carelessness enveloped him. “You wanted me, William?” “T was just down to see Petrie about those layouts for our Wet Smack spring newspaper campaign.” “And what has that to do with me?” “Nothing ——”’ “Well, then, I ——”’ ‘*____. except that I thought you might be interested in something I saw when I opened the door.” Being a keen judge of human nature, T. Tattersal Byrd sensed a vague note of triumph under his junior’s unconcern. A wounded lion, licking its wounded paw. “Well?” “It’s apropos of what we were talking about a little while ago,” said Mr. Brodie gloatingly, and his eyes glittered. “‘ This— this girl that you told me about that —that said I wrote for the moron-minded—I opened the door and found Petrie holding her in his arms.” T. Tattersal Byrd fairly bounded to his feet. ““What’s that?” he shouted. Mr. Brodie nodded. “She was telling him that he was the one art director in the country that really understood dynamic symmetry.” “That old fool,” the head of the Atlas began bitterly. “He was patting her back.” His superior calmed himself by a mighty effort-—a visible mighty effort. He wiped his wide brow. “Thank you, Brodie,” he said finally, “‘for—for bringing this matter to my attention. I'll take care of it at once.” When Mr. Brodie had gone, still smiling, he pressed a button on the desk and waited grimly. When the summons was answered by an angular female in mannish brown tweed, she was curtly instructed to have a check made out in favor of Miss Patricia Whelan for a month’s pay in adwance and to have that young lady come to the executive office at once. December 14, 1929 The angular female smiled. One evening when they both had been working late, Mr. Mudge had escorted her home in a taxicab. Vv LONE in his little office, Mr. Payton Petrie felt something surge up within him—something which seemed to demand a lance and a galloping steed with a flowing mane. A Petrie to the rescue! Mr. Brodie’s sneering eyes still stared at him from the doorway. The ghost of that laugh still lingered in his ears. The echo of the slamming door still accused his soul. He, Payton Petrie, had, innocently enough, compromised a woman’s honor. A pathetic little thing that had looked up to him as an exponent of the value of dynamic symmetry in art. A tender child that had crept into his arms as a battered bark creeps into a sheltered haven. A trust- ing girl who couldn’t realize what the sneer- ing smile and the sneering eyes in the doorway had meant. For the first time in his thirty-six years of life, the art director of the Atlas Advertising Agency thought of a woman as something else than a perfect example of dynamic symmetry. As he bent his head to stare at the green blotter on the desk before him, his nostrils neared the spot where her small head had rested. The pink silk shirt still whispered of her presence. The nose glasses dropped unheeded to the blotter. He thought of calling up his brother, Waterbury Petrie, and asking his advice. But Waterbury had peculiar ideas about women—an elaboration of the Eden epi- sode —and, besides, he lived in Binghamton. He wouldn’t understand. Nobody would. Payton Petrie clenched his thin hands and felt himself stirred by strange things. He sat down in the chair before his desk and buried his thinning pompadour in his twitch- ing hands. The hour hand on the traveling clock before him made a complete circuit. And then, as has previously been men- tioned, Mr. Payton Petrie felt something surge up within him—something which seemed to demand a galloping steed and a steel-shod lance. Out there in the art de- partment she was waiting, sitting. A Petrie to the rescue! He could offer her the shelter of his name. “He opened the door to the outer room. “Tell Miss—Miss Whelan I want her,” he commanded hoarsely. It was Hanson, the lettering artist, who looked up from his drawing board, in evi- dent surprise, and answered him: “She hasn’t come back. They called her from Mr. Byrd's office an hour ago.” So that was it! The art director of the Atlas Advertising Agency clenched his fists as he hurried down the long hall leading to the executive office. So that was it! The foul tongue of slander was already at work. A Petrie to the rescue! Miss Tyson—the angular female—was busily tapping away at her typewriter as Mr. Petrie flung the door open. He wasted no words in the crisis. “Is—is Mr. Byrd in?” Miss Tyson eyed him disapprovingly. “In, and busy.” Mr. Petrie, his lance high, disregarded both the words and the glance. He moved quickly toward the closed door. The angular female stopped tapping. “He’s very busy,” she snapped. “‘ Your— your Miss Whelan is with him.” “I know. That’s why I must see him. I want to set him right about 4 Miss Tyson’s smile was acid. “I don’t think it necessary,” she said tartly. ‘“‘When I was in there a few moments ago, Mr. Byrd was reading her his new article for The Woman’s Friend: Selling Our Homes to Our Husbands.”

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The razor does not “pull” or bump along over yeur face, but glides sweetly over the skin, cutting down the hair cleanly and closely and almost without effort Every stroke of the razor does a clean job No need to go over and over the same spet and “butcher” your face to get a close shave Even the package that BRISK comes in is different. It’s a flat, oval tin box for men only, convenient and businesslike to use. Let your have just one taste of a BRISK mint Get BRISK now at any good drug face julep shave store or toilet goods counter—fifty cents BRISK has four brothers: ZEST: a refresh ing after-shaving lotion; TRIM, a hair dress g in cleanly stick form; SMOOTH, a powder that kills shine without showing powder; STIP, a new type “stoptic”’ that closes cuts pronto! Work up lather or your tace Start shaving. Bov' How the whisker £ dewn before your razor when BRISK FREE—A liberal trial box. Clip coupon. FLORIAN IN¢ 9i2 16 Book Bldg, Detroit, Mic I w » a mint julep shave t tu treat my face t Please send me a free tr x of BRISK THE SATURDAY EVENING POST THE SHAGGY LEGION had been riding pony express on the Sweet- water. Also, he was well acquainted with Comstock. Both were expert shots from the back of a running horse. Both were experienced buffalo hunters. “*What gun you using, Bill?”’ he inquired of Comstock. “Henry,” Comstock informed him. Cody was using the new Army needle | gun. It threw a much heavier ball than the Henry carbine. Coleman rather favored | Cody’s weapon against the Henry. The luck might break either way. Much would depend upon the horses. Cody, who had been hunting steadily for months, had his horse trained to a hair, and the animal had been kept in daily practice. Comstock’s mount was a good buffalo horse, but he had not been used so steadily of late. Coleman favored Brigham, Cody’s horse. He decided to back Cody, producing gold drafts on St. Joseph traders that had been given him in payment for wolf pelts, and credit slips on several near-by trading companies. Hav- ing made up his mind, he was prepared to back his judgment to the limit. He man- aged to place round twelve hundred dollars, even money. The officers of Fort Wallace and vicinity favored Comstock. The railroad element backed Cody towin. Plainsmen and freight- ers were of divided opinion. The swarm of ; excursionists bet on either man, according to the various counsel they received from those who considered themselves author- ities. A herd was located not far from town. The spectators flocked to a low prairie ridge from which an excellent view could be ob- tained. The starter gave the signal and Comstock and Cody raced down upon the herd. The spectators cheered with wild en- thusiasm as each of the trained horses carried his rider alongside a running buffalo. Both men fired. Both buffaloes went down. The horses, without breaking their stride, swooped to the flanks of the next victims. Both horses knew their jobs to perfec- tion. Their riders were left free to attend to their shooting. Both men were dead shots. The reports drifted back to the ears of the spectators in swift succession. One after another, with incredible rapidity, buf- faloes fell dead at each report. This was everyday business with Brig- ham, a sport he loved. His proficiency was such that drawing alongside of each buffalo in turn seemed effortless. The chase dis- appeared in the distance. Spectators swarmed along the course on horseback and in buckboards. The official counters who had accompanied the run tallied each con- testant’s buffaloes as they fell. Cody and Comstock had stopped to rest their horses. The official count revealed that Cody had killed thirty-eight buffaloes, Comstock twenty-three. Two more runs were to be made before sundown. During the last chase of the three, Cody stripped saddle and bridle from the gallant Brig- ham and merely headed the buffalo horse down upon the herd at full speed. The horse performed with the same clocklike precision that he had shown in the pre- ceding two runs. The final tally for the day accounted for one hundred and seventeen buffaloes Cody sixty-nine, Comstock forty-eight. Cody retained the title of Buffalo Bill. The latter informed Coleman that he had killed well over four thousand head of buffaloes during his year and a half of hunting for the Kansas Pacific construction camps. Coleman was twelve hundred dollars to the good. “‘That’ll buy a few cows, once I’m ready to start up in business,” he mused. “I reckon now I'll mosey along east and see some o’ those trail herds coming through.” It was to be some time, however, before he was destined to see the trail herds. While riding eastward on the Smoky Hill | route, he met a party of gold seekers headed toward the new mining excitement in (Continued from Page 27) Colorado. From one of the number he learned that a grqup of Missouri families, weary of California and other Western points, had settled on the Big Blue, well to the northeast, and that other discour- aged Missourians, returning from the West, were settling near that first colony. With the hope of locating the Carroltons, he left the trail and angled northeast toward the head of the Blue. The settlers thereabouts had not heard of the Carroltons. It was while returnifig westward along the route of the Kansas Pacific that he ob- served a big claybank mule among the many long-eared hybrids in a contractor’s camp. It was not likely that this animal had any connection with that former tragedy, he reflected, or even that he could trace the connection definitely in case this mule happened to be the same claybank. Still, he hadn't seen a claybank mule in the intervening time. There were not many. “Let’s see,” the contractor said in an- swer to Coleman’s query. “That claybank critter? I bought him last year along with twenty head from a party named Enders. Him and his two pardners is sizable mule traders. No, I don’t just recall the names of the other two.” Coleman did not know anyone by the name of Enders. Nothing to be learned here, he thought. He headed on west to- ward Fort Wallace. There seemed some- thing odd about the appearance of the next stage station on the Smoky Hill road as he viewed it from a distance. He could not say just what was wrong, but that ever- present, almost animal wariness rose within him. He quit the road and held to open country where there was no possibility of an ambush, approaching the stage station from the rear. There were no horses in the corral and none grazing on the near-by prairie. It was that general dearth of stock, no doubt, that had occasioned his distrust even at a distance, without his having been able to name the character of the deviation from normal. He knew now that something was grossly wrong. Ap- proaching cautiously, he discovered the bodies of the two stock tenders and the station keeper, scalped, stripped and muti- lated, the bodies stuck full of arrows of both Sioux and Cheyenne make. He rode on into Wallace at night, where he was greeted by Sharp Grover, Comstock and California Joe. “Lucky to get in with your hair,’’ Com- stock said. “‘The tribes have gone out again. Thar’s hell to pay in the war-road country these days.” He explained the situation. Generals Hancock and Custer had been sent with fifteen hundred men to hold a conference with the Cheyennes, Arapahoes, Sioux, Kiowas and Comanches to inquire just why the young men of those tribes had been pillaging on the overland trails of Kansas when supposed to be at peace. Upon the arrival of the expedition at Fort Larned, it was learned that the Sioux and Cheyennes had come north of the Arkansas. The two generals had held conference on the Pawnee Fork with Chiefs Bull Bear, Roman Nose and Medicine Wolf, of the Cheyennes, Pawnee Killer, Bad Wound, Tall Bear and other chiefs of the Sioux. Roman Nose had explained that the reason for the depreda- tions on the part of the dog soldiers of the Cheyennes had been in a spirit of revenge for the Chivington Massacre of a few years back, when an exasperated citizenry and soldiery had surprised and exterminated an entire Cheyenne village on Sand Creek. But the generals had been assured that no further hostilities were intended. Every evidence of friendliness was given by the chiefs, and the following morning the huge village had been found deserted. The Indians had headed north. Custer’s com- mand, with Wild Bill Hickok and a detach- ment of white scouts and another of Dela- ware Indian scouts had started in pursuit, while Hancock marched on to Fort Dodge December 14,1929 to hold conference with Satanta, Lone Wolf and Kicking Bird, of the Kiowas, Yellow Bear and Little Raven, of the Arapahoes. Those, too, had given utmost assurances of peaceful intentions. Satanta himself had just returned from a swift and bloody raid in Texas, which, he gracefully explained to the officers, had been perpetrated, not by himself but by a marauding band of Apaches. The savages had retired—and a week later Satanta himself led the assault against Fort Dodge. Before Custer could overtake the north- bound Sioux and Cheyennes, they had swooped across the overland stage route along the Smoky Hill between Fort Wallace and Fort Hays, surprising and murdering the occupants of the overland stage sta- tions. “This here’s a general war, and no mis- take,”” Comstock said to Coleman. “Real war, this time,’’ Coleman as- sented. “It was bound to come. The In- juns have been hatching a general outbreak for two years to try and drive the whites out of the buffalo country between the Arkansas and the Platte. That’s what it’s all about. The Northern Cheyennes and the Brulés and Ogalallah Sioux of the north will dip into it mighty soon.” He sold his mules to the Government and he and Dick Conley volunteered as scouts. Every plainsman possessed some favorite horse or mule in which he placed great reli- ance. Coleman was no exception. His favorite mount, Fleabit, revealed few points of excellence to the average civilized judge of horseflesh. But he possessed every req- uisite demanded by plainsmen and Indian warriors alike—speed and staying qualities in abundance. He could carry Coleman from sixty to eighty miles in a day when necessary and, after a day’s rest, be no worse for his exertions. Coleman was detailed to carry dispatches to Fort Dodge on the Arkansas. Declining an escort of a dozen men, he elected to set forth alone. In common with all plainsmen of experience, he preferred to travel alone or with but one companion when engaged upon such a mission. A single scout could get through where a small detachment of troops would fail. Hence, all plainsmen considered such an escort a handicap rather than an advantage. Setting forth at nightfall, Coleman rode steadily until two hours before dawn. In the center of a ten-mile expanse of prairie, he slept while Fleabit, his lariat attached to his master’s hand, grazed eagerly. After resting himself and Fleabit for two hours, he started on. It was not until he was within five miles of Fort Dodge that he en- countered trouble. Then twenty-odd Co- manches and Kiowas spurted their ponies from a depression a half mile to his left and endeavored to outrun him in the race for the fort. Fleabit stretched out into his greyhound stride and even the fresh mounts of the Comanches and Kiowas, lashed to furious speed by their riders, gained on him but slowly. Nevertheless, the foremost warriors were but two hundred yards behind when Cole- man had yet a mile to go. The savages opened with repeating carbines and the balls whined past too close for comfort. Coleman, giving Fleabit his head, turned in the saddle and opened on his pursuers with his rifle in an effort to retard them. A sentry on duty at the post had discov- ered the race. A cannon boomed thunder- ously from the walls of the fort and a troop of cavalry issued from it, deployed at a gallop and charged down to meet the fleeing dispatch bearer and his assailants. The savages dispersed and lashed their mounts toward safety. Two days later Coleman headed back to- ward Fort Wallace. Throughout the dura- tion of the uprising his activities centered round that post. Wallace was, in fact, the central spot in a general war that raged (Continued on Page 82)

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Se nee THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 8! Wher one-THImp of / Ameniea y/// s/o) ] = f= =~ fam Pens 98 tis Caamisir as /f r eee and Powder Sets » 3. 98 to $6.98 ~~ -- _ \ ove \\ f : 1 \G// Wrist Watches (Men's and Women's) $3.15 to $59.75 Vacuum Cleaners, $12.65 to $41.85 Plasblights 47¢ t@ $3.45 Radio Sets, fully $ iS $3 8 if S nd Bathrobes (Men's, Women’ 73-95 #0 $209.55 at fi s (Men's, Women's Cy! Sets, $4.08 and Children's) $1 to $8.08 Men's Suede Sport Jackets, $9.98 to $12.95 Zeppelin Watches for Boys goc to $1 Cedar Chests $7.95 to $46.05 N Keycases and Billfolds, 98c to $4.35 . Baby Walkers Portable Typewriters Waffle Irons $4.59 to $10.95 $41.95 to $60 Sewing Cabinets $8.25 to $18.75 Ae! ee yes “A Toaste Dolls, a7¢ to $10.45 s $1.65 to $7.89 HESE gift suggestions are but a few from thou- sands which Montgomery Ward & Co. offers the Holiday shoppers of the entire nation—through nine great mail order houses and more than 500 modern retail stores. Whatever your gift preference Ward’s has on display right now at its nearest store excellent selections for the whole family— at the right price! Among them are hundreds of nationally-famous lines—all are articles of unques- tioned quality! ... Why not do your Christmas shopping this year where more than one-third of America will do theirs? You will be agreeably surprised when you find how much further your Christmas money really goes at Ward's. MONTGOMERY WARD & CO. World’s Largest Chain of General Retail Stoeres Kansas City - St.Paul - Baltimore - Portland, Ore. - Oakland, Calif. - Fort Worth - Denver - Albany Smoking Stands $1.59 # $3.80 $1 to $10.25 Velocipedes, $2.98 to $16.35 Bicycles, $19.95 to $36 © M. W. & Co. 1929 Mail Order Branches at: Chicago -

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ark ¢€ ¥ vt Sy Vi ‘ aod am ra THE SATURDAY Ranger nds his foe... and conquers I “The life we lead here in the Park is a strenuous one—the long, exhausting ski trips often requiring ten to fifteen hours of the hardest kind of labor. One must be in the very best physical condition to last in this winter work, and husky as I am, T found my self losing out, due principally to my inability to sleep well at night, even though dog-tired. That coupled with an all-morning headache had me worried. “Finally, after consulting a phy sician, I decided to cut out caffein and try the thirty day test of Postum. Thanks be, that I did. The initial tryout came one cold, blustery night when I arrived at the station wet, cold and dead-tired. A steaming hot cup of Postum surely hit the right spot, and that night for the first time in weeks, I slept as a tired man should. Long before the thirty days were up, I was fit as a fiddle, sleeping like a log every night and feeling like singing in the mornings—and doing it.” Mucto~n D Baapsuaw, Park Ranger, Gallatin Ranger Station, Yellowstone Park, Wyo rraHars you know what it is to go to Prea. dog-tired, and not be able to sleep. Perhaps you know those all-morn- ing headaches. Many a man is all too familiar with these troubles, and the dam- age they do a good day's work. The pity of it is that most men don't realize that caflein may be the cause of these troubles —and they go on drinking it as usual. It may not have occurred to you that wakeful hours—but trv Mr. Bradshaw's experi- ealfein could cause your own ment! Instead of caffein, make Postum your mealtime drink for thirty days. Then take stock of your health and work! You li call it the wisest test you ever made. Returns will show in sounder sleep, increased energy and better work! The caffein. It is made from whole wheat and bran, roasted. Nothing here to cause sleep- answer?—Postum contains no lessness! Nothing to bring on headaches, © 1929.6. F. Corp, Postum ie one of the Post Food Products which include also Grape-Nuts, Post Toasties, and Post's Bran Flakes Your groeer sells Postem in two Forms. Inetant Postum, made in the cup, by adding boiling water, is one of the easiest drinks in the world to prepare. Postum Cereal is aleo eaey to make, but should be boiled 20 minutes. “nerves, or indigestion. Nothing here but wholesome deliciousness. And we mean deliciousness. Postum has a wonderful fla- ver—tine and distinctive. Two million families sing its praises! than other mealtime drinks—only one-half cent a Postum costs less most cup. Order from your grocer, Or mail the coupon for one week's free supply,as astart test. whether you wish Instant Postum, made instantly in the cup, or Postum Cereal, the kind you boil. on your 3C-day Please indicate PS. E. P. 12-29 || POSTUM COMPANY, Inc., Battle Creek, Mich. | | I want to make a thirty-day test of Postum. Please | send me, without cost or obligation, one week's supply of INSTANT POSTUM . ~ Check | (prepared instantly in the cup) which | ‘OSTUM CEREAL - [| you j (prepared by boiling) prefer | Name Mreet City State Ful in completely—print name and address In Canada, address Canadian Postum Company, i Led., The Sterling Tower, Toronto 2, Ontario } : ecsnnenecessetetensunsousessnnpnsunsonssenecnesnsssoccerecseocseocesoesooanees 4 EVENING POST (Continued from Page 80) throughout the western half of Kansas. He carried dispatches to other posts and to commands operating in the field and scouted for various detachments. Woodcutters for the fort were attacked and slain repeatedly. The Rose Creek ranch supplied Wallace with several hundred tons of hay a year. It scarcely could be harvested now without heavy escorts of troops for the hay cutters. Buffaloes swarmed on the adjacent prairies, but hunting them to supply the fort with meat was extremely hazardous as the war increased in magnitude and intensity. In all of these activities Coleman played a part in common with other scouts. | A man one day boasted of the part he had played in Quantrell’s raid on Law- rence. Comstock shot him dead on the porch of the sutler’s store in Fort Wallace. | Comstock retired to the Rose Creek Ranch, which he now owned. General Sheridan and William Tecumseh Sherman came to Wallace, en route to Denver. There was hope of keeping the Smoky Hill route to the Colorado mining camps open despite In- dian depredations. Sheridan induced Com- stock to return to Wallace as scout and he consented to guide Custer’s command north from Hays on past the Republican to the Platte. The young men of every plains tribe painted for war and rode forth upon the bloody trail. A supply train of Custer’s outfit fought a desperate engagement with Pawnee killer’s band of Sioux just outside of Wallace. Lieutenant Kidder’s detach- ment, dispatched from Fort McPherson on the Platte by General Sherman, wasattacked and killed to the last man at the point of the supply train’s battle of a few days before. All of Coleman’s old-time friends were scouting for various detachments. Jim Bridger was chief of scouts for Crook far up in the northwest. Buffalo Bill was chief of scouts for General Carr's command, oper- ating between the Arkansas and the Smoky Hill, with Wild Bill Hickok attached to the same command. Similarly, because of the extremtnely hazardous nature of their work, | there was correspondingly great mortality among the scouts. Sharp Grover and Com- stock left Wallace to make a scout round the headwaters of the Solomon River. Grover, badly wounded, returned to Wallace to re- port that Black Kettle’s dog soldiers had taken Comstock’s scalp. | Recovering, Grover marched with For- sythe’s Scouts to the Arickaree Fork of the Republican. There the fifty scouts were at- tacked by an overwhelming force of Chey- ennes, Brulés and Ogalallah Sioux who had swooped down from the north. For nine days, until the survivors were relieved by troops from Wallace, the scouts fought the | historic battle of Beecher’s Island. Several of Coleman’s friends went down in that en- | gagement. Wild Bill Hickok rode into Wallace, shot three times through the body during a des- perate single-handed engagement with sav- ages while carrying dispatches, and was mustered out for physical disability. Cus- ter had appointed California Joe as his chief of scouts. Sharp Grover, who had succeeded Comstock as owner of the Rose Creek Ranch, was shot down by aman dur- ing a quarrel. Frank Nixon took it over and was killed shortly thereafter by a man who resented Nixon’s efforts to ride a horse into his place of business in Pond City just outside Fort Wallace. Homer Wheeler, post trader at Wallace, later to become Colonel Wheeler of the United States Cavalry, ac- quired ownership of the ranch and stocked it with the first herd of cattle to be brought into Northwestern Kansas. The buffalo herds were so tremendous, the Wallace re- gion being in the very heart of the best buf- falo range on the continent, that it was extremely difficult to prevent the cattle from joining them and straying to parts unknown. Coleman, traveling at night with dis- patches and hiding out by day, drew within a dozen miles of the Rose Creek Ranch some two hours after sundown. A dim glow of coals caused him to investigate cau- tiously. The remains of an emigrant wagon December 14, 1929 smoldered there, and near it were the mutilated bodies of a man and a woman. Another two miles and he reined in Fleabit as an unearthly shriek, faint from distance, drifted to his ears. ‘‘ Captive,” he said, and cursed savagely below his breath. He headed toward the sound, guided by oc- casional animal screams of anguish. The night was velvet black. The rays of a small fire presently rewarded him. Riding within four hundred yards, he dismounted and tied Fleabit’s head down to a forefoot with a hitch that could be loosened with a single tug at the free end of the rope, and left the horse standing there on the prairie. His moccasins made no sound as he drew near the revolting scene, and the twenty- odd savages who made up the war party were too thoroughly engrossed with their devilish game to have ears for anything save the tortured shrieks of their victim and their own shouts of derision. The cap- tive was staked out upon his back on the prairie. The painted fiends were nearing the end of their ingenuity, for they had kindled a tiny fire upon his naked breast, the inevitable prelude to the end when plains savages of whatever tribe staked out a captive. The victim was too far gone to live, even if freed, but the savages might make life last in him for another few dread- ful hours. There was no chance for a rescue. Coleman, having crept within fifty yards, knew what he must do. There was but one release for the captive. Coleman lined carefully down the barrel of his rifle, a new 44 caliber Henry with sixteen rim-fire cartridges in the magazine. He aimed not at the cluster of squatting savages but at the armpit of the victim just below the tiny fire that blazed on his bare chest. With the roar of the Henry a scream was eut short and Coleman knew that the messenger of mercy had found its mark. Three rore shots in swift succession he pumped into the ranks of the scattering savages. One fell across the body of the victim. So accustomed to warfare and surprises were the savages that within three seconds from the first report of the Henry the group had dispersed, racing for their ponies on the far side of the fire. Coleman lifted his voice in the Missouri yell that had been the war cry of the old mountain men. The savages knew and dreaded it. But even as it left his lips, Coleman was leaping away from, not toward, the fire in a swift spring for his horse. It would require some minutes for the warriors to make sure that attacking forces were not upon them. Coleman reached Fleabit, pulled the rope end that released the hitch, mounted and fled on through the night. After a few hours he reached Rose Creek Ranch and stopped there for an hour before heading on for Wallace. He made no mention of his exploit. Too many there were who would censure his act. He only hoped that when his own time came to be a staked-out captive, if it did, some prowling plainsman would do as much for him. The war increased in scope. Pitched bat- tles were fought between the troops and the savages on the Platte, Republican, Arickaree Fork, Punished Woman’s Fork, Smoky Hill, Walnut, Sand Creek, Beaver, Pawnee Fork and the Arkansas. The Cheyennes captured and burned a Union Pacific train and held the line at Plum Creek. Colonel Dodge, with two com- panies of white troops and a company of Pawnee scouts, routed the Cheyennes, re- opening the line, and the Pawnees took twenty Cheyenne scalps. Custer’s winter campaign far south into the unknown regions of Northwest Texas and his surprise attack and defeat of Black Kettle’s and Little Rock’s village of hostiles on the Washita occasioned the first weaken- ing of the savages’ determination to fight to the bitter end. California Joe came in for immortal fame in that campaign. And throughout, Eastern humanitarians, through the press, clamored for peace at Continued on Page 85

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eee eee THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 83 “THIS ONE IS GOING TO BE A COMFORTABLE CHRISTMAS” SNUGLY PROTECTED from winter’s attack MART home owners, living in Celotex- insulated houses, have no fear of winter. They feel safe and snug behind protecting Celotex walls that shut out piercing cold . .. that prevent chills, fever and other winter ailments. Moreover, their fuel bills are reduced at least one-third, because Celotex holds furnace-heat inside... retards its escape through walls and roofs. { REPAIR and REMODEL now with CELOTEX ’) Owners of Celotex-insulated homes enjoy greater comfort ail year ‘round because Celotex shuts out excessive heat in summer, and unpleasant dampness in fall and spring. Celotex has high insulating efficiency because it contains mil- lions of tiny sealed air cells. It has structural strength because it is made from long tough cane Make a check-up on your house. Is it weakening before winter's attack? Do the roof and attic allow furnace heat to leak out? Are the rooms cold and chilly? Is the \ basement damp and unpleasant? CEL fibres, interlaced into broad strong boards. Celotex Standard Building Board is used for sheathing, for insulating roofs, for lining attics and basements in old homes as well as new. Celotex Lath gives new beauty to plastered surfaces because it is designed to eliminate dis- figuring cracks and lath-marks. Remedy these weak spots with Celotex. You can for these home improvem with the money Celotex save you on fuel bills. And t of the added home com BRAND INSULATING CANE BOARD Before you build, buy or remodel, ask your ar- chitect, builder or dealer for further information, on Celotex—and write us for our free booklet. THE CELOTEX COMPANY 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois The CELOTEX Reg 5S. Pat. OF ie the trad ark of and indicates manuf ' Celotex Cor bicag Member of the Home Modernizing Bureau of the Nationa! Building Indus now tries, Inc. In Canada: Alexander Murray ay me & Co., Ltd., Montreal. Sales distributors ents ee throughout the world. Reliable dealers will hink can supply Celotex Standard Building fort! y, Board and Celotex Lath Celotex Standard Building Board is i ft. wide, 7 to 12 ft long and 7, 16 of an inch thick. (Also made double thick @) | | 7/8 inch.) Celotex Lath is 18 in. by i8 in. and 7/16 of an inch thick. (Also made double thick— 7/8 inch When you buy a house, look for the Celotex sign. It is your assurance of greater home comfort

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84 THE SATURDAY “PENNIES Electrolux gives you ice for life, perfect food preservation, for only 25 to 70 cents a week Ir you're doing without automatic refrigeration be- cause you think it's an expensive thing to have, then you don’t know about Electrolux. This newest, latest type of automatic refrigerator is not an expense, not a luxury. A few pennies a day—25 to 70 cents a week, that’s all it costs to run. Think what you save. But the saving isn’t the only advantage. Electrolux frees you from all trouble and worry about refrigeration. It gives you ice for life, all the pure sparkling cubes you want. It gives you a con- stant, unvarying low food temperature and opens up a whole new realm of thrilling possibilities in the way of frozen desserts, chilled salads, cooling drinks. There’s never any sound to annoy with this refrig- erator. It is permanently and completely silent, for it has no moving parts to make noise. This same simplicity makes Electrotux last indefi- nitely. There is no friction, no vibration, no wear. And, of course, no mechanical trouble. You don’t have a chance to get acquainted with the repair man. ‘ A tiny, silent, inexpensive gas flame is the “whole works” of Electrolux. It circulates the liquid re- frigerant which actually produces the cold. This refrigerant needs no renewal. It is hermetically and permanently sealed inside a rigid one-piece steel unit. Don't think of buying an automatic refrigerator until you see Electrolux at the showroom of your gas company or other Electrolux dealer. Can be operated with Pyrofax Gas where there are no city mains. A wide range of sizes and models in white and colors. Liberal purchase terms. Prices from $210 to $430 at the factory. For complete information, address Servel Sales, Inc., Evansville, Indiana. ELECTROLUX THE U/l REFRIGERATOR ——— EVENING POST December 14, 1929 merely ennies A tiny gas flame takes the place of all moving parts Hostess Model Electrolux shown above has five cubic feet of food space and makes 45 large ice cubes.

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(Continued from Page 82) any price, assailing the frontiersmen and the Army officers in the field as the insti- gators of the war. Indian agents, eager to exonerate their charges so that they might retain their easy berths and the financial advantages that accrued therefrom, sup- plied the savages with arms and ammuni- tion, much of it government issue, and were loud in their denunciation of the set- tlers and the Army. The Indian Bureau blamed the War Department, and still the bloody war continued throughout the west- ern half of Kansas. All who were in the theater of war— plains- men, settlers, Army officers and Indian chiefs alike—recognized this struggle for what it was. It had been inevitable from the first. The plains tribes long had planned this general uprising. It was one last des- perate attempt on the part of the Indians to retain for themselves the splendid buf- falo country between the Arkansas and the Platte. There could be no compromise. It must be fought to a finish to determine for all time whether the best of all the buffalo country was to belong to the white man or to the red. It was decided eventually in favor of the white men at the treaty of Medicine Lodge. vie OLEMAN and Dick Conley loaded the two new freight wagons with meat and headed for Fort Wallace. Hunting was relatively safe now, since the power of the tribes had been broken. Not that there weren't plenty of small war parties prowling about on the watch for easy scalps and plunder. Still, there was no general war on. And the added measure of safety had induced many to turn their hands to hunt- ing. Coleman knew that there was no cer- tainty of selling a load of meat after making the kill and freighting the meat to some post or settlement. He merely hoped that other hunters had not visited Wallace and supplied it with meat in the past week or so. As he drew near he observed two wagons in the dis- tance, headed toward Wallace. No doubt it was another hunting outfit. Anyway, he’d beat the other wagons in by a com- fortable margin. Captain Stone stood talking to Rapaho Gil and California Joe in the compound. “That's Breck Coleman’soutfit,”” Rapaho Gil stated, indicating the approaching wag- ons. Captain Stone’s eyes sparkled. Since that first trip on the plains with Coleman, Stone had become a seasoned Indian cam- paigner, short as the time had been. Al- most constantly his troops had been in the saddle, attached to one or another of the commands that had been operating con- tinuously against the unruly plains tribes from Texas to Montana. He knew that much of the knowledge of savages and their tactics that had stood him in such good stead had been gathered from Coleman. To Stone’s knowledge, Coleman never had repeated the story of a young officer who had run his horse to a standstill, failed to re- load his guns, then had mistaken a war party of mounted Sioux two miles or more away for a flock of wild turkeys a few hun- dred yards removed. Later, when the sting had gone out of the recollection and only the humor of it remained, Stone had told the tale himself. It had become a stock yarn in Western Army circles. Stone indulged in a deep-chested laugh. “T’ll be glad to see him again. He prob- ably thought me a stupid animal.” “Wrong,” Rapaho Gil said. “I see him at Fort Kearney not long after, and he says you had more hoss sense than the big run of young orficers he’d knowed.” Stone found that he was pleased out of all proportions to the magnitude of the compliment. He stepped forward and wrung Coleman’s hand as the latter de- scended from the wagon. Wallace now was a sizable place. Civilian families flocked round the wagons to pur- chase meat at the going rate of five dollars a saddle. Mess sergeants purchased meat a THE SATURDAY from their company funds. Officers’ wives sent their servants. “I’m a graduate turkey hunter now, Coleman,” Captain Stone reported. “I can tell the difference between a turkey and a war-bonneted Sioux as far as I can see one.” He related to Coleman the story of what was probably the biggest turkey hunt in history. Returning with Sheri- dan’s and Custer’s commands from a cam- paign against the southern tribes, the expe- dition had camped on the North Fork of the Canadian, just south of the Kansas border. The scattered timber along the creek bottoms had literally swarmed with great flocks of turkeys, so tame as to afford the easiest of hunting. The enlisted men of the command had been given permission to engage in a general turkey hunt and in the next few hours at least five thousand of the big birds had been slain. Coleman watched the two wagons, loaded with buffalo saddles, approach. There were three men in the outfit. Coleman recognized Flack as the driver of the lead wagon. Conley had sold out Coleman's meat and Flack found no market for his load. Flack was loud in his denunciation, both of Coleman for intruding upon what Flack chose to term his territory and of the occu- pants of the post for purchasing from others when he had been selling meat there steadily for two months. “I bring in a load of meat every week. But you all buy from the first outfit that turns up ahead of me. I suppose you think my meat can rot!” “Any hunting outfit is privileged to sell meat here any time there is a market for it,”” Captain Stone returned coldly. “The fact that you have been selling meat here whenever you found a market for it does not give you a monopoly. Hunting is free to all.” Rapaho Gil spoke to the two men who rode the second wagon, calling them by name. Bronson and Enders were the names he used. Coleman inspected Enders carefully. So he was a trader of mules, with two partners, according to the con- tractor who had sported a claybank mule in his string. “You three men partners in business?" Coleman inquired of Flack. “Yeah,” Flack assented. The ex-wagon boss knew the caliber of the four men and contented himself with grumbling. “‘ You're cutting in on my territory,” he said to Cole- man. ‘Why don’t you pull out somewhar else? I was hunting round here first.” “*Move out if you don’t like company,” Coleman said shortly. He walked to his wagon and thrust an arm into his war bag. He returned carry- ing a small buckskin sack. “Every Injun carries his medicine bag. I picked up the habit, sort of, living so long amongst 'em. Ever see what I pack in mine, lieutenant?” “Stone is a captain now,”’ California Joe corrected. “Right glad to hear it,”” Coleman con- gratulated. He drew forth three short lengths of stick, one end of each chewed to a fibrous brush, and a heavy turquoise and silver earring. Recognizing the objeets instantly, Stone lifted his gaze to Coleman's face. But Coleman was gazing steadily at Flack. Stone’s eyes, too, turned to Flack. The ruffian was staring at the objects in Cole- man’s hand as if fascinated. His lips were drawn back from his teeth in a snarl. Then his eyes flitted from one to another of the group. California Joe and Rapaho Gi! were interested spectators, sensing that there was some underlying significance in this byplay, but unaware of the nature of it. “Hell's bells!’’ Rapaho Gil yelped sud- denly, leaning forward. ‘“‘No man could mistake that who'd seen it once. Last time I set eyes on it, "twas dangling from old Ike Williams’ ear. I've knowed that bau- ble for close to thirty year.” “What’s this, Coleman?” Captain Stone asked, his eyes still on Flacl.’s livid face. EVENING POST “Just the contents of my medicine bag,” Coleman returned. But his eyes were hard as he trained them on Flack. “Come on, Flack,”’ Enders urged. “No money to be picked up here. Let's dangle.” Flack mounted the lead wagon and the outfit left the post. “Do you think that’s the man?” Stone inquired of Coleman, drawing him aside. “Couldn't get the least line on his where- abouts round that time—or pick up a word as to whether he'd come east on the Oregon Trail about then with a claybank mule in the outfit,” Coleman said. “But a man named Enders sold a claybank mule to a contractor on the Kansas Pacific.” “Do you think there’s enough evidence to order their arrest?" Stone asked. Slowly Coleman shook his head. wouldn't hold together.” He drove from Wallace in mid-afternoon and made camp five miles or more away. He shot a cow elk in a creek bottom for camp meat. That night he produced a letter from his hunting frock and slit the envelope. It had been handed to him at Fort Wallace. That letter had been written by hiznself, with the help of Army officers, and addressed to Sue Carrolton, Pike County, Missouri. An acquaintance had suggested that he put a return address on it in case it did not reach the girl. Well, it hadn't reached her. After all the months, it had been returned to him. Evidently, then, the Carroltons had not returned to their old home. Probably Sue had for- gotten all about him—likely was married to someone else by this time. But he had figured, some way, that she'd wait for him. He had planned the big stock ranch of the future, with Sue, as the mistress of it, in- stalled in the ranch house. He'd predicted once, he recalled now, that when there were no new places left to go, Sue and himself would back track east- ward along the trail that their ancestors had blazed into the West. It had been only a fanciful remark. But it had come to pass. Already Sue had started on that re- turn journey. How far to the east had she gone? He himself had been part of the back-lash, so to speak. Born on the Oregon Trail and reared in a trading post on Snake River, here he was now meat hunting on the Kansas prairies. Well, why not? A hunter must hunt where he could find a market for his game. But he and Sue Carrolton had not been alone in that return movement; far from it. The westward travel was many times heavier than the travel east, but the trails saw no lack of discouraged or homesick parties returning eastward from California and Oregon. Many of the outfits whose wagons had been labeled Pike’s Peak or Bust, had busted before reaching the new Colorado mining camps or had found no gold after reaching them. But the main travel was west; always would be, likely, Coleman decided. His thoughts reverted to Flack. He had a strong conviction, some way, that Flack had had a hand in old Ike Williams’ taking off. But there was little evidence to sup- port his belief. Chewing a stick or straw was a common practice. True, Flack chewed a stick more savagely than most. But no such evidence would hold in criminal court or court-martial. And a claybank mule might have been bought and sold several times before reaching Enders’ hands. Killing men for their outfits was nothing unusual in the West. On the contrary, such affairs were of commonplace occur- rence. The border-ruffian element from the Missouri-Kansas border had spread throughout the West after the close of the Civil War; both Missourians and Jay- hawkers alike steeped in bloodshed after the long years of sanguinary frontier strife. Taking human life meant little or nothing to such men. In addition, deserters from both armies had sought refuge in the un- charted regions of the West during the progress of the war. Upon its termination, those restless spirits who found it difficult to settle down to peaceful pursuits had quit civilization and headed west. Also, "ae 85 criminals released from Eastern prisons and those whose crimes made them apprehen- sive of imprisonment, had flocked to this new region that was just being opened up. Where murdering for gain became too rampant, miners’ safety committees, vigi- lantes, or stranglers, organized to take the law into their own hands and hang the offenders. Town marshals administered single-handed justice in many new camps. The military took a hand on occasion and courts-martial were not few. Citizens fre- quently organized themselves into posses to pursue, capture, try and execute some malefactor on the spot. For a few citizens to deal out summary justice to murderer or thief and leave him swinging in the breeze was considered well within the law- ful rights of honest men. Scarcely a cotton- wood grove the length and breadth of the plains but what, at one time or another, had served as gallows for some party of desperadoes. Still, that breed swarmed in profusion, gathering new recruits faster than the shooting and hanging citizenry could blot them out. Every man went armed. To kill a man in a personal quarrel, provided that the deceased had been given anywhere near an even break, was not considered cause for interference. Even in court, a man had merely to prove that his deceased opponent had been armed and had made a move for his gun. Inevitably, the jury freed him. To shoot an unarmed man or to shoot from behind was frowned upon by the citizenry and apt to result in a popular lynching un- less the perpetrator decamped before irate citizens took his case in hand. Human life was cheaply held and swiftly taken upon slight excuse. A cow elk yelped from somewhere close at hand. The gruff bark of a doe antelope sounded from the prairie. The wolves be- gan their nightly serenade. A family group of those marauders were snarling over the entrails and foreparts of the elk that Cole- man had shot a few yards down the creek. Coleman laid aside his pondering and slept. In the early morning he and Dick Conley broke camp and drove on across the prairies. They topped out on a low divide and there before them in the next sag a trail herd of Texas longherns was moving to the north. Two men rode the points to guide the leaders. At intervals along the sides of the long narrow string of cows rode flankers and, far back behind, several men rode the drags, hazing on the laggards. Then came the chuck wagon and behind it the cavayado, or “cavvy yard,” the extra horses of the outfit in the care of the day horse herder and the nighthawk, the man whose duty it was to ride herd on the horses at night Again the sight thrilled Coleman. He halted his mule wagons a hundred yards away, lest a closer approach should frighten the passing herd. “Where you headed for?"’ he called to one of the flank riders. “* Montana-bound !" the puncher shouted back. As the rear of the herd drew almost abreast of the wagons, a yearling broke from his fellows and made a run toward Coleman One of the drag riders jumped his horse after the animal to head it back near the wagons and waved a hand in sud- den recognition. si Hello, Breck!" he shouted The rider was but a youth, rangy, a downy beard already) He passed tall and conc aling the lower part of his face Coleman couldn't place the boy, although there was something hauntingly familiar about his face. He'd run across him before some- where. Ordinarily, he would have dis- missed the matter from his mind and thought no more about it. But that face kept recurring in his thoughts and teasing for identification. It was not until two weeks later that Coleman gave voice to a sudden oath. So Buckner Carrelton, the boy who had been so eager to touch off that old flintlock at the savages during the trip tc Virginia City, had grown up and traveled Continued on Page &9

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86 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST RCA RADIOIA MAKERS MADE RCA RADIOLA 67—The new Super-Heterodyne combination with RCA Electro-Dynamic loudspeaker giving electrical repro- duction of records. The complete home instrument; brings to you at will “Music from the air or record.” $690 (less Radiotrons) RCA RADIOLA 47—The newest RCA “all-electric” develop- ment in Screen-Grid radio combined with the phonograph. Radio and phonogtaph utilize the same improved built-in “Music from the air or record.” $275 (less Radiotrons) Electro-Dynamic reproducer. RCA RADIOLA 46—Cabinet Radiola with the new Screen- Grid Radiotrons. Built-in RCA Electro-Dynamic reproducer. A powerful, efficient receiver of most modern design. $130 (less Radiotrons) THE RADIOTRON RCA RADIOLA 44—Utilizing the sensational new Screen-Grid Radiotrons. Circuit incorporates latest engineering refinements. High amplification, great selectivity and sensitivity. $75 (less Radiotrons) RCA RADIOLA 66—A new, improved RCA Super-Heterodyne with RCA Electro-Dynamic reproducer. Built with master craftsmanship throughout. The finest Super-Heterodyne ever offered at this price. $225 (less Radiotrons) RCA RADIOLA 33—The nationally famous “all-electric” con- sole type Radiola. Realistic reproduction of music and the voice from nearby or distant stations. A quality instrument at a low price. $54 (less Radiotrons) December 14,1929 —~— Ey P te Fe — Sagi Sa P| ) Pes » MPP ck, Meme | , >

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(Continued from Page 85) south with a bunch of returning drovers to become a Texas cowboy. And now he was riding up the trail on the long drive from Texas to Montana with a trail herd. It had been young Buck Carrolton, that rider; no doubt of that, now that Cole- man’s memory had clicked. Why hadn’t he recognized the boy at first glance, so that he could have made inquiry as to Sue Carrolton’s whereabouts? Had the whole family gone to Texas? Coleman found himself unable to answer his own query. 1x HE Federal Government had subsidized the various railroad companies that were laying their tracks westward through virgin country. It was a land subsidy, in- stead of grants of cash. In most instances the country on either side of the proposed rights of way had been checkerboarded into sections, the railroad gaining ownership of every alternate section for from ten to twenty miles on either side of its tracks. The more rapidly construction work was pushed ahead, the more rapidly the railroad lands on either side of the right of way could be sold to aspiring settlers, providing the funds for still further swift construction. The Carrolton family, destitute by the time its single wagon had reached Northern Kansas on the return journey, had been foreed to tarry and rest their toil-worn oxen. Carrolton heard of the high wages being paid for expert mule skinners in the grading camps of the Kansas Pacific. He trekked thither and found work at once. Settlers were taking up homesteads on open sec- tions or buying in the alternate sections of railroad land for miles on either side of the tracks. Towns were springing up along the right of way. Hundreds of Missourians were numbered among the settlers. Carrolton felt himself at home. Particularly, he knew every trait of the Missouri mule. After a few months his knowledge of mule skinning and bullwhacking caused the con- tractors to promote him and he became foreman of a grading crew at a stipend of ninety dollars a month. That seemed to Carrolton a princely sum. It furnished food and new clothing for his offspring. Talk of rising land values induced him to file upon a piece of land himself. He located his family on an open quarter section and built a sizable sod house. Young Buckner Carrolton, with the four oxen, put in a few acres of wheat and eorn, an acre of potetoes and squashes. Sue Carrolton assigned the younger children to the task of planting every variety of garden truck. The elder Carrolton provided her with chickens, turkeys and two cows. But farming was not to the taste of young Buck Carrolton. Adventure called him. Not far from the Carrolton place, the little town of Abilene had made a bid for the Texas cattle trade. Men were sent east to induce buyers to meet the drovers at Abilene. Others were sent to the south to meet the trail bosses on their way north with herds and guide them to the new village that felt the urge to become the cattle metropolis of the West. The herds rolled into Abilene. Buyers were there in plenty. And young Buck Carrolton bade his family good-by and rode down the long trail to Texas with re- turning cowboys, intent upon accompany- ing another trail herd from Texas to the Kansas prairies the next season. Almost overnight, Abilene had leaped into world-wide fame as a cow town. It was reported that hundreds of thousands of longhorns were being gathered in Texas preparatory to starting them north toward Abilene in trail herds the following spring. The little camp mushroomed. Gamblers and speculators flocked there. Dance halls and saloons sprang up in profusion. The place swarmed with cattle buyers, Army officers, sporting men, railroad men and the wild riders from Texas as each new herd came up the trail. Iowa and the Dakotas, even far-off Montana, were intent upon stocking their ranges with Texas cows. THE SATURDAY Buyers from those points came to Abilene to bid for trail herds. And as the town boomed and prospered, Sue Carrolton prospered also to a mild ex- tent. Twice a week she hitched two ponies to a buckboard and hauled garden truck, butter and eggs and poultry into Abilene, where prices were extremely high. Usually her next younger sjster, Linda Carrolton, accompanied her. Both girls now had new dresses and both were in great demand at dances and other social functions in the growing cow town. A frame addition had been built onto the original sod house and this room was seldom without its quota of male visitors in the evenings. In a community where men predominated overwhelmingly in num- bers and female society wus largely obtain- able only in the dance halls, the two sisters had become belles of the countryside. The sharp edge of her anguish over hav- ing lost her first love had dulled. There were times when she told herself that she had forgotten Coleman. During the excite- ment of various social events and the sur- plus of masculine attention that was showered upon her, she did forget tem- porarily. When she remembered again, which she always did, she thought of Breck Coleman with more than a trace of bitter- ness for his desertion of her. Flack was much in Abilene with his two principal associates. Enders, dark and suave, was a person of considerable poise and polish of manner. His speech hinted of former educational advantages. Bronson, the third member of the trio, the youngest, was a curly-haired youngster in the middle twenties. Flack had trimmed his red beard and pruned down his flowing mustache, which improvements gave him somewhat the air of a professorial gorilla. The three men had prospered and were known in Abilene as men of substantial means. It was known that they traded heavily in oxen, mules and horses, in ad- dition to the fact that they had had several meat-hunting outfits in their employ. Once, at least, they had come to Abilene to meet and dispose of a big trail herd of some three thousand head of cows which they purported to have bought. The half-dozen men who had arrived in charge of the herd seemed very few to have conducted so large a herd up over the long trail from Texas. And they had not been typical drovers. Flack, Enders and Bronson had turned the herd quickly to a Dakota buyer, who had started on with it at once. There had been some later gossip to the effect that the six men who had arrived with the herd had murdered the original trail crew just after the outfit had crossed the Arkansas, then had appropriated the herd and sold it to Flack and his two partners on the trail. No censure could attach to the purchasing trio for that. The bill of sale had been in order, apparently. Besides, there had been so much talk of that variety and with eause. The border-rutfian element of South- west Missouri and Southeast Kansas had murdered so many trail crews and stolen so many herds that the practice had killed Baxter Springs, Kansas, as a cattle market within a space of two years. No sensible trail boss would divert his charges to that point, no matter how tempting the promises of high prices and ready markets awaiting him there. Baxter Springs, the first boom cow town, had died an unnatural death and nothing could resuscitate it. Flack and his associates spoke vaguely of large deals in livestock, grading contracts on various railroads then being constructed, and of various other ventures of magnitude. A man’s business was his own, in Abilene as elsewhere on the plains, and definite in- quiry was considered the worst possible breach of etiquette. EVENING POST Sue Carrolton stil! retained her original aversion for Flack, softened somewhat, perhaps, by time and the cessation of his train-boss manner. She no longer felt actively hostile toward him, but still could accord him only civility, no friendliness. Sensing this, Flack confined his atten- tions to Linda, the younger sister. Enders and Bronson vied with each other in their courtship of Sue. She found herself flat- tered by the considerate regard accorded her by the older man, amused and slightly stirred by the impetuous declarations of the younger Bronson. When she heard of the latter's wild sprees in the dives of Abilene and chided him upon his habits, he excused himself on the grounds of loneliness when he was out of her sight. He was out of her sight frequently, as were the others. The three men left for long trips to various parts of the country. When they returned to Abilene they were much in evidence at the Carrolton homestead. Rumor linked Sue’s name with that of Bronson and it was predicted in Abilene that a wedding was not far off. Sue, however, still engrossed with her responsibilities toward the younger members of the family, accused herself of being unable to respond to the advances of her various suitors. Her old wild love for Breck Coleman, of course, had died long since, she assured herse!f repeatedly. But she seemed unable to accord any such measure of affection to another. All of which caused her to think of Coleman with added bitterness. The general uprising of the tribes was in full progress a bit to the westward. Troops came through Abilene by trainloads. Then Sue began to hear Breck Coleman's name mentioned among those other well-known scouts whose exploits were on every tongue. She learned by casual inquiry that he had been meat hunting for Western Kansas forts and camps for some months before the outbreak. She knew that her popularity and that of her sister had traveled the length of the Kansas Pacific on the tongues of railroad men and Army officers. She tossed her head and told herself that, since Coleman had not troubled to come and see her, at least he must know that she was experienc- ing no lack of suitors. She went about more with Bronson, willing that the tale of the prosperous young man’s devotion to her should reach Coleman's ears. Abilene leaped into world-wide fame, not alone as the cattle metropolis of the West but as the wildest and wickedest camp on earth. Saloons, brothels, dance halls and gambling houses roared wide open every hour of the day and night. Every man went armed. Desperadoes stalked the streets and shot men down in quarrels with the slightest excuse. Soldiers off on leave waxed drunk and shot it out with hard- faced civilians who took exceptions to their activities. Wild trail crews of Texas cow- boys, drawing their pay after the long months on the trail and feeling the need of relaxation, went on frantic sprees, rode their horses into various establishments and pulled their guns on all who objected. Most of the men of Sue Carrolton’s ac- quaintance wore notches on their guns as evidence of having come off victor in deadly affrays. Young as he was, Al Bronson had a reputation as a gunman and his Frontier Mode! six-shooter sported a notch for each of its six chambers Abilene tried in vain to become a law- and-order camp. Successive peace officers failed even to retard the lawlessness and almost nightly shootings. At last Wild Bi!! Hickok was induced to come to Abilene as town marshal. The noted scout and gunman, single-handed, tamed this most lawless spot on earth. Most of the noted gunmen of the plains were Hickok’s friend SY of long years’ standing. Such cesperadoes as were not his friends knew him as an exceptionally deadly antagonist. Many, nevertheless, did not lack the courage to confront him. Each in turn learned just too late that Wild Bill was perfectly capable of doing what he had declared he would do-—bury every turbulent ruffian who set out to upset the peace of Abilene. Shoot- ings declined to a minimum, became ex- tremely rare. Every man who engaged in pistol practice found himself face to face with the town marshal in very short order. Hickok came upon occasion to visit for an evening at the Carrolton farm. Sue marveled at the intense flame in his blue eyes, contrasting so sharply with the man's extreme placidity of countenance. Then young Buck Carrolton, having re- turned after the start of the new year from accompanying the trail herd to far-off Mon- tana, stopped briefly in Abilene on his way to the Carrolton farm. The members of his family greeted the returning wayfarer with boundless affection. “You been seeing considerable of Al Bronson of late, Sue, 1 heard in Abilene,” he said after a space The girl nodded. “Considerable,” she mimicked. “‘But not just of late. He's been away for a few weeks. Linda heard that he had come back to Abilene last night.” “Seen much of Breck Coleman?” her brother made inquiry Sue’s heart skipped a beat. The query had startled her. For a moment she could not formulate a reply. Then, “Not any- thing of him at all. Is he in Abilene?” Buck Carrolton looked into bis sister's eyes questioningly for many seconds, Evi- dently she was telling the truth. He was glad of that. “I was wondering if Bronson’s atten- tions to you had been at the bottom of it,” he said. “‘Nobody seemed to know what the trouble was all about. I'm sure re- lieved to know your name wasn’t mixed up in it.” “What?” Sue demanded. “ Mixed up in what?” “Oh. I thought maybe you'd heard,” her brother said. “The trouble between Breck and Al Bronson.” “Trouble?”’ She was suddenly faint, re- calling Bronson’s reputation with a gun Why was it that she feared for Coleman instead of for the other? Coleman could mean nothing to her now. “Tell me!” she insisted “Coleman came riding into Abilene early this morning and shot Al Bronson dead in his tracks, the way | heard it,” her brother said. Sue Carrolton sobbed hysterically. She was surprised to discover that her tears were occasioned by a vast relief. Why was she not grieving instead for Bronson? Her brother, however, interpreted her emotion as that of deep sorrow springing from Bron- son's untimely end. He frowned in awk- ward sympathy. “Coleman turned and rode right op out of town again,”’ Buck Carrolton amplified “Hickok had gone out after him. That's all I heard about it. I rode right out to see what you knew about the ruckus.” Again he was puzzled by the swift tran formation in his sister. Rigidly, as if gazing upon some scene of horror, she was staring at him without seeing him Her sobs seemed to have been froze it the fount, so sw ftly had they ceased She was thinking again of those tlaming blue orbs of Hick«e k's be nad the two dead- liest guns that the West known Hickok, riding out after Coleman to exact justice Instinctive ly he knew that Cole man would not rur lie'd face the musi Those cy blue eyes of the mar il seemed to be staring into her own a singly With a desperate little moan she covered her eyes with her two hands as if to shut out the vision, then besoucht her brother to ride back into Abilene at once and inquire us to the final outcome TO BE CONTIN ’

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14, 1929 THE ALR-LLIGH T PRINCIPLE Four FISK -Air-Flight Tires —to meet varving needs— bring this modern tire to you at the price you wish to pay. All are built on the same new Air-Flight Prin- ciple that assures easier riding, ut- most safety and maximum mileage i—FISK DE LUXE The ultimate in Air-Flight luxury 2—FiSK RUGGED The sturdy, dutiful development of the Air-Fiight Principle 3—-FISK PREMIER Provides the most in Asr-Flight luxury that low price can buy aha * Paces gee i—FISK The standard service tire built on the Air-FPlight Principle.

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THE TEP a TS Pe a par Tee eR ES y } ZA, A. if | | 0’ course, Dad is going to get and /ike his usual quota of sox, handkerchiefs and ties. } ) But for the gift—a set of new Fisk Air-Flight Tires. That's , something he’ll boast about! Soe Everywhere, his men friends are talking about this mar- velous new tire—built a different way. He knows how much more easily it steers—how much better it rides and — Fa —— Sg ee — how much longer it wears. No longer is it hard to get him a gift—when such a gift is 1 so easy to buy. Fisk has made it possible for you to buy this new and better tire right in your own neighborhood. Drive around to your nearby Fisk dealer. Let him show you why the Fisk Avr-Flight Tire will ride easier, last longer, and give more all-around satisfaction than any other tire made. & SATURDAY EVENING POST 91 GIVE HIM YEARS © ead eo mileage! He will gladly demonstrate the larger air-chamber, all-cord material, multiple-cable bead, greater air-cushion, stream line tread, greater road contact and A/r-Flight balance which enable Fisks to give Dad more pleasure, more mileage Then Christmas morning—a set of Fisks—a broad red ribbon—a sprig of holly and a c ard “for Dad.” There Every- Perhaps we shouldn't limit such a gift to Dad. is mother to be considered—and sister and brother. one who drives will appreciate this unusual gift, for the Fisk Air-Flight Tire is as balloons as the pressure type. great an improvement over balloons were over old-fashioned, high- Yet this new Fisk costs no more than other good tires. t

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92 ($920,000,000.00 paid to policy-holdersof the Aitna Life insurance Company and affl- iated Companies in 79 years!) It pays to be ATNA-IZED See the AZtna-izer in your commu- nity. He is a man worth knowing. The Alina Life Insurance Company + The Etna Casualty and Surety Company ~ The 4ntomobile Insurance Company + The Standard Fire Insurance Company of Hart- ford, Connecticut, write practically every form of Insurance and Bonding Protection. THE SATURDAY EVENING POST TOWARD THE MILLENNIUM eight and a half inches. A workman placed the tip of a spike in position. One of the superior engineers took a sledge hammer, swung it to three skillful strokes. There was a little irregular cheer from the by- standers. The first spike of the Union Pa- cific Railroad had at last been driven, a little more than three years after that day of agony when President Lincoln had called it into being. The work went on steadily, without hurry. The pairs of rails began to lengthen on the tie-strewn track, their chairs— cheaply dispensing with fishplates—rivet- ing them together, their spikes driven by clanging sledge hammers wielded by brawny laborers, seminaked in the summer heat, who called to each other as Pat and Mike, Murphy and Sullivan and O'Gorman. Hand trucks, brought by steamboat from St. Louis, were lifted on to that first com- mencement of the line, were loaded with ties and rails, pushed forward. Other hand trucks were loaded with ballast, to be shov- eled between the rails already laid. Ona short section of its own rail stood a loco- motive, likewise water borne from St. Louis, its crew feeding its furnace with cord- wood, getting up steam. Already another party began to unite that siding section with the main track. None of the spectators had lingered so long. They had dispersed to comment pro- fessionally on the brick machine shops and engine houses in process of erection, to dis- cuss the difficulties confronting this line, which must stretch more than 500 miles across empty prairie before it would meet even the scantiest of timber for ties or fuel, which had no eastward railroad communi- cation whatever from this base at Omaha. At that moment the seventy-ton stationary engine for the shops was about to be ox hauled 150 miles over country from the nearest railhead at Des Moines. There were those who doubted whether it would ever arrive. Among those professional visitors was an engineer of the Chicago and North Western road, now energetically stretching itself out of Des Moines toward Council Bluffs, in pre- vision of a profitable eastern link to the Union Pacific, from which it would then be separated only by the Missouri, presently to be bridged. He talked with Construc- tion Engineer House of the Union Pacific. “Sure,” he said, ‘“‘you can bet we're go- ing to push our road along. We're not going to miss thé freightage on your material if we can help it. But not by any sort of miracle can we be into Council Bluffs be- fore late in '67.” Engineer House shrugged his shoulders. “* By that time we shall be at the Rockies, or bust. Most likely bust. Estimates are a bad joke on this road. It’s not possible to figure costs. The river’s only usable for three months in the year. And to team all our stuff across Iowa ” He was interrupted. Location Engineer Ainsworth came run- ning across to him, waving a piece of paper and calling out vehemently: “Look at this! Isn’t this road ever go- ing to start?” It was a telegram from the head office in New York: STOP CONSTRUCTION TILL FURTHER ORDERS. LOCATION END OF TRACK DOUBTFUL. MAYBI BELLEVUE, MAYBE ELSEWHERE. PRESIDENT NOT YET GIVEN FINAL DECISION BRIDGE. President Andrew Johnson in Washing- ton, on whom it now devolved to locate definitely the bridge across the Missouri, was in fact at that moment being bom- barded and bewildered by clamorously rival interests. Bellevue, recommended by the consulting engineers in New York, was seven miles down the river. Construction Engineer House spoke, comprehensively, bitterly. They could still hear his fluent words as he strode off, between the piles of railroad material, to whistle his gangs to,down tools. (Continued from Page 39) Not until September did work start again, as originally, from Omaha itself. Thus, hesitatingly, did the great vision be- gin to translate itself into reality. It was late September, 1866. Under a brilliant sun hundreds of men were labor- ing with pick and shovel and scraper at a long scar of freshly turned and heaped earth running dead straight across the oceanlike yellow immensity of the summer- scorched prairie. Up to them and beyond, multiple-teamed grading wagons laden with ties and tools, with supplies for the night’s encampment, wore a dusty trail parallel with the embankment as they went for- ward slowly to a cracking of long-lashed whips, returned empty at a smart, jangling trot. In advance of the extremity of the scar a spaced-out line of survey stakes marched dwindlingly out of sight toward the hor- izon. In the other direction the naked track went back some hundreds of yards to where it became strewn with ties swarmed over by other busy men; went back a mile or two to where on temporary switches several trains were ranged amid a collec- tion of teams and vehicles; went back nearly forty miles to a mushroom collection of tents and shacks at Kearney; thence went back in all but complete emptiness a further 190 miles direct across the rolling plain to Omaha. On the new soft grade the tie men adzed the timbers into neat shape, laid them transversely at the correct intervals, 2400 to the mile. Behind them, on the already completed track, came a straining horse ridden by a vociferating youngster and pulling a flat truck loaded with twenty pairs of rails. It halted at the end of the track. The horse was unhitched. Two squads of tracklayers, five men in each, seized each a rail, ran it over the rollers of the truck onto the ties. The end of each rail was forced into the chair connecting it with its predecessor. The gauger measured with his rod, aligned them parallel. The spikes were placed, ten to each rail, the spikers struck three blows to each. The rail truck rolled over this new length of line, to repeat the operation, while behind it the bolters riveted the chairs. The truck was emptied, was tipped off the grade to make way for its successor. Casement Brothers’ men were laying more than a mile a day, at a contract rate of $800 a mile for less than two miles a day, $1200 a mile for more than two miles a day, and $3000 a day for delays caused by unfinished grade. It was sufficient inducement to press close on the heels of the toiling graders. Those graders sang in chorus as, in the long cloud of dust, they dug and shoveled, sang I’m Off to Philadelphia in the Morn- ing, sang The Wearing o’ the Green, sang: “Drill, my Paddies, drill! Drill, you tarriers, drill! Oh, it’s work all day, No sugar in your tay Working on the U. Pay Ra-ailway!” Michael Finnigan rested a moment on the handle of his pick, pushed back his flop hat, mopped his brow with a large red handkerchief. “Thanks be to the blissed saints, ‘tis to- morrow as is Sunday,” he said. ‘An’, be hivins, a thirst on me already I have that'll make ivry saloon in Kearney as dhry as the very desert itself be th’ toime I have it lost, Terence O'Leary.” His comrade straightened his back from the shovel he was wielding. “Thirst!” he said, his coarse-featured, unshaven face running with sweat. “’Tis not a thirst I have, Michael Finnigan—’tis a furnace foire consumin’ me vitals. May the good saints bless the foine man that invented Sunday. If it weren’t that a man can be afther gettin’ hisself dead dhrunk ivry seventh day, this ’ud be no job at all, at all!” December 14,1929 “That’s a thrue word ye speak, Terence O'Leary,” agreed the other seriously. “*Tis Sunday that makes a Christian man rejoice in the thrue religion —an’ whisky’s a powerful hilp to it indade. Be the same token, I mind me that I’ve not had such a thirst since that day—-though sure ‘twas a Friday, bad cess to it—I hid behint a blade o’ grass wid the Rebs shootin’ to kill on that accursed slope o’ Cold Harbor, an’ Giniral Grant orderin’ jist one more attack, an’ Giniral Hancock’s Second Corps what niver failed, rubbin’ their noses wid the ground like wan man an’ refusin’ entoirely to git up an’ be kilt.” He was brusquely interrupted by the boss of the squad: “Now, then, Finnigan! "Tis not that ye may be chatterin’ loike an old woman at a tay party that Giniral Dodge is afther payin’ ye three dollars a day currency! Git to work out of it now!” Michael Finnigan faced him: “ Arrah, now, an’ is it Giniral Dodge him- self ye are wid yer big talk? ’Tis a tarrible pity if a man mayn’t take a breath of air to his lungs but Lord God A’mighty himself must walk along an’ thrate him no better than a slave. The sthrange ugliness of ye gives me a pain in me eyes, Pathrick Brady, an’ that’s the thruth!” “I'll give ye another pain in yer eyes, Michael Finnigan, if ye don’t break ground wid yer pick this very minut!” “Faith, an’ is it a foight ye’re wantin’, Misther Brady?” cried the grader, with the swift anger of his race. “For ’tis a grand one ye shall have He did not finish. The squad boss drove a fist like a leg of mutton, and Michaei Finnigan went flat upon the grade. He was up again in an instant, bellowing with rage, rushed at his antagonist. Before a second blow could be struck there was a multiple shrilling of whistles, a wild shout: “‘Injuns!” Across the prairie a wide cloud of dust approached quickly, was already near the instantly recognized dust cloud of furiously galloping horses. The hostile Cheyennes had gathered unobserved in the not far distant bed of a creek flowing into the Platte River, were now racing to overwhelm the graders stretched out along the track. The workmen dropped their tools, ran for their rifles piled in military fashion con- veniently close at hand, the bandoleers draped upon them. Supervising engineers and squad bosses roared out orders. There was a quick scurry which was only an ap- parent confusion. The situation was al- ready abundantly familiar. A moment later they were prone behind heaps of earth and tie piles, were nestling in the littke dugouts— prairie monitors the more prudent had that morning ex- cavated for themselves in a habit learned in the battles of the Civil War, were shooting into that long dust cloud which raced parallel with them—an indistinctly seen swarm of painted, yelling savages, leaning low upon their maddened ponies and firing as they rode and circled. Already the wagon teams, promptly aban- doned by their drivers, had been stampeded, were dashing frantically across the prairie. Bullets moaned in the air, zipped and thudded against the track. Up and down the grade walked the en- gineer in charge, a major by authentic war- earned rank, revolver in hand, commanding them with the coolly authoritative voice of an experienced officer: “Steady, men—steady! Don’t waste your ammunition! Shoot to kill the vermin!” Michael Finnigan snuggled behind his improvised shelter, adjusted himself com- fortably for a deliberate shot through the drifting smoke into the yellow dust cloud, inserted another cartridge into the warm barrel of his rifle, pounded his ramrod upon it. (Continued on Page 94

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Se ———- | THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 93 | (EC 4.4 \)ome day youll buy hera | a en ee Frigidaire : ) I (J ; f f if “WnRY NO or LVUSLINAS | ' Of course, she wants Frigidaire! And some day you'll buy | it. So why not make that some day now? | Give her a Frigidaire for Christmas. } | Give her the convenience of making desserts with the famous Frigidaire “Cold Control.” Give her the care-free, healthful refrigeration assured by Frigidaire’s surplus power. Give her the advantages of self-sealing freezing ; trays that permit two widely different temperatures in the i same cabinet at the same time. 4 . . . . . . i In other words, give her a rea/ Frigidaire . . . one with the Frigidaire name-plate on it. Then you'll be sure she'll t have a truly modern electric refrigerator. She'll have a cabinet of striking beauty in Tu-Tone Porcelain-on-steel. She'll have the incredible quietness of the Frigidaire power unit... aunit that is out of sight and,away from dust and dirt. And she’ll have the convenient arrangement of the Frigidaire shelves ...shelves placed at a height that makes -_ a A eer { stooping unnecessary. if And it’s easy to give her a Frigidaire. Prices are low and ' terms can be arranged to suit your convenience. So, avoid { . . " . | the usual last minute rush. Call at the nearest Frigidaire 1a | display room and have Frigidaire in your home on Christmas |! morning. Frigidaire Corporation, Subsidiary of General is Motors Corporation, Dayton, Ohio. t it) | - | 4 ‘More than a MILLION tn use es Do not confuse the “Cold Control” with Frigidaire’s automatic temperature regulator. The temperature regulator maintains an ideal temperature in the food j compartment. The “Cold Control” permits control over temperatures in the freezing compartment / | and speeds the freezing of ice cubes and desserts. s 14

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THE SATURDAY . and the man who smokes, thinks like a sage and acts likeaSamaritan.”’ Bulwer-Lytton 1 CUT FOR PIPES « 3d MADE BY WELLMANS METHOD AN IT TOBACC( St 3 BIG FLAKES TAT BURN SLOW,.AND CO THE END laa! | 4 SWEET i | NO SOGCY cooler smoke ina drier pipe One pound of good cheer: A Christmas package, very handsome in gold and black, has been designed for Granger Rough Cut’s many devotees. It contains one full pound of such ripe, mel- low tobacco as may well express the season's spirit between good friends. Prime Kentucky Burley, made smooth and fragrant by the secret “Wellman 1870 Method,” and specially “rough cut” for slow cool burning in pipes. Dealers generally throughout the country now have this Christmas canister. LIGGETT & MYERS TOBACCO CO ROUGH CUT ...dn moze ps es every day! | Smart now, men! | as unexpectedly numerous. EVENING POST (Continued from Page 92) “Indade, Terence O’Leary,” he said contentedly, “‘’tis loike old toimes; savin’ in thruth that these poor murtherin’ savages can’t shoot loike Johnny Reb.” Terence O'Leary pulled his own trigger methodically before he replied. “God be thanked for that same,”’ he re- marked, jerking a cartridge from his bandoleer. ‘‘’Twas meself that was afther spoilin’ for a foight as a bit of a change from shovelin’, but, glory be, ivry blissed Injun on the plains has come to take tay wid us. Hark now to the ? Again the racing mob of yelling Indians tore through the smoke and dust, firing in a rapid crepitation as they passed, were in- stantly replaced by yet another wildly galloping troop. There were sharp cries amid the detonations from the defenders of the track. Here and there men had been hit. Word was passed that some laggards at the end of grade had been unable to get in, had been overtaken, killed and scalped. Suddenly, startlingly, a crashing volley, continued into a viciously crackling fusil- lade, poured into them from the rear. Another band of Indians had profited by | the clamor of the mounted attack to work round and creep up on foot through the sere grass of the prairie, had ensconced | themselves at almost point-blank range. Patrick Brady jumped to his feet, bawled in the voice that had been that of a ser- geant in a New York regiment: “Squad Number Ten! About Take cover! face! Let ’em have it!” Finnigan and O’Leary sprang up with the rest of the squad, leaped for what scanty cover there was on the other side, flung themselves down to fire at the long line of jetting, drifting smoke where they could just see head feathers. Patrick Brady lurched forward, went headlong down the heaped-up earth of the grade, lay between them and the wildly yelling enemy whose bullets spurted dust all round him. “Holy Moses!” cried Finnigan, jumping to his feet. ‘I'll not miss my foight wid Pat Brady!” He dashed down the ramp, tugged at the body, even as a painted Indian sprang from an unsuspected nearness, scalping knife in hand. There was a sharp report close to him. The Indian fell. He glanced round to see O'Leary at his side, his rifle smoking. “‘Good for you, Terence!”’ he said. “A foine dhrink for that same shall ye have at Kearney. Hilp me now to git Brady onto the back of me. "Tis loike a blissed locomo- tive he weighs.” Together, amid the singing bullets, they got the wounded man back, laid him in what there was of shelter. There was another outburst of shouts from the graders: “‘The train! The train! Rally on the train!” It was rescue. Down the newly laid | rails came General Jack Casement’s track train, puffs of smoke already darting from the armored caboose, from.the loopholes of the cars. Smartly obedient in familiar tactics, the graders retreated toward it in little rushes, carrying their dead and wounded, while yet others knelt and fired. The train halted. From its cars sprang hundreds of men, rifle in hand. Bugles blared. Drums rolled, as on the now silent battlefields of the South they had rolled for Titanic conflicts. Officers gesticulated, shouted commands. The trackmen shook themselves out into disciplined bodies, into lines of skirmishers, firing smashingly, rat- tlingly, into the yelling, circling bands of mounted Indians, into the lurking, crawl- ing enemy suddenly revealing themselves The graders rallied, formed themselves into military | array, moved forward against the enemy, now themselves being outflanked. From the top of the grade, little General Jack Casement, five feet nothing and a chestnut beard, sent decisive, skillful orders to his forces, maneuvered them with veteran im- perturbability. It was but another of the almost daily battles he fought to drive this line whose every mile cost a life to lay. December 14,1929 It was November, 1866. The terminal point of the railroad was at North Platte, 293 miles from Omaha—a city that had sprung up overnight, that grew visibly to the eye every twenty-four hours. Civiliza- tion was being carried across the prairie hitherto innocent of a house. Its muddy street of timber shacks, of mere tents—all displaying flamboyant signs—-was populous with the entire West in miniature. Emigrants and gold pros- pectors held up by the winter snows on the mountains ahead, the teamsters of freight- ing outfits, overland stagemen, stockmen driving cattle, jostled with idly roaming gangs of Irish laborers waiting for the spring and resumption of work on the rail- road, with swallow-tailed real-estate spec- ulators, with drummers of every conceiv- able commodity, with patent-medicine venders, with self-consciously swaggering bad men prominently wearing six-shooters in their belts, with an assorted riffraff from half the continent. For it was third in the succession of the roaring towns—alias Hell on Wheels—which sprang up wherever the Union Pacific fixed its temporary advanced base, and which wilted and died when again it moved onward. The trains brought a five-days’-olfi mail from New York; brought-— crowded to the platforms—every kind of adventurer greedy for the spoil of flush times; brought whisky, hardware, canned delicacies, lux- urious and fantastically expensive gew- gaws, barrels of flour, ready-made clothing, plank timber for building, notions, and again whisky; brought vast masses of railroad material to be piled up around the great portable warehouse of Messrs. Casement Brothers in readiness for the spring campaign. Theearly dusk was beginning to be patch- ily illumined by hanging oil lamps casting their rays through open doors and uncur- tained windows as Jim Calhoun, with his friend Dave Morgan, respectively construc- tion engineer and location runner to the U. P. R., splashed down that street where almost every edifice was either a saloon, a dancing floor or a gambling hell, or all three combined. They were both young men persons over forty were rare in the contem- porary population—and with their trousers tucked into high boots, their broad soft hats over precociously bearded visages, their ex-army Colts holstered to their belts in accordance with local fashion, their ap- pearance was rather that of dime-novel desperadoes than of one-time scientific graduates from Eastern universities. The war and active railroading thereafter had subsequently graduated them into a differ- ent and harsher school. It was prebable that their mothers would have disapproved of them. Of both, indeed, it might have been said-——as, in another connection, Col. John Hay was immortally to write three years later—-‘‘He weren’t no saint—them engineers is all pretty much alike.” At that date they were all pretty much alike in North Platte, and the ethics of that inter- esting locality, though on occasion discon- certingly stern, set but little value on orthodox sanctity. They pushed open the door of Sam John- son’s saloon, entered an atmosphere thick with tobacco smoke and stifling with the heat of a cylindrical stove whose pipe bent to escape over the portal. Behind the counter three shitt-sleeved bartenders were energetically springing to and fro in an ap- parently impossible attempt to satisfy the incessantly vociferated demands of the crowd of customers. Calhoun pushed through, called for two drinks. The raw whisky would have made an Easterner choke. Here it was the ordinary brand. The close-packed crowd buzzed with rail- road talk, with boasts of the track to be laid next year and bets against them, with grievances and scandals denounced in loud- voiced indignation. Others argued noisily about the latest sensational and unpunished feats of lawlessness, guessed that North Platte had formed a vigilance committee not before it was time. Yet others denied (Continued on Page 96)

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—— Re eR TR CREPE THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 95 Why Heinz makes CREAM of Tomato Soup—prepared ready to serve « Any housewife knows that the way to make a really delightful tomato soup is to put cream into it. That’s why Heinz makes Cream of Tomato Soup and not just tomato soup. That’s why, with Heinz, you get a richer, smoother, more savory soup—with more real food value in every spoonful. Inte every can Heinz puts a generous measure of sweet cream, rich in butter fat. You don’t have to add the cream. It’s already there. Then, too, the tomatoes used are grown from Heinz seed—the reddest, ripest and juiciest tomatoes to be found. And these tomatoes go into the kettle while they are still fresh from the garden . . . That's what gives the delicate flavor so distinctly Heinz. Add expert seasoning and skillful blending—and you have the reason why millions of women buy Heinz Cream of Tomato Soup. Heinz quality— in Heinz Oven-Baked Beans, Heinz Cooked Spaghetti, Heinz Vinegars, Heinz Rice Flakes, or any of the 57 Varieties — always a gives you more for your money in flavor, goodness and satisfaction. H. J. HEINZ CO., PITTSBURGH, PA , = ; ——— a Ree J j ‘a ' ' ; > 2 Viet, j ‘ _~ s | Xi yw £F ; — Bey f { — ‘. > . x. - ~~ , J > “ea aly P 7 a Re Se, ‘ ~ & ~ Ge. ~ ft ‘ . a . . ae a y 4 “ye s nal tll » — er 7 ronan. — 60 YEARS OF QUALITY FOOD MAKING eV HEINZ),, | -_— REAM am, rd TOMATO (Au) #4 soup £4 fi or = > ya 5 fs HEINZ CREAM OF TOMATO SOUP

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$oeeeeeeoe RUTHING BEARINGS } BP . a The = Quality (annot ‘Be Improved HE alloy of which the 450 sizes of Bunting “Ready Made" Bushing Bearings are made is one that thou- sands of machinery manufacturers have specified—the best general pur- pose bronze bearing alloy that science and experience can produce. These 450 sizes cover every usual bushing or bearing requirement. They are made up in enormous quan- tities and carried in stock for instant delivery in any quantity. They are completely machined and finished, ready for assembly. Priced on the “big run” basis even y, THE SATURDAY Continued from Page 94 heatedly that a vigilance committee ex- isted, that it was all bluff. No one was go- ing to risk a bullet in his skin in the vain | attempt to enforce law and order in a rail- road roaring town. A tall, bearded ruffian, | squalid, tousled, and already somewhat } | shootin’. in small lots, they solve the bearing | problems of thousands of machinery manufacturers today. Anyone who uses bearings can find in this wide range of sizes some that he is now having made to blue print. We will gladly send you a card list showing sizes and prices. Write for it. THE BUNTING BRASS & BRONZE CO. rOLEDO, OHIO slavenre St. 2008.5. Michigan Ave wt O8D)-O851 Haran XPORT OFFICE. Toled Ot Patterns and tool equipment for 22,000 special designs and sites 88 stock sizes of Cored and Solut Phosphor Bronze Bars Special bronze castings and parts made to blue print. BUNTING PHOSPHOR BRONZE BUSHING BEARINGS drunk, bragged truculently. “There’s no blank-blank son of a blank in this yere city that can git me scairt!”"’ he proclaimed. “I’ve killed ten men, I have, and they was men, not blank-blank mud diggers on a blank-blank railroad. I’ve been in this yere West since the Year One. Ask ’em in Denver City if they knows Jake Harman—ask ‘em in Pike’s Peak —ask ’em in every blank camp in Montana!” “You've sure traveled, Jake,” said an- other ruffian, evidently his companion. “Have another throat tickler. Drinks on me,” he shouted to the bartender. “I'll say there ain't your like with a gun in this hull outfit. Jake can fan out six plumb-straight shots a’most before you know he’s drawed,” he added admiringly to those around him. “He's a tough hand in a row, is Jake. The other man ain’t never got a chance; I’ve seed him drop ’em with their gun only half pulled.” “Pity he wasn't on the Denver stage the other day,” opined one of the bystanders. “There was a bit of quick shootin’ needed then. If ever I get my gun on the feller that shot poor Tim Riley I'll make a hole in him!” The remark evoked an excited babel. A few days previously the incoming Denver stage had been held up by six masked men when only a few miles from North Platte. The driver had been killed and the passen- gers robbed. Nor had the mysterious newly formed local vigilance committee if indeed such existed—so far done any- thing about it. The truculent Jake Harman and his com- panion finished up their drinks, went to the door, departed with a ‘‘So long, boys!” Dave Morgan turned to Calhoun. “Who are those fellows, Jim?” Calhoun shrugged his shoulders. “I've seen ‘em bumming around these last few days. Bad men, I guess. They seem to be pretty flush too. We've got too many of that sort. Let’s go along to the floor.”’ They passed by a room at whose door- way stood a tall, white-faced, sharp-eyed man rattling a dice box, and crying: “‘Step right in, gentlemen, and try your luck! I’m your man for any game in the universe. Poker, euchre, faro or just plain crap No limit and all fair and no favor! Try your luck, gentlemen! Who’s for a little sport?”’ Within the room other pale-faced professional gamblers were deal- ing cards to groups crowded intently about little tables. Calhoun and his friend ignored the invi- tation, continued to the dance hall at the back of the premises. It was a large barn- like erection, lit by hanging lamps, where a pianist and a fiddler rendered excruciatingly a waltz tune for the benefit of the couples gyrating on the plank floor. The place had not yet filled up. A number of girls in low- cut, brightly colored dresses, their cheeks a vivid sharp-edged red, stood around, looked enviously at their more fortunate sisters already twirling in the embrace of heavy- booted partners. One of them came running across to Cal- houn, captured his arm before any com- petitor could forestall her. She was a peroxide-blond, harsh-voiced hussy who had followed the Union Pacific all the way from Omaha, where already she had earned the honorific title of Nebraska Nellie. An- other girl, dark-haired and swarthy, famil- iarly known as Spanish Sal, had similarly seized upon Dave Morgan. “I’m real glad to see you, Jim darling!” said Nebraska Nellie, with the intimacy of old acquaintance. “I was just loafin’ around hopin’ you’d come in. An’ now buy me a drink before we go on the floor!”’ “Sure! Come right along!” he replied good-humoredly, ied her toward the bar conveniently installed here also for thirsty EVENING POST dancers. ‘“‘Name your poison, Nellie. Whisky? Brandy?” “What?” she exclaimed scornfully. “‘Ain’t you learned me better’n that? Nebraska Nellie don’t drink nothin’ less than champagne—no, sir! An’ I want it off the ice!” He laughed and turned to the bartender. “Take this lady’s order!"’ He threw a ten- dollar bill on the counter, glanced round. ““Where’s Dave and Sal?” They were already dancing; Spanish Sal languorously yielding to her partner’s arm, smiling fascinatingly up into his face. Nebraska Nellie lifted her foaming glass. “Here’s how!” she said, and drank thirstily. Her eyes went round to the dancers. “‘ Poor Sal!”’ she remarked. “‘She’s all broke to pieces. She was plumb crazy on Tim Riley. Gave him a diamond ring for his little finger on his last trip before those gol-derned road agents got him. Sam Spicer give her the ring an’ he got sore about it. But she told him straight out that a lady can do what she likes with presents gentlemen give her. And so say I. It’s on'y right, ain’t it? Not but what I’d keep presents from gentlemen I’m really mashed on. You know that, don’t you, sweetie?” “Sure,” he replied equably. “‘ But there’s no diamond-ring presents tonight, Nellie. Drink up and we'll go to the floor. There’s getting to be a crowd.” They clinked glasses again, emptied the bottle. As he said, the room was becoming crowded. Every one of the girls now had a partner. The pianist and the fiddler worked hard to make themselves audible above a hubbub of strident voices, above the thump- ing of boots upon the floor. Suddenly there was a shriek, a wild high- pitched feminine shout. Spanish Sal had torn herself loose from Dave, was pointing at a hirsute ruffian dancing with another girl. “That's the man that shot Tim Riley!” she screamed. ‘“‘He’s wearin’ his ring! Let me kill the A string of epithets followed. She whipped out a little silver- plated, mother-of-pearl revolver from her dress. The ruffian had stepped back, his hand instantly at his belt. There was a sharp report, a whiff of smoke. Spanish Sal col- lapsed like an emptied sack. The music ceased abruptly in instan- taneous uproar. From all parts of the hall the dancers ‘rushed tumultuously to crowd around the center of excitement. There were fierce shouts: “String him up! String him up! No woman killers here! Where’s the man that shot Tim Riley? String him up! String him up! Where’s the vigilantes?”’ The killer held now a revolver in each hand, threatening back the crowd. ‘Listen here, boys!’ he shouted. play’s fair play! I don’t know nothin’ about Tim Riley! I’ve just come in from Montana. Tim Riley ain’t the only guy to wear a di’mond ring. As for this yere girl, it ain’t my fault. She drew first. I dropped her afore she could drop me. That's fair play, ain’t it, by every camp law in the hull West?” “Yes! Yes!” cried a number of voices it was noticeable that they came from the rougher element in the crowd. “That's fair play! That’s camp law! She drew first!’’ They clamored over a dissenting murmut from the more respectable, shocked at this killing of a woman, but prudently daunted by that pair of obviously quick- shooting revolvers. ‘‘It weren’t his fault! It was him or her! What are we a-waitin’ for? Let the music go on!” Nebraska Nellie had sprung forward, was now kneeling with arms about the dead girl. She looked up, her face in fury. “What are you a-waitin’ for? You!” she cried. ‘‘ You call yourselves men—let a poor girl be shot by that murderer! An’ she was right--that’s the man that killed Tim Riley! That’s Tim Riley’s ring he’s wearin’. Don’t I know it? Ain’t I seen it often enough? And you're scairt of him—you lot of 7 “Fair December 14, 1929 “Shut up! Shut up, Nellie!” the rougher chorus yelled at her. ‘‘ You’re drunk again! Fair play’s fair play! Sal drew first! What’s done’s done! Clear the floor! We didn’t come here for chin music. We came to dance. An’ there ain’t goin’ to be no trouble! Clear the floor, there!” Nebraska Nellie was roughly hustled away. The corpse was picked up by a cou- ple of men and carried into one of the ad- joining cubicles inhabited by the dance girls. Nebraska Nellie followed it, shaking her fist at them, shrieking that she’d rather be dead than dance with any one of those cowardly mud diggers that iet a girl be murdered and not lift a finger. Calhoun had stood silent, his mouth grim under his beard. Plainly, the killer of Spanish Sal and the very probable killer of Tim Riley had plenty of partisans here. All this rough element hung together by in- stinct, lest it should hang separately. He took out his pocketbook, wrote a word or two, added a number, moved across to his friend, spoke quietly as he gave him the torn-out folded page. “Slip off and beat up the boys, Dave. Quickly. I'll stay here and keep an eye on things.” Dave disappeared. The pianist and the fiddler started again. Once more the floor was filled with turning couples; vivid-hued girls clinging to clumsy partners painfully serious in this business of the dance, or talk- ing and laughing so that the tune could searce be heard. Suddenly that joyous revelry was cut across by a sharp stentorian command: “Hands up! All of yeh! Quick now! Stick "em up!” There was an outburst of feminine shrieks, furious masculine oaths and a stampede. As the crowd fell away in front of him Calhoun saw the gentleman from Montana, together with a confederate, each with a brace of leveled revolvers. His own hand half jerked to his belt. “Stick ’em up!” The killer’s gun aimed instantly at his stomach. He stuck them up dutifully, backed into the frightened crowd huddled, arms upthrust, at the end of the room. Simultaneously there were other sharp cries of ‘Hands up!” from the card room and bar outside. In obedience to them, the gamblers, professional and amateur, stumbled, hands abjectly aloft, into the dance hall, shepherded by three other ruffians, two of them the pair which had bragged in the bar, with threatening six- shooters. Muttering ineffectual curses, the gamesters joined the throng at the far end of the hall. The five men held the crowd covered. A sixth was evidently in the barroom, guarding the door from the street. The gentleman from Montana spoke curtly and decisively: “*Now, ladies and gentlemen, you'll step forward one at a time as you get the word. And keep your hands up! You! Step out!” He indicated a big Irish laborer at the end of the throng. The man came into the open space, hands above his head. One of the bandits promptly went through his pockets, threw a few bills and coins into a large red handkerchief he spread upon the floor. The despoiled Irishman was per- emptorily bidden to stand against the other wall, hands still up. Reveler after reveler, male and female, was similarly called out to be stripped of portable property. A girl started hysterically to curse them, was harshly told to be quiet if she didn’t want to go the same way as Spanish Sal. It was coming near to Calhoun’s turn. There was suddenly a conflict of fierce voices outside in the barroom. ‘“‘Hands up!”’ “Hands up yourself! Tie him up, boys!” A tread of heavy boots was loud in the tense silence of the dance hall. Two of the bandits swung round to cover the door. Calhoun heard Dave’s voice: ‘This way, vigilantes!’’ His heart leaped in a shock of apprehension. Dave would be riddled as he appeared in the doorway. (Continued on Page 101)

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 97 , AGO, car manufacturers discovered that the nearest approach to perfect riding comfort was obtainable through the installation of Lovejoy Hydraulic Shock Absorbers. @ They discovered that Lovejoy Hydraulics safely and surely check the vicious rebound of car springs . . .- that they require no adjustment, winter or summer, once properly installed . that they are moisture-proof, dirt-proof, rattle-proof . . . that they outlast any car. ® Naturally, car manufacturers turned to Lovejoy Hydraulics and adopted them as standard equipment. And, as the Delco organization increased its production facilities on Lovejoys and devel- oped new types for specific needs, more and more car manufacturers were able to meet the demand for supreme riding comfort. @ Today, Lovejoy Hydraulics are the world's most popular shock absorbers RR —— om —— POE . preferred by those who build and those who buy motor cars. DELCO PRODUCTS CORPORATION, DAYTON, OHIO LOVEJOY |'HYDRAULICS * ee eee Se Preferred by those who build and those who buy motor cars Hydraulic | SHOCK ABSORBERS

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SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14, 1929 Portrait painted for The Hoover Co. by Ralph Fisher Skelton © 1929, The Hoover Co

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a 4 ee a ln, ee ee eS ER THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 99 Am I the Woman of a YEAR AGO? WONDER if you remember me—you husbands to J whom | said last Christmas the things | could not say to my husband? | was the woman whose husband gave her each Christmas some pretty trinket. The woman whose youth was slipping from her too fast. The woman whose cleaning burdens were too heavy. The woman who wanted, but could not ask for, a Hoover. I'm not the woman of a year ago. In one short year | have discovered that youth need not go so swiftly —that cleaning duties need not be burdensome. For last Christmas my husband did give me a Hoover! “*GIVE HER a HOOVER AND You GIVeE HER THE BEST’’

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JOHN {PTAIN of the 1929 football team at Carnegie Tech—the only team that defeated Notre Dame for two consecutive John E. Dreshar ts a notable fig- ure in the world of sports, and also on the He is a member, too, of Phi He is one of the thou- sands of college and business men who wear Nas years campus Kappa fraternity. ‘ j Nasi pattern N tyle No. 216 ; i popular with ; med v9 clothes or, in Nash makes a trim-fitting, »ut-wearing suit that has proved thousands of well- ung college wien THE SATURDAY EVENING POST e ae Hard-hitting and mensely popular on the campus, Captain Dreshar, of Carnegie Tech, is a leader of men off the field as well as on It. other keen young Nash pattern No. 912, cut in Nash style No. 223, tailors into a full, roomy overcoat—two-button, double- breasted, sportlike by day, “‘dressy’’ by night Indeed, what Captain Dreshar does today, a host of is well worth noting that he is wearing Nash clothes. December 14, 1929 E.DRESHAR scores with *601 and *g19, aggressive as a football player, im- up with that full roominess which is the preference of so many college men. Whatever your build, or your bank account, you'll find it worth your while to ask the nearest Nash national organization of 1800—to call at your home or your office. He will show you the 210 Nash patterns and 30 Nash models (at prices to suit almost any purse!), take your measurements for a suit or over- coat that will be tailored individually for you If he hasn't already called, write us and we'll quickly put him in touch with you. The A. Nash Company, Cincinnati, Ohio trained resident representative—one of a men will be doing tomorrow. So it For his suit he chose pattern No. 601, which he had tailored into a two-button sack model, with a medium fitting back. And for his overcoat he chose Nash pattern No giz, Mace ASH and Overcoats Custom-Tailored in 1928 394,111 Suits ae aa it ‘.

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oo oe ee ——— ~—— weet aes. aoe (Continued from Page 96 In that apprehension he sprang forward, hands kept aloft in the convention of safety. ‘Put down those guns—all of you!” he cried authoritatively, loudly, so that Dave might hear him. “I’ve got this place surrounded! I’m Vigilante Number Three!” “Vigilante, are you?” retorted the man from Montana. -He jerked the loose ham- mer of his revolver to a spurting detonation. Calhoun crashed forward on his face. But that instant of diversion had been enough. A score of hands had jumped to belts, a score of revolvers were horizontal. “Hands up yourselves! Surrender! Up with ’em!” The bandits stood irresolute in the evi- dent odds against them. Dave Morgan appeared in the doorway. “Vigilantes! Arrest those men!” Half an hour later a row of bodies dangled from the rafters of the new hotel which was to be the pride of North Platte. By a guttering candle, Dave Morgan looked down upon Calhoun’s face. “You were a good man, Jim,” he said, hardening his voice. “I’m going to miss you, and the road’s going to miss you. It just eats up good men, does this railroad, but we'll see it through. Trust us.” It was May, 1867. A small party of men scrambled among the crags and precipices of the Black Hills, the eastern range of the Rockies. They were running the final loca- tion of the road, which, quitting the old emigrant trail_-impracticable for a railroad beyond a certain point--had to climb 8000-odd feet on a grade not exceeding ninety to the mile. Behind them the track was being rapidly pushed across the last flat stretch of prairie, personally financed by Oakes Ames, heroicaily chanc- ing whether he could dispose of the com- pany’s depreciated securities he received in payment. North Platte was a deserted village. The terminal base had shifted to Julesberg, ‘“wickedest city in America.” Thirty-five hundred men were working on the grade, four hundred and fifty were racing to catch them up with the rails. Preliminary location runners were working far beyond Salt Lake. Survey parties were being killed and sealped in the eastern foothills. The Indians of the plains were making a desperate effort to stop the on- ward march of manifest destiny, alarm- ingly visible in the Union Pacific and the rival Kansas Pacific away to the south, frightening the al!-essential buffalo. For hundreds of miles over those plains scat- tered settlers were fighting for their lives and the stages raced in what was often a death ride. Under the chief command of Sherman, Generals Hancock and Custer moved out in a widespread campaign. The Kansas Pacific was held up. But the Union Pacific went on, daily driven forward by the inflexible will, the electric energy, of young General Dodge, chief engineer. This little band of men was untroubled by that distant warfare. Isolated in the mountain solitudes, they had heard no news for weeks. They formed a self-complete internally subdivided little community of their own—surveyors, levelers, axmen, flag- men, instrument carriers, muleteers and the all-important cook. Their job, though more or less following the staked route of their predecessors, was to establish the final layout of the ever-climbing line, making as much height as possible without ever ex- ceeding the permitted grade, avoiding tun- nels wherever possible, avoiding evident or probable snowslides, seeking diligently wherever the road might run with a mini- mum of blasting as it clung to the winding cliffs. The working party was now on the halfway ledge of a great chasm, snow- covered peaks high above them, white against the blue sky, a sheer drop vertig- inous below. A wall of rock barred their farther progress—-a wall which certainly would have to be tunneled. The engineers consulted. ‘Impossi- bility’’ was not in their vocabulary. The road could not stop, and this was the best THE SATURDAY grade so far. How long must the tunnel be? Whither would it bend? They gave curt orders to the party bunched up be- hind them. Men commenced to drive climbing irons into the cliff, one above the other, from handhold to dizzy handhold. They must go up and over, look down from above. Up they went, their paraphernalia hauled carefully after them. They reached a spot among jagged rocks which was high enough. Now they must look down over the edge, accurately measure the level at which the tunnel would emerge, accurately fix a point to link with the last previous fixed point in distance and in grade. With experienced nonchalance the men were already making preparations, were laying out coils of rope, were knotting the ends to the little plank platform which would be lowered over the rim into blue nothingness. Others were fixing iron stakes to take the strain. The instruments were strapped to the platform. The platform was pushed to dangle a foot or so over the edge. A young engineer stepped forward unconcernedly to what was his routine duty, wound the end of a signal rope about his arm, cautiously squirmed over to get a seat on the platform. ‘‘ Lower away!” he said. The men paid out the ropes. The engineer's head disappeared. The men continued to let the ropes run out, slowly, slowly, yard after yard. There was a tug on the signal rope. “Stop!” They stood waiting. Far below, out of sight, the young engineer was swaying in the mountain wind, lucky if he could clutch a crag to steady himself for those all- essential, precise calculations he must make. The wait prolonged itself. It was all ha- bitual, normal. They stood back from the edge in patience, lit their pipes. Suddenly there was a startled shout: “Look! The ropes!” The ropes, serrated by the sharp rock edge, were almost sawed through! Several men jumped forward, flung themselves prone, reached for the ropes to clutch them beyond the frayed strands, to ease the strain. They were too late. Those last strands parted. From far down the gulf they heard a faintly reéchoing cry. The men stood back, appalled. The en- gineer in charge looked at them, his face grim. The work must go on. “Get ready another platform,” he said. “‘ And put a roller under the ropes this time. I want to come back for my coffee.” It was July of that same year, 1867. Far to the west, Assistant Engineer Percy Browne rode with eight troopers of the United States Cavalry. Already he had had adventures. In March he had left Omaha, with a survey party had fought his way through spring blizzards over the Black Hills to Fort Sanders on their western side. His assignment prescribed that he should “develop the country from Fort Sanders to Green River,’ 275 miles across the high Laramie Plains—a favorite Sioux hunting ground—and over the prac- tically unexplored Red Desert beyond. At Fort Sanders he had picked up an escort of the Second United States Cavalry. On May twelfth, in the Laramie Plains, his camp had been rushed by Sioux. He had beaten them off, taken back his dead to Sanders, started out again. Unmolested, he had run his preliminary lines across the high ground of the Continental Divide, across the North Platte River, until he reached the Red Desert. There he had left his party with orders to work back and complete the survey. He himself, with eight cavalrymen, would push on into the desert to reconnoiter. The nine men had now penetrated a hundred miles into that thirsty irregularly heaped wilderness of reddish soil, patched whitely with soda and alkali, gray with great stretches of sagebrush, magicked with deceptive mirage where herds of antelope had looked like charging columns of cavalry, had looked like bounding fantastic monsters until they had burst like bubbles revealing the miniature reality of the animal within. The sun was already high and the heat and EVENING POST dust parched their throats, made them yearn for the precious water they must above all things economize. Suddenly one of the troopers pointed to the north. “What's that?” They all reined up. Away across the desert a large shapeless mass was swelling and bouncing in the mirage, baffling all exact recognition. “Antelope!” “Injuns!” Indians it was hundreds of them, ap- proaching at a gallop, emerging startlingly from the brusquely dispelled mirage. The nine men turned their horses, dug in their spurs, rode for their lives. Less than a score of miles to the south was a station of the overland stage. It was evident almost at once that they would never reach it. Their start was too short. The Indians, yelling and whooping, were rapidly gaining on them. Just ahead, an irregular small butte rose above the plain. They dashed for it, dis- mounted, heel-roped their horses, flung themselves prone, carbines ready, just as the Sioux raced up. The carbines cracked out. A fight of nine men against three hun- dred began. It was dark dusk. For eight hours the fight had gone on, an incessant fusillade from lurking Indians, a constant repetition of wildly yelling charges that swerved only at the last moment. The horses had been stampeded, driven off. Assistant Engineer Browne lay shot through the stomach. The eight troopers fired a few last shots at the Indians retreating out of range with their spoil. The party had saved its scalps so far. With a little luck they might make the overland-stage station on foot, in the dark- ness. So the troopers opined. They glanced at the desperately wounded engineer, stretched helpless. “Leave me, boys,” said Assistant En- gineer Percy Browne. “I'm all in, anyway. Go while the going’s good. You'll make the station before dawn.” “We're just the boys to leave yeh, ain't we?” said one of the troopers. “Put a blanket over a couple them carbines, lads; we'll tote him along, all right.” They carried him fifteen miles through the darkness to LaClede Station, and there Assistant Engineer Percy Browne died. More than a hundred miles to the eastward, Percy Station of the Union Pacific Railroad yet commemorates him. A few weeks later, General Dodge, recon- noitering with a party into that same Red Desert, met the Thomas A. Bates survey party. Its teams abandoned, it was crawl- ing on its hands and knees, its tongues black, on a desperate compass course due east. Perishing with thirst, it could only croak. Thus were laid the survey lines for the man-devouring railroad ever hurrying west. It was August, 1868. Now, across the arid, poison-water, sagebrush desolation of the Red Desert, 10,000 graders, 1000 track- layers, hundreds of supply teams, were busy in a long thin line. The road was going forward at nearly two miles a day average; on one classic occasion had ex- tended by seven and a half miles between sunup and sunset. There was much need for furious haste. From the west the Central Pacific was advancing fast. At the end of 1867, team-hauling its locomotives, cars and material over the frozen Sierra, without waiting for the completion of the tunnels in its rear, it had crossed the Cali- fornia border. Now it was racing across the Nevada desert toward Salt Lake, even as the Union Pacific was racing thither from the east. It was indeed a race. No point of junc- tion had been fixed by Government. Each road was free to build as far as it could, with a premium of $64,000 and 12,800 acres of land for every mile it made. The sur- veyors of both companies were working far in each other’s territory; the Central's engineers well east of Ogden; the Union's linemen as far west as the Humboldt. Continued on Page 104 101 Moncy that talks in oon tongue PEAKING for your Nres- tige—introducing you to servicesurprising you with its world wide spendabiliry, American Express Travelers Cheques truly represent “travel money” that talks in tongue. Practically wherever you wander, there are few more cheering sights than the uni formed representative of the Amer ican Express. He and many others are stationed in distant lands to aid travelers who carry American Ex- press Travelers Cheques Perhaps tt is a rickshaw problem—visiting the pyramids’?—steamship, rail reservations, passport questions’ — whatever it may be, he is ready t aid in making travel easy and com fortable. every hore! and If you want this valuabk personal service On your next trip abroad, medium that talks in every t% Sold by 22,000 Banks of the American Express and Rail way Express Agency. Issued in de nominations of $10, $20, $50 and provide yourself with rh: ynyue and at offices $100, at a cost of 75¢ for each $100 rn pendabity ERICAN EXPRESS ravelers cheques Steamship tickets, hotel reservations, iti nMeraru’s cruises and tours planned and booked to any part of the world by the Ameri n Express Tras

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Gharles Geedyear, from a contem- porary portrait He walked the streets in dow npouring rain in a strange garment of rubberized cloth. He met the jeers of the world with a faith that neither disaster nor seeming dis- grace could conquer. He laid upon the altar of his work all the dear things of life—health, family, friends, fortune, happiness. He was cast into prison for debt.” Fle felt himself “appointed of God.” He discovered the vulcanization of rubber. His name was Charles Goodyear. N the immense and farflung in- dustrial structure that is Goodyear today, an army of workers labors to enlarge Charles Goodyear’ sdiscovery. In cities that he never saw—quite possibly of which he could not even dream—and in an enterprise he did not found, his spirit abides where his name finds greatest honor. With every passing year, the name of Goodyear rises higher, clearer. Deservedly the greatest name in rubber in the beginning, through the work of the man, it is today no less deservedly the greatest name in rubber through the work of the institution which followed the path he pioneered. THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14, 1929 Hye name Goodyear 1s greatest in invention. Look through the annals of the rub- ber industry’s achievements, and on every important page for a quarter- century you will find record of Good- year the institution’s contribution to the art. Goodyear invented the present straight-side tire. Goodyear perfected the principle of cord tire construction underlying the high-mileage performance of automobile tires today. Goodyear ingenuity fashioned the machines necessary to the produc- tion of this new construction. Goodyear devised the All-Weather Tread, for maximum safety, trac- tion, wear. Goodyear pioneered the successful pneumatic cord truck tire. Goodyearoriginated the Plant Analy- sis Plan of specifying rubber mechan- ical goods to the uses of industry. £ EN vo * Coe ? a A aes * ie) + ce oe wet - a ; bag Set ae. Ss * i. | = dl ‘. 8 Goodyear provided the indispensa- ble rubber equipment for aeronau- tics in America, and itself estab- lished record after record in air navigation. Goodyear developed SUPERTWIST, the extra-elastic, extra-durable cord fabric essential to the modern low- pressure tire. Goodyear developed and perfected the finest tire the world has ever seen—the Super-tire—the Good- year DOUBLE EAGLE. GAAHE name Goodyear is greatest @5 in sales. $ The measure of value in rubber may accurately be gauged by vol- ume of sales, sustained public de- mand being the evidence of merit.

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fos t THE SATURDAY EVENING POST More people ride on Goodyear Tires than on any other kind. More people walk on Goodyear rubber heels than onany other kind. More Goodyear rubber conveyor belting is used in industry than any other kind. More Goodyear rubber equipment is supplied to commercial aviation and for national aeronautical de- fense than any other kind. More Goodyear Tires—many mil- lions more—have been made and = placed in the service of motorists than any other kind. More rubber is used by Goodyear —more than one-sixth of all the crude rubber produced annually in the world, almost 50° more than is used by any other manufacturer. Cz HE name Goodyear is greatest im service. There is in the Goodyear business- method a fixed principle of the great- est service to the greatest number. With the same care that it builds into its products the greatest possi- ble value, Goodyear has provided the means to help users get all that value out. It has covered the world with a net- work of branches, depots and dealer service stations for the prompt supply and expert servicing of Goodyear wares. It has pledged its selected retail out- lets to give the skilled assistance to owners that results in the enjoy- eP in Rubber ment of the last ounce of usefulness built into the Goodyear product. (H: HE name Goodyear is greatest in usefulness. It is a fair statement to say that none of Goodyear’s success has come to Goodyear unearned. This is a young company—eager alert, forward-looking — one of the youngest although it is the greatest rubber company of the world. It has come along no royal road in its march to decisive leadership but often through trial and travail like that which Charles Goodyear him- self endured. But it has had his conquering spirit in its heart. And it has had the devoted service of thousands on thousands of loyal men who respond to that spirit. And it has had the trust and good- will of the millions of people who have tested its work and word and found them worthy. It will keep all these, because it knows whereof they spring In the beginning, by force of dis- covery, Goodyear was the greatest name in rubber. By force of usefulness, to its own and to all people, Goodyear is the greatest name in rubber today Copyright 1929, by The Good r Tire & Rubber ¢ l ; 103

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Drive in Comfort All Winter ong with a TROPIC-AIRE HEN the temperature slips W -tccait, downward, when ears nearly freeze and fingers are numb with celd—that’s when you'll most weleome a Tropic-Aire! Just switch it on and you can bask in summer warmth as you drive along. The Original Fan-Equipped HOT WATER AUTOMOBILE HEATER lropic-Aire circulates plenty of heat throughout the car by means of its elec- tric fan. The heat is supplied directly by your engine's hot water, the greatest, cleanest and most uniform source. No fumes. no carbon-monoxide gas. Propie-Aire is installed back of the instrument board, out of the way, and where you can just catch a glimpse of its graceful outlines and chromium finish. FAN USED ALL St MMWMER, TOO! The hot water is easily turned off, so you can use the fan for cooling ventilation and removing the engine-heat in sultry weather. The fan requires no more current than « tail light. For All Cars The Senior Model i« made for ail large sedans and coaches. The Junior Model is made for coupes and smaller cars. Aspecial style is made for Model A Fords. tse the heater that has a reputation for flawlens service ix, cers, taxicata and busses. Order a Tropic- Aire Hot Water Heater from our local dealer or garage. or write as for additional facts and name af nearest distributor. TROPIC-AIRE, Ine. if Blewenth tee. ¥. B.. Minneapolis, Minn. in Canada: 11 Breadattane St., Toronto Z ISH1761, 1668491, REITISL. Others Pending a > THE SATURDAY (Continued from Page 101 Last winter the Union Pacific had halted amid the snows just short of the summit of the Black Hills. Henceforth there were to be no more halts. From Doctor Durant’s elegant office in New York— “beautiful with paintings and statuary, and enlivened with the singing of birds’’—the fiat had gone forth in April: ‘Cover the road with men from Green River to Salt Lake within one month, and to Humboldt Wells in three’’ seven hundred miles of location in three months, while the road was to go on without stopping, over the Wasatch Range, at least to Ogden. That rush through winter would cost at least an additional $10,000,000. The Crédit Mobilier, amid ugly whispers of political scandal caused by a melon of Union Pacific stock prematurely cut last fall, was desperately borrowing right and left, was paying half a million a month in interest. Oakes Ames put his great shovel factory in as backing to it. “Save the credit of the road, I will fail,’’ he was to write, faithful to the trust Lincoln had given him, and fail he would in due course, die reviled and broken-hearted. It mattered not. At any price those sub- sidies must be won, and with them the con- trol of traffic as far as Ogden, key to the trade of the Mormon paradise of Utah. Day by day the transcontinental tele- graph spurred the racing trackmen with bulletins of their rival’s prowess. If Crocker’s Chinamen laid two miles for the Central, Casement's Irishmen replied with two and a half, with three—‘‘no damned Chinamen could beat them laying rails.” The entire continent had become excitedly aware of this contest of giants. On their front pages the newspapers splash-lined yesterday’s progress in fat type. Excursion parties flocked enthusiastically from the East to view this thrillingly impressive march to the sea, a civilian army conquer- ing prairie, mountain and desert with a clockworklike precision of disciplined hu- man effort. From Omaha the iron trains followed one another along the single strip of rails, beating off Indians, desperate to be on time. In the lumber camps of the Rockies hundreds of axmen and teamsters labored to send down ties for the track which could never have enough of them. In mountain and desert thousands of men toiled through fatigue and thirst and danger for the road which had become a mystically superhuman entity, tyrannical over their lives. It was Monday, May 10, 1869. Promon- tory Point, Utah. A bleak muddy upland valley. Fronting each other on a single track stood two trains. The one facing east, drawn by a wide-funneled EVENING POST Durant, Sidney Dillon of the Crédit Mo- bilier, General Dodge and the Brothers Casement. Only the indomitable Oakes Ames was absent from those who chiefly had driven the Union Pacific across the continent. Between the two trains, the southern rail was for a double span miss- ing from the track. The final rails which were now to be laid. It was the end to a last fierce achieve- ment. If the Central Pacific had pressed forward from Humboldt with smallpox raging in the camps, with bridges breaking down behind, with trains plunging into canyons, with a desperate shortage of rails, the Union Pacific could boast not less of difficulties surmounted. All through winter it had battled through the Wasatch Range, shoveling away snow twenty feet deep, blasting the frozen ground, working in night and day shifts, Mormons added to the Irish. On March third its rails had entered Ogden. The race had gone on, seeming as though each line were determined to build right through to the opposite ocean. Between Ogden and Promontory, fifty miles west, the rival gangs of Chinamen and Irish had worked on parallel grades, had blown each other up with dynamite. It was a passion of rivalry patently absurd. The two com- panies had come to a compromise ratified by decree of Congress on Apriltenth: “‘The common terminus of the Union Pacific and the Central Pacific railroads shall be at or near Ogden; and the Union Pacific Railroad Company shall build, and the Central Pa- cific Railroad Company shall pay for and own, the railroad from the terminus afore- said to Promontory Point; at which point the rails shall meet and connect and form one continuous line.” A telegraph operator sat at a small deal table beside the gap in the rails. From his instrument, wires led up to the nearest telegraph pole. It was-just before noon. The crowd of spectatcrs, Mormons, graders, trackmen, excursionists and the Twenty- first Infantry, together with their band, had ranked themselves in eager anticipa- tion. There was a burst of cheering. The construction superintendents of the once rival roads were walking together from the Stanford car, carrying between them the famous last tie of polished laurel bound with silver. Behind them came a squad of blue-bloused Chinese, carrying the last rail of the Central Pacific. From the other side advanced a squad of Irishmen, similarly bearing the last Union rail. The cheering became a wild enthusiasm. The engines shrieked. The tie was put in place, the rails laid. December 14,1929 The telegraph operator worked the key of his instrument: ‘‘To everybody. Keep quiet. When the last spike is driven at Promontory Point, we will say ‘Done.’”’ He looked up, clicked again. ‘Almost ready. Hats off. Prayer is being offered.” There were prayers and speeches. Gen- eral Dodge, incarnation of the Union Pa- c:fic, spoke: ‘“‘Gentlemen, the great Benton proposed that some day a giant statue of Columbus be erected on the highest peak of the Rocky Mountains, pointing westward, denoting this as the great route across the continent. You have made that prophecy today a fact. This is the way to India.” The crowd cheered, cheered and cheered again. The telegraph operator clicked: ‘“‘We have got done praying. The spike is about to be presented.” A silver-headed maul was connected with the telegraph instrument. Doctor Durant, elegant, as usual, in a velvet coat and a vivid cravat, was presented with a silver spike from the Comstock Lode. The gov- ernor of Arizona brought forward a spike of mingled gold, silver and iron. Idaho gave a spike of silver, Montana one of gold. California presented two spikes of gold one for each rail at point of meeting. The silver spikes were set in previously drilled holes, were driven by invited guests. Doc- tor Durant hammered in his golden spike. Leland Stanford took the silver maul. The honor of the last spike was to be his. A continent's telegraph business stood still for that signal which would be automatic from the blow. The telegraph operator clicked: “All ready now. The spike will soon be driven. The signal will be three dots for the com- mencement of the blows.” President Leland Stanford struck. The telegraph instrument clicked: ‘‘ Dot- dot-dot! Done!” It released a nation-wide enthusiasm. Far away in Washington, the ball on the dome of the Capitol fell and a vast crowd cheered and yelled. In San Francisco the old vigilante bell was pealing from the city tower and 220 guns were firing. At New York 100 guns thundered out among the joyous carillon of Trinity Church pealing the Old Hundred. Chicago celebrated in a procession four miles long. Philadelphia swung the Liberty Bell. Salt Lake City Tabernacle was packed with Mormons and Gentiles rejoicing that the isolation of Utah was forever ended, that the oceans were linked. Meanwhile the two engines had been uncoupled from the trains. Swarmed over with enthusiasts, they moved forward be- tween walls of cheering spectators. Their engineers clam- bered out to the lecomotive, Jupiter 60, adorned with banners and na- tional flags, had brought Leland Stanford and his guests from the siding thirty miles west, where their spe- cial car had spent the week- end. The Union Pacific train, drawn by the straight- stacked Rogers 119, had been delayed by bad weather east of Ogden, had only recently ar- rived. It car- ried, together witha multitude of excursionists and four com- panies of the Twenty-first Infantry, Vice President front, each with a bottle of cham- pagne. The lo- comotives slowly touched. The bottles were broken upon the opposing en- gine. The engi- neers shook hands. Every- body ‘‘yelled like to bust.” Thus was ac- complished the feat that was perhaps most typical of the nineteenth cen- tury, the cen- tury sundered from all prede- cessors by the railroad, revolu- tionizing the destiny of man- kind as no in- vention had ever revolution- ized it since the A Canyon Entrance to the Panamint Mourtains, California discovery of ag- riculture. ao ee = ———s

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$e

en ee ee ge

“Pur Watts into ‘em, Boys’?! > Down through the valley, lovely in June sunshine, came the Hessians. Defiant, their backs to the church, stood the fearless Jersey farmers led by Caldwell, the heroic parson! An hour of withering fire—and then above the roar of battle sounded the cry from the minute-men—more wadding for the hot muskets! Into his church dashed the fighting parson; then back to the battle, loaded down with hymn books! Throwing them to his men, he shouted "Make wads of the pages—put Watts into ‘em, boys!”’ . . . They did; and the Hessians broke into straggling retreat. Hymn books, printed for peace and worship, did an Extra Service and saved the day for freedom! . ° e 1.» im emergencies ...and in everyday life...things that do an Extra Service are doubly valuable! SINCLAIR SINCLAIR REFINING COMPANY, INC. District Sales Offices: New York —ATLANTA—CHICAGO— HOUSTON— KANSas CITY SRE gave an The Extra Service that you get trom Sinclair Opaline Motor Oil, makes it doubly valuable to the engine of your car. Opaline is not merely a good motor oil made to lubricate your car’s engine thoroughly— Opaline lubricates—and does the Extra Service of sealing the pistons to prevent power from blou ing by! In your engine, between each piston and cyl. inder wall is a space. Motor oil should fit this space and seal it. But... the size of this space varies in different cars. In new cars the space is smail—a lighter grade of motor oil is needed to seal it. After a car has traveled 2,000 miles, 12, 000 miles, and over, the space has worn larger —heavier grades of motor oil must be used. The degree of wear in your engine determines eec. us fat ore Meets every demand of present-day engines and seals power at every degree of wear. ~ = € 19295.R.C THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 105

which grade of motor oil you need—and the mileage on your speedometer indicates that de- gree of wear. That is the Sinclair Law of Lubrication”. The right grade of motor oil is just as important as the right guality. It is the responsibility of the Authorized Opaline Dealer to give you both Tell him the mileage reading on your speed- ometer—he will give you the grade of Opaline that will render the extra service of piston seal to prevent power from blowing by! 30¢ a quart is a reasonable retail price for Opaline in bulk. The Sinclair Law of Lubrication: For every machine, of every degree of wear, there is a scientific Sinclair Oil to suit it its power! speed and seal MOTOR OIL SINCLAIR AIRCRAFY GASOLINE <4 4 . ~ 4 wwe SINCLAIR H-C GASOLINE HC) SINCLAIR REGULAR GASOLINE A oe

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7} . > Usaion Pa 1C1fIC THE SATURDAY TO SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA - DELUXE C. J, Collime, Gen. Pass’r Agent, Dept. 603 Union Pacific Sytem, Omaha, Neb. Please send me complete information and booklet on California California Escorted Tours Hawaii [ Death Valley (California's unique winter resort) Name Mreet City Mate SERVICE AT NO EXTRA COST The Los Angeles Limited—Union Pacific’s famous train to Southern California—offers those extras which add so much to one’s enjoy- ment of travel, without extra fare. A de luxe, all Pullman, 63 hour train with barber, valet, bath, maid and manicure—with the highest standards of service, courtesy and cuisine—with an atmosphere of luxury and refinement—the logical choice of discriminating travelers. Why not use this train on your next journey to California? One trip is all that is necessary to make you a regular patron of the Los Angeles Limited. A fine train—a route of scenic grandeur—a roadbed noted for its smoothness! What more could be desired? Eight Other Fine Trains to California from Chicago and St. Louis Including the new 58 hour extra fare Overland Limited, finest and fastest train between Chicago and San Fran- cisco: the 63 hour all-Pullman San Francisco Limited; the Gold Coast Limited: Continental Limited; Pacific Limited: Pacific Coast Limited. Union Paci THE OVERLAND ROUTE EVENING POST December 14, 1929 SIZZLING SADIE (Continued from Page 25) “An’ you think maybe you might like me enough to make ma’iage provided I co’ted you some mo’?” “I—I think so. You sholy plays the fiddle swell.” Aleck took her arm and strolled with her toward the building which housed the pro- jection room and cutting department. “Albany is jealous,”” he announced. “Yeh, Aleck, I sort of suspected some- thin’ like that last night.” “He come. to see me after I got to the hotel, an’ he ‘lowed that he would stermi- nate me did I ever even walk down the street with you again.” She clasped her hands. “ Ain’t that terrible!” “So I ask you, Ester, how is a feller gwine co’t a gal when ev’y time he does he gits lammed with a couple of big fists?”’ “You—you mean you ain’t gwine co’t me?” “T is. Honest, I is, honey gal. cain’t do it on the street.” She gazed at him closely. “You has a scheme?” “Uh-huh. I schum one las’ night.” “Tell me about it.” “Well, it’s this way. I reelize that you is a nice, beautiful, self-respectin’ gal which coul’n’t make ma’iage with nobody less’n you was co’ted proper. Also I know that I cain’t co’t you ordinary, ’cause if I does so, Albany White is gwine see that I immedjutly collecks my benefits in the Over the River Burying Sassiety. So I started figgerin’, an’ the fust idea which come to me was this: I work regalar fo’ Midnight. Also, you do. An’ nobody gits on this lot ’ceptin’ on’y he is a ‘ployee of the company. Now that means, Ester, that ev’y day fum nine in the mawnin’ until five or six in the afternoon I an’ you is on the lot heah where Albany White cain’t git to us. So I ask you, will it be salisfractory to you if I co’ts you all day an’ leaves you alone after us departs fum the studjo?” She deliberated the question. “Tha’s kind of queer etiquette, Aleck.” “T know it is, honey. But gettin’ kilt is a lot queerer.” Ester was a good sport. “All right, Aleck. You can co’t me on the lot only, an’ I wish you lots of luck, ’cause I always did ambition to marry a fiddle player.” Aleck was beaming. He fairly adored Miss Babble. There sholy wasn’t many gals would pass up bein’ co’ted in the evenin’s. He reckoned Ester must be con- sidering his suit seriously, else she would never have consented to anything so un- conventional. He determined to make his courtship a good one. Then perhaps she’d marry him, and after that he was convinced that Albany would sense the futility of any further opposition. An ebony office boy came scooting across the lot to notify Aleck that his presence was required immediately in the office of Mid- night’s chief executive. The professor bade Ester adieu and departed. As he walked into the presence of the pompous and portly President Orifice R. Latimer, that dignitary glanced at the countenance of his musical director and made a comment: “That face, Aleck! What happened toit?” The professor shrugged. ‘An accident met up with me, Orifice.” “Sorry.” Latimer immediately became all business. He took a sheet of paper from his desk and extended it to Champagne. “Read that, Aleck. I an’ Forcep Swain drawed it up, an’ we crave to see does it meet with yo’ ’proval.” Laboriously, Aleck perused the docu- ment: Can You WRITE THEME SONGS? Evrybody Does. So Can You. MIDNIGHT PICTURES CORPORATION, INC. Off rs a Permanunt Job to the Composer of THE Best THEME SONG | For the Currant Midnight Comedy. But I Everybody Invited to Compete. Come All. Come One. Here's Your Chance to Get a Swell Job With Midnight at Fifty Dollars pr. Week Salry. Six Months Contrack Given to the Winner. All Theme Songs Will be Judged by Birmingham's Most Foremost Colored Musician— PROFESSOR ALECK CHAMPAGNE The professor shook his head slowly. “TI got only one suggestion, Brother Latimer.” “Well, go ahead. Be suggestive.” “Why can’t we put in there that I is also open fo’ dance engagements at night?” “T’ll consider that, Aleck. Now read the rest of the "nouncement.” Aleck turned the paper. The article an- nounced that Midnight intended to retain its position as the preéminent producer of two-reel comedies of negroes, by negroes, and for the whole world. It stated that since the advent of sound production all great pictures boasted their own individual theme songs and that Midnight had no in- tention of being behindhand in so vital a matter. Midnight, said the paper, was ready at all times to encourage native talent, and to that end had inaugurated this contest which everyone, professional or amateur, was entitled to enter. Music only was to be submitted; the lyrics could be supplied easily enough by Author Forcep Swain to fit the exigencies of the particular produc- tion in which the prize-winning theme song was to be used. And the reward was nothing to be sneered at—a six months’ contract with Midnight at fifty dollars a week, with the certainty that if the candidate made good he would be retained indefinitely. In con- clusion the announcement made it clear that since everybody connected with or in- terested in sound pictures was writing theme songs, there was no reason why some hitherto unheard-of genius might not be uncovered in the confines of Birmingham's Darktown. And realizing that it was pos- sible the Alabama metropolis might be lack- ing in theme songsters of ability, Midnight reserved the right to refuse the prize alto- gether. Professor Champagne was pleased. That he should be appointed the sole arbiter was more than he dared hope. He knew that the contest announcement would be re- ceived with vast enthusiasm and that he, therefore, would come in for considerable friendly attention. Jobs with Midnight were coveted by the dusky citizenry of Birmingham. In the first place, the company paid well and, in the second place, there was an impregnable social prestige attached to being a member of the organization which had blazed a trail across the silver screens of two continents. That there would be a grand rush for the prize was a certainty. And there was. The announcement was put into type and circulated through the city. Colored Birmingham read and gasped. In one fell swoop the entire Afro-American section of the city went music mad. Wherever one went—along Eighteenth Street or up and down the busy reaches of Fourth Avenue; on Avenue F or in the winding streets of Tittisville—one could see ebony gentlemen and ladies strolling absent-mindedly with their lips puckered to that shape from which whistles emerge. Within four days Midnight was deluged with theme songs. Meanwhile, Professor Champagne had not guessed wrong in believing that he would come in for a world of attention. Each contestant seemed to think that it behooved him to be a trifle nicer to Aleck than the next, and so the professor rode triumphantly on the crest of a popularity wave which exceeded anything he had ever before experienced. There was only one fly in his ointment. It made him sick at heart to realize that (Continued on Page 109)

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST Ar 32nd and Broadway, New York, is this newest of twelve John David Stores— magnificent, beautiful, inspiring — an impressive example of Grand Rapids artistry in plan- ning and equipment. No less impressive and attractive, though simpler in stvle. are the modest stores of a thousand smaller towns that know the value of Grand Rapids design- ing venl Ing a nius. Broadway or Main Street—it makes no difference to ; Grand Rapids. No store is too large, none too small j to benefit from our service. Large department stores, chain stores, exclusive shops — even the smallest of Miasieatthn « Magnificent Shops or Main Street 4 Modest Stores — Grand Rapids Plans and Eguips Both small stores have found the way to greater volume through contact with this 30 year old organization. Wherever you are, whatever your size, whatever you sell, Grand Rapids can aid in increasing your business. Send for our latest book, “The New Way Method in Merchandising”. You will find it intensely interesting and full of valuable information. Why not write for it today — it will help you plan your business for 1930. GRAND Rapips STORE EQuIPMENT CORPORATION Granp Rapips, MICHIGAN New York City Representatives everywhere. Store planners, designers and manufacturers Factories, Grand Rapids, Portland, Oregon, Baltimore, of fine store equipment for department stores, ready-to-wear and specialty shops, haberdashe ry and men s¢ lothing siores, drug, jewe lry, shoe Stores, el

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108 Interesting THE SATURDAY facts about your cars performance OTOR car performance is a purely M relative term. Your car either has it or hasn’t, depending largely on its condition from day to day. Motor car performance has no tangible or concrete definition, but is a quality with which every motor- ist is greatly concerned, and likes to consider as being embodied in his own car to a superlative degree. When a new car is delivered to its owner it is in the best condition that its manufacturer can achieve. After its delivery, the maintenance of that high level of performance depends entirely on the care and attention given the car by its owner. The condition of valves, pistons, piston rings, cylinder walls, bearings, ignition system, lubrication and a host of other items, all determine exactly the measure of performance your car will give. A little attention to these units at regular intervals will maintain topnotch performance in your car. The effort involved is small, the cost negligible. Both will be more than repaid by the greater motoring satis- faction which you gain and by avoiding possible costly repair bills. It is a simple matter to clean them and to aie sure that the gaps are properly spaced. In the last analysis, spark plugs are the heart of your engine for it is on their life-giving spark that the latent forces of your engine’s power ultimately depend. It is a well-known fact that spark plugs will continue to function almostindefinitely. It is also well es- tablished—-though not so well known —that spark plugs do deteriorate during 10,000 miles, or a year’s use, to such a degree that power, speed and acceleration, to say nothing of economy, are all greatly impaired. All motor car manufacturers now recommend that you change your spark plugs every 10,000 miles simply use a new set actually improves your car’s performance and saves its cost in oil and gasoline economy alone. Thousands of laboratory and road tests, in which practically every make of motor car operated in America today was used, have proved beyond question that per- formance actually is impaired after spark plugs have been in use 10,000 miles. Various engineers, during EVENING POST December 14, 1929 Proper lubrication is vital to the ‘ life of your engine. Any good oil helps it retain its greatest efficiency. The owner who is concerned with Acie = i these long and exhaustive tests, checked the performance, fuel and oii consumption and wear on scores of motor car engines equipped with maintaining performance keeps his crankease full and changes oil at regular intervals to insure correct lubrication at all times and under all operating conditions. He appreciates that friction is a constant threat to the cylinder wall and bearing surfaces. Proper lubri- cation is his constant safeguard. It contributes greatly to the perform- ance and the life of his engine. The storage battery is a most im- portant factor in motoring satisfac- tion, With regular attention it will last indefinitely. Simply maintain the proper water level and keep the terminals clean. This insures bright lights, easy starting and a hot spark at the spark plug points. A few drops of oil on the generator and starter, and an occasional inspec- tion of the brushes, will generally make these units efficient for the life of the car. Worn piston rings lose compres- sion, which means lost power and a waste of oil and gas. New rings, when necessary, restore it. Sluggish, improperly seating valves should be ground to maintain power, speed and acceleration. Ignition cables are subject to dis- integration from the attacks of heat, water and oil. The insulation cracks and current is diffused, to the detri- ment of the spark at the spark plug points. New cables once a year obviate this loss. Spark plugs play an important part in better engine performance. both old and new spark plugs. Start- ing, changing gears, accelerating, stopping, driving in traffic and on the open road at high speed—all these conditions were exhaustively studied and the results definitely established by the readings of the most accurate precision instruments that science has devised. Six years ago, the Champion Spark Plug Company first recom- mended that spark plugs be changed regularly so that you could secure the greatest performance and econ- omy from your car. Since that time millions of motor car owners have learned that this gives them greater performance and increased satisfac- tion from their car, yet actually costs them nothing. Upon Champion has been con- ferred the proud privilege of excelling and outselling throughout the world because its superiority is so obvious. Installing Champions insures you that you are equipped with the better spark plug. Changing them every 10,000 miles assures you that you are obtaining at all times your car’s utmost in performance and economy of operation, in so far as spark plugs can give you these ad- vantages. Insure your car of better winter operation by installing a complete new set of Champions now. The nearest Champion dealer, or your service station, will install new Champions and otherwise make your car ready for more efficient winter driving, at small cost to you. acm” reater =, Bae’ ormance

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(Continued from Page 106) because of the sinister presence of Mr. Albany White in the city, he could not escort the fair Ester to the various social functions at which he was the bright, par- ticular roaring lion. But he didn’t dare. Evening after eve- ning as Aleck stepped through the gate of the Midnight lot, he could see the massive fig- ure of Mr. White lurking across the street, watching with venomous gaze to see whether his orders were being obeyed. It was a noble courtship which Aleck was conducting on the lot. Every morning flowers were carried to Ester Babble’s dress- ing room; every second day a pound of candy was delivered to her with Aleck’s compliments; and every available minute the professor was to be found in her vicin- ity, courting fiercely, and feeling secure in the knowledge that Albany White wasn’t on the lot and couldn’t get there. Aleck knew that he was making progress with Ester. Give him sufficient time, and he felt that he actually could induce her to marry him. And, between sessions of courting, he sorted out theme songs and tried them. This task was laborious, but amusing, and the process never varied. With Web- ster Dill at the piano, and Professor Cham- pagne and Sam Gin standing behind him, composition after composition was placed on the music reck. Then the large Webster would finger the ivories, Aleck would jiggle his bow across the strings of his violin and the lengthy anc melancholy Sam Gin would propel wailing blue notes from his saxo- phone. Day after day studio officials gathered in the little room where the amateur efforts were being tried. Thus far the contest had proved only one thing conclusively —that Birmingham colored folk had plenty of mu- sical ambition, but an irreducible minimum of talent. This morning the three musicians gath- ered for their daily chore. Sitting in a corner were President Orifice R. Latimer, Pro- duction Manager J. Cwsar Clump, Actor Opus Randall, and three or four others, in- cluding the elegant and debonair Florian Slappey, whose aim in life was to do noth- ing and do it constantly. Several pieces were played and dis- carded. Thus far it was evident that Mid- night would be forced to avail itself of the protective clause which made it possible for them to refuse the prize altogether. And then, with vast indifference, Webster Dill placed on his piano a badly inked series of notes which bore the title of Sizzling Sadie. Webster fingered the introductory chord, Professor Champagne scraped the first notes from his violin, and Sam Gin tremoloed his saxophone. Then an amaz- ing thing happened—a thing which brought wiggles of delight to musicians and auditors alike. Real music spurted from the three instruments—music that was delicious and lilting and thoroughly fine. Sam Gin did some expert syncopation, and before Siz- zling Sadie was finished, the audience was rocking back and forth appreciatively, while the eyes of the musicians were shin- ing with professional approval. Sizzling Sadie was well conceived and ex- pertly written. It had melody and delicacy, and when it had been played for the second time, President Latimer leaped to his feet. “Hot diggity dawg!’ he yelled. “I knowed we could find a genus!” Professor Champagne shared the general enthusiasm. “Brother Latimer,” is ginuwine music.” “Yeh! An’ it’s a cinch that whoever authored it is gwine git a job with Mid- night fo’ anyhow six months. Who was nT" “Lemme see.” Professor Champagne was all enthusiasm as he turned back to the cover page in search of the composer’s name. And then, for one awful, ghastly second he stared. Immediately thereafter his knees trembled and he sat down limply on a chair. he confessed, “‘this THE SATURDAY “Who was it?” demanded President Latimer. ‘‘Who written that gorgeous music?”’ Professor Champagne did not answer and Midnight’s chief executive surged for- ward, followed by the others. They stared over Aleck’s shoulder at the piece which had so delighted them. Title and author's name were inscribed in ink. SIZZLING SADIE BY Mr. ALBANY WHITE “Oh, golla!” mourned the professor. “‘ Disaster has sholy backed up against me an’ pushed!” His brain was racing. The awful poten- tialities of the situation smote him heavily. Sizzling Sadie was unquestionably a swell piece of music, and even more unquestion- able was the fact that it stood out above all the others. But Albany White—Albany, his arch- enemy; Albany, the ex-fiancé of Ester Babble! Until this contest the professor had been doing well. All day every day he and Ester were on the Midnight lot, safe from the jealous eyes of the manslaughterish Mr. White. But now Albany was about to win the grand prize, which was a six months’ contract with Midnight, and each day Mr. White would also be allowed on the lot. As through a haze, Aleck could hear the enthusiastic praise of the others for Albany White. President Latimer was clapping him on the back and stating positively that Albany was a wonder, and destined to be a marvelous addition to Midnight’s already famous roster. Aleck looked up weakly. “But—but maybe he ain’t gwine win, Orifice.” “You talks foolishment. is a swell number.” “Yeh, but s’posin’ somebody writes a better one?” “Nobody ain't gwine to. marvelious.” “T know. But s’posin’ “Well, if anybody does, then he’s a wizzid—tha’s all I got to say. An’ who gits the job by beatin’ that song is gwine be wuth thousands of dollars to this company. On'y there ain’t no chance, on account there ain't no sound pitcher, nowhere, no time, which ever had no better music than that.”” The chief executive swung on Forcep Swain, M idnight’s author. “ You, Forcep,” he com- manded; “git you busy creatin’ words fo’ that song.” “Yas-suh, President Latimer. Thereain’t no job I could be fonder of. The others strolled from the room, eagerly discussing the miracle. Only Professor Champagne remained—Aleck and one other. This person rambled across the room and dropped a friendly hand on the narrow shoulders of the stricken musician. “Aleck,” said Florian Slappey, “you look as though Mistuh Fate hisse’f had busted you in the optical.” ‘He has,” groaned Professor Champagne. ““How come?” “That song.” “*Meanin’ Sizzlin’ Sadie?” “Uh-huh.” “*Gosh, Aleck, I think it’s wonderful.” ““So do I,” groaned the professor. “‘Tha's what makes me sick.” Florian seated himself near his friend, and his voice was freighted with sympathy: “Tse yo’ buddy, Aleck. S’posin’ you tell me yo’ troubles, an’ maybe I can he’p you out.” Aleck told the story from the beginning down to the present moment: “An’ it was Albany White which written that song, Florian. I never even knowed he understood music, let alone harmony an’ melody an’ such. An’ heah I is, the only judge in this contes’, an’ I has got to climb up on a platform an’ present Albany White with a job which means I don’t make ma’iage with the gal Ise crazy about.” Mr. Slappey made a clucking sound of sympathy and agreed that Aleck was indeed in a horrid predicament. The professor Sizzlin’ Sadie That song is EVENING POST threw his arms wide in a helpless, hopeless gesture. “What is I gwine do bout it, Florian? I cain’t give that job to Albany, an’ I cain’t re- fuse, on account President Latimer wouldn't let me do such.” Mr. Slappey commenced to exercise his brain. “I got one idea, Aleck.” “Yeh?” “You is a swell musician. How "bout you writin’ a theme song yo’se’f?”’ “T cain’t. Ise the judge.” “I know. But sign it with my name.” “‘An’ give you the prize?” “Uh-huh.” “But, Florian, you don’t know no music. An’ did you git the job, you couldn't write no mo’ theme songs.” “Shuh! I should worry "bout that when I has got a six months’ contrack at fifty dollars a week. Anyway, Aleck, it’s the on’iest chance I see. An’ I know dawg-gone good an’ well that you is mo’ musicaler than Mistuh White.” And so for two nights Professor Cham- = locked himself in his room at the Cozy ome hotel and created music. It was a tedious and headachy job, but eventually there appeared on paper a series of notes which, when played in sequence by the professor, were distinctly pleasing to the ear. He rewrote and revamped and polished. Finally, the task was finished and Aleck was satisfied. He printed the name of Florian Slappey on the cover and carried the num- ber to the Midnight studio the following day. He demanded the presence of President Latimer and other executives when the Slap- pey number was played. During its very excellent rendition the eyes of the auditors glowed with approval, and when the last notes died out, President Latimer spoke: “Not so bad, Aléck.” “T think it’s good.” “Well, it ain't so good, neither. In fack, it strikes me as bein’ just another piece of music.” “You mean you don’t think it’s good enough to win?” A derisive laugh filled the room. ‘“‘Shucks, Aleck, you know good an’ well that thing ain't half as good as Sizzlin’ Sadie. Why, that song is puffeck. Lemme sing you the words Forcep Swain has written fo’ it.” At a signal Webster Dill commenced fin- gering the notes of the great theme song and Orifice Latimer’s raspy voice enunci- ated the opening words. “ Sizzlin’ Sadie, is you hot? Or is you not? TI have forgot. Tell me true, how sweet is you, ore Cause always you make me blue. “An’ I forgot the rest,” finished the pres- ident, “but they is all just as good as that.” “Then you mean,” gasped Aleck, “that I has got to give that prize to Albany White?” “T don’t mean nothin’ ought to be glad to do it.” “Ought to,” groaned Aleck, ‘ain't is!” The great news had been bruited about the lot, and it came eventually to the ears of Miss Ester Babble. She sought the de- pressed Aleck. “Yeh,” he confessed, “it’s all true. Al- bany is gwine git him a job with Midnight writin’ theme songs. An’ I never even knowed he was a musician.” She shook her head sadly. “Nor neither me, Aleck. Ain't it awful?” “Gal, you don’t know how much.” He looked up with sudden hope. ‘‘ How "bout ma’ying me now, honey? What’s the use of waitin’ till Albany beats me up some mo’?” “No, Aleck, I couldn’ t ma’y you yet.” “Don’t you love me?” “T reckon so, Aleck, but I ain’t been co’ted half enough, an’ it ain’t decent fo’ no gal to ma’y a man which ain't n'ted her plenty.” “But, Ester, does I wait ‘til after Thurs- day, then Albany will be workin’ heah, an’ he’ll plumb ruin me does I even win! at you one time.” “Tha’s terrible sad, Aleck, but I cain’t ma’y you now.” (Continued on Page 113 else. An’ you A Run of Fifteen WHAT YOU DON'T SEE HAT You See: A dark cone shedding a white light on a table covered in green ...a leveled cue, the click of two ivory balls ...a masterly shot completing a run of fifteen. What You Don't See: Before the match, the players rough- ing the tips of their cues— so that they will grip the balls better—with a Nich- olson Flat Bastard File. There are picturesque uses for files and thousands of commonplace jobs that only a file can do. From the pock- et billiard cham- pion to the mech- anic inasmall town garage, every one can find uses for these sharp cutting, time tested tools. At hardware and mill supply dealers’. NICHOLSON FILECO previnesse, i. S.A. Te FILES A File for Every Purpose

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14, 1929 we -

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a Se — THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 111 Or AHHISTMAS _... y * DEPENDABLE GIFTS 12. GOOD LOOKING GIFTS 12. ECONOMICAL GIFTS PRESENT for Dad? There’s an Ingersoll made just for him—a dependable Ingersoll! For Mother? There’s an Ingersoll that will please her too—a stylish Ingersoll! For Sue? For her there’s an Ingersoll—you'll find exactly the one —a wee-size Ingersoll! For Sonny? An inexpensive Ingersoll! And for everybody else on your gift list, at just the price you wantto pay, there’s an Ingersoll—a reliable watch—a good- looking watch—a watch as sturdy as only Ingersoll can make. For Ingersoll makes all kinds of watches— men’s watches— women’s, children’s watches— pocket watches—wrist watches —desk watches—bedroom watches—traveling watches —and the new MITE Wrist Waich. This is the latest addition y MITE—Radiolite $5.50 5 The newest Ingersoll. Stylishly small, but strong and sturdy. Chromium finish, Radiolite dial. six colors. =. ALDEN $12.50 6 The aristocrat of the Ingersell line. Seven jewels. YANKEE 6/0 size. The smallest watch Ingersoll has ever produced. 3 WATERBURY $5.00 i The best watch five dollars can buy. Jeweled movement. Engraved case. Chromium finish. Platinum-like brilliance. 4 = MipGet $3.25 Q juNIOR “Cute”, say women and girls at first sight. “De- pendable”, they say, after years of service. TRAVELER Don’t stir from your bed or desk—just glance across at your Traveler. Texol case, choice of America’s most famous watch—a faithful time- keeper for over 35 years. PHOTO-TRAVELER . . $3.00 Tr This special Traveler—as handsome as the regu- lar Traveler—is designed with a frame to include your favorite photograph. Tens of thousands of boys and young men are enthusiastic about its looks and performance. to the Ingersoll family and an exceedingly important addi- tion, A stylishly small wrist watch, sturdy and dependable. Good-looking. Whether it is for a man, woman, boy or girl, this new Mite Wrist Watch will be a delightful gift. For thirty-five years Ingersoll has known how to make good watches, dependable watches, and—more than that—has known how to make them at amazingly low prices. Just imagine—the Yankee costs only $1.50! The new Mite Wrist Watch can be yours for only $5.00! So take your pick. Here they are—what a wonderful variety to choose from— 12 exciting gifts—12 useful gifts—12 beau- tiful gifts—and all such welcome gifts. ECLIPSE ....-e « $3.80 $2.75 9 A handsome design—smaller and thinner than the Yankee. WRIST $3.50 $1.50 FO A rugged watch that will give you dependable New improvements. time for years and years. Chromium finish back. WRIST RADIOLITE . $4.00 Splendid for outdoor use—the rugged depend- able Wrist, with Radiolite dial. $3.25 it. MITE The same stylishly small dependable Mite, but $5.00 this time with plain dial. Chromium finish. Radiolite dials cost a little extra. Prices slightly higher in Canada. (, ™~ iN sik ING ERSOLL Wate H Co. Inc. (Division of Waterbury Clock Co.) NEW YORK - CHICAGO - SAN FRANCISCO» MONTREAL. Service Department Waterbury, Conn.

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112 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14, 1929 Ask to see the “Caterpillar” Tractor Pictures! Motion pictures of broad tracks rippling over soft seed beds prove to farmers that “Caterpillar” Tractors can cultivate plowed ground. Motion pictures of the “Caterpillar” motor patrol prove to the assembled township officials that economical road maintenance is within their reach. Motion pictures of a drifted road cleared by “Caterpillar” sell to a city engineer the feasibility of “business the year round”. A virtual demonstration of “Caterpillar” Tractors Prices—f. o. b. Peoria, Illinois ° 206 8 ee : ” ' ares $1125 TWENTY . . . . $1975 is possible in office or home. (Most “Caterpillar” dealers TFN: - >: $ii03 0 TMENDY «= + + $1975 possess projectors and a library of films which they gladly oe * + show to prospective purchasers. Films cover farming, snow Cater p illar Tractor Co. removal, road-building, logging, earth-moving and industrial — pgoria, 1LLINOIs and SAN LEANDRO, CALIF., U.S.A. scenes. ({A request will bring the name of the nearest dealer. ee, ees * See seenaayD (There’s a “Caterpillar” Dealer Near You) BSERPILIA oe Rn | eR

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98 "ye ae Ab Mabe. Such deliveries as this in the Peace River Country of Canada - reflect the interesting fact that today Coca-Cola is on sale in i 76 foresen countries THE SATURDAY EVENING POST SH had to he good to get where it is Where only huskies can haul ... because all men desire the pause that refreshes OMETIMES it is so cold that the atmos- phere, on a clear day, shakes with frost, fine as diamond dust. Every par- ticle of moisture in the air has turned to ice. Deep snow stretches endlessly in white brightness. It is up in the Peace River Country of Canada—where you've got to dig snow before wheels can turn. But Coca-Cola's deliveries continue—on dog sleds with the cases covered with o vv quilted tarpaulin and heated underneath with charcoal burners. For man does not outrun the need for the pause that refreshes .... North or south, summer or winter— ever the call comes to pause, relax and refresh yourself. And Coca-Cola, always served ice-cold, has proved itself the one great drink whatever the weather. With its tingling, delicious taste and cool after-sense of refreshment, a short pause R 1] M#iéieintWliodwnN A can be as wholesome and refreshing as a long rest. Over cight million times every day in the year Coca-Cola repeats the proof that there's no other drink so universally desired THE BEST SERVED DRINK IN THE WORLD A pure drink of natural flavor e-cold in its own bottle—the distinctive Coca-Cola bortle Every bottle is steriiized, filled and sealed air-tight by automatic machines, without the touch of human hands—insuring purity a | wholesome- ness. The Coca-Cola Company, Atlanta, Ga. _

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a FIRE PPEOTEROON RESTIGE has attracted the FENEST FYPE OF AGENTS for Generations ae ® follows quite naturally that a com- pany which has been renowned for honorable dealings for more than a cen- tury, should be represented by men of high character and marked ability. And that such men should enhance its reputa- tion in the business world. Among our representatives there have always been many who were prominent in public affairs—often in high public office—and who had to a marked degree the esteem and confidence of the people. Many of our agency connections are held to- day by the second or third generations of the fine old insurance families which started with us long ago. This franchise is so highly prized as a business asset that fathers advise their sons and grandsons to continue with it. The importance of this to you is that insur- ance, properly conducted, is as much a profession as law, medicine and theology. Men who are steeped in its best experience and traditions and supported by a company with the background of the Fire Association Fleet, can serve you as few others can. The tire Association Fleet Philadelphia, Pennsylvania Almost every kind INSURANCE excepting Life The Reliance Insurance Co. Constitution Indemnity Co. Fire Association of Phila. Victory Insurance Co. EVERY JUST CLAIM PAID IN FULL SINCE 1817 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST (Continued from Page 116) “Well, we won’t have time for much else from now on,” said Ralston jovially, if rue- fully. ‘“‘Come along, Vance.” Mr. Vance turned to Jeff. ‘‘You’ll ex- | cuse us,” he said with a courtesy which some men might have found unnecessary in | the circumstances. ‘‘I’m afraid we must go back to town.” “Certainly, sir. Can I be of any assist- ance—to telephone or in any way?” “Thank you, I think not.” He turned to Ralston. “I'd trust my life with every man on our pay roll,” he said. “‘I—this has up- set me dreadfully. I’m not thinking of the money loss, Bill, but of the possibility that—that some boy I've practically raised in the bank has—has made a bad business of it.” “Don’t jump at conclusions,” said Ral- ston. “It’s bad for the liver. Let’s go look-see.”’ When Jeff stepped into his shop he saw Tim, the locker boy, in indignant conver- sation with the caddy master. The pleasant-faced, red-haired Irish lad seemed rather hurt than angry. “What seems to be the catastrophe?” Jeff asked. “T just got a swell bawling out, Mr. McTodd. And it wasn’t coming to me neither. It was that Mr. Minturn, and he told me plenty.” “What was his complaint?” Jeff asked. “*He says I was snoopin’ in his locker. He said I hadn’t any business to open his locker, and he says if he ever caught me at it again he’d get me fired. And I wasn’t snoopin’. All I was doin’ was gittin’ out the shoes he wore yesterday, to clean them up. I'd like to know how a fellow’s goin’ to give service around here if he gets bawled out for that. What I got a master key to all them lockers for, anyhow? I thought he was goin’ to bust me in the nose, he was that sore about it. He acted kind of crazy.” “Well,” said Jeff pacifically, “if I were you, Tim, I'd give Mr. Minturn a wide berth. Let him ask for what service he wants.” “Anyhow I wouldn’t open up that locker of his if he shut himself inside of it and hol- lered for help,” said the boy. Jeff wondered if it were just ill nature or if Minturn had heard of the occurrence at the bank and was upset by it. Just why the man should be troubled, he could not see, because the responsibility rested upon the bank, which would have to shoulder the loss. He walked over to the case where he had on dispiay a number of sets of matched clubs and straightened them abstractedly. Eric Minturn! Ever since meeting the man and hearing his identity, he had felt a vague irritation somewhere in his subcon- scious self. What was there about Eric Minturn? What was wrong with the pic- ture? As Jeff repeated, mentally, this ques- tion which was a popular catchword at the time, his hand stopped on its way to move a handsome brassie, and he shut his eyes as one does sometimes in a violent effort to pierce the mists which obscure exact recollection. Picture! That was the word that did it. He turned slowly away from the show case and found himself a seat in the nook where he kept his desk and his accounts. There he sat motionless for twenty min- utes, until aroused by the caddy master’s voice telling him Mr. Smith had arrived for his lesson. The following morning Mr. Vance ap- peared in the shop shortly after nine. “Can you play around with me, Mr. McTodd?” he asked. “I’m disturbed. I want to be in the air to think things out.” “Of course,” said Jeff, and presently they were out on the tee, ready to drive off. “‘By the way,” said Mr. Vance, “‘it will not be necessary for me to caution you about speaking of that matter of the missing securities.” “T’ve a splendid reputation for silence,” said Jeff. December 14,1929 Mr. Vance nodded. “I find I think bet- ter if I can talk. It clears my mind. I can argue with myself. Now, you have chanced to hear of this thing, so, if it won’t annoy you, I'd like to discuss it as we go along.” “TI shall be interested,” said Jeff. “Tt is incredible. Our collateral is kept in envelopes arranged alphabetically in a cabinet in the vault. No outsider can have access to it. But almost any employe of the bank could find a reason for going in there. Nevertheless, Mr. McTodd, I refuse to believe that any of my people would be guilty of theft.” “Were they negotiable securities, Mr. Vance?” “Coupon bonds. As negotiable as cur- rency. The money loss will be bad, of course, but it is the possibility that I have been mistaken in the trust I have reposed that hurts me most. As things stand, every man and woman in my bank must rest under suspicion. Mr. McTodd, I would cheerfully give ten thousand dollars if it could be proved this could be brought home to none of them.” “Tf it were what they call an outside job?” “Exactly. We must call in detectives and what not. Probably it will end in a reward being offered for the return of the bonds.” “Which can be identified?” “By their serial numbers.” “Do you mean seriously that you would pay ten thousand dollars to have suspicion lifted from your employes?” “Indeed I do, and another five thousand for the return of the bonds.” Jeff found himself liking Mr. Vance very much—a man who would be more relieved to be assured of the innocence of the young men and women who worked for him, than to have a fortune in stolen bonds returned to him! “Here,”’ he said to himself, “is a man to tie to.” “You are sure no outsider could have got in?”’ he asked. “Impossible.” “May I ask when the bonds were last seen? The latest time at which you can be positive they were still safe?” “‘T have gone into that. I fancy I am the last person, except the thief, to have seen or handled them. I made the loan per- sonally to Minturn and took the collateral with my own hands. The bonds were placed in a large manila envelope, such as we use always for the purpose-—the envelope was tied with tape--and I myself made out the card, placed the envelope in the cab- inet and turned the card in to our assistant cashier.” “*So you know they reached your vault?”’ “*T put them there myself.” “Do you remember, sir, if the day was warm or cold?” , “Eh?” Mr. Vance stopped in astonish- ment. ‘“‘Warm or cold? What can the temperature have to do with it, MeTodd?” “IT have heard,” said Jeff smilingly, “that all human activities are affected by the weather. It might be important.” “Why,” said Mr. Vance, “it was a chill morning. I remember Mr. Minturn was wearing a handsome coat of unusual pat- tern, upon which I remarked. It was one made for him in London.” “You are satisfied that no outsider could have made his way into the vault by any device? No electrician or plumber? No one?” “‘Impossible,”’ declared Mr. Vance. “Yet you refuse to believe in the guilt of an employe?” “Until it is proved, I deciine to credit it. I have known each one of them from child- hood. I have seen them grow up and have taken them into my employ. I have done my best to advance them according to their deserts. There is not one of them I would not trust as I do my own daughter.” “I do not think,” said Jeff thoughtfully, “you are an easy man to deceive as to char- acter. But any man can be deceived by adroitness.” He laughed boyishly. “If we couldn’t be tricked, magicians would (Continued on Page 120) = Se x ait ~~ — Te

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SS eee THE SATURDAY EVENING POST fF YOU LOVE CANDY take this diet rule to heart: "EAT WHAT YOU SHOULD — THEN EAT WHAT YOU WART" If you really will take this rule to heart you may live a good deal longer* and feel a great deal better. So perhaps you would like to know just what this rule means. grand source of quick energy. Candy relieves fatigue that comes with hypoglycaemia (lessened muscle sugar) Athletes, soldiers, ex- plorers know this well Hard-driven business men i Particularly, if you get ny and busy housewives are R alotof enjoyment out of eat- oot finding it out. i) ing candy (and who doesn’t?). f é Try eating a iW You might fairly ask, just '. =, piece or two of candy Sea SS ——— ee where does candy fit in with right eating habits? Pay your respects to Nutrition To be at the top level of health, the experts agree that you should (1) take a quart of milk (2) eat two raw fruits or vegetables (3) eat one ‘pot-herb”’ every day. This, of course, in addition to other foods you normally eat—eggs, bread, meat, fish, etc. That’s what you should eat. It’s before the hour that brings fatigue. It's not a bad idea. Many find it very effective (in addition to the pleas- ure it gives) Get all the story The whole story of candy as a food is far too long to tell here. Ger the whole story —it's interesting and important. Use the coupon below. it brings you a book written in every day language by a modern scientist. ; . Mail ¢ upon te the most health-promoting EDUCATIONAL DEPARTMENT plan of eating. It furnishes NATIONAL you all those elements, =. C ONFEC T 1ONI RS’ needed for maintenance and Ss os IAT va . ‘ . est Washington Stree {) repair of the body, which are What Christmas joys candy brings everywhere! It’s the gift everybody likes " ( ; ice most generally neglected. , , And after that —enjoy ; yourself! Eat what you like with a clear con- a complex food, into which enter such various science! Be it candy, beefsteak or any other ingredients as chocolate, fruit, nuts, milk.) food. (Candy, by the by, is not merely an ‘Please send me The New Knowledge of Candy Name ® When the fires of energy burn low, candy is a Address appetizing form of sugar—it is in many cases Its greatest virtue— *Laboratory nutritional experiments have shown, for Candy is quick energy instance, that life is prolonged 10% and vigor substantially increased when a diet rich in milk is eaten.

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Hell be glad you gave him a “travelo” ht: Colder with heavy winds Snow tomorroy pt PRE « 7 ~~ e: PPOSITE his name on your gift list write “travelo”...and that shopping is finished. He'll revel in “travelo’s” snug, compact warmth. He'll have comfort and health-safety for cold weather work or play; freedom and ease for muscle and mind. “travelo” is the country club jacket that likes a hard work. Many styles; all of the best new heathers and solid colors. Featured by 11,000 te, stores. .. priced to please the giver, too. Elastic-knit by the creators of “travelo” SwimSuits. Write Peckham - Foreman, f Inc., (Dept. P), Park Ave., N. Y., for Pd free Portfolio of Styles. It shows people a you know in “travelo” Jackets. -~ 7, “travelo” knit jackets & vests for men & boys They hol | Lido | KNIT JACKETS Lower in cost than ‘‘travelo"—better value than anything else at its price. ¢ their shape THE SATURDAY EVENING POST | (Continued from Page 118) have a hard time earning a living by taking | rabbits out of silk hats.” “That is true,” said Mr. Vance. “So,” said Jeff, “it seems we are faced | with two possibilities, as you state the cir- cumstances: Either the bonds were stolen from the vault by an employe or ——”’ “Or what?” asked Mr. Vance. Jeff disregarded the question. “It would be interesting to know if anyone connected with the affair mailed a registered parcel since the theft.” “An excellent thought. I will have the matter investigated.” “Also who among the possible suspects | has been absent from town since that day.” “But the thief, if he were very astute, might make no attempt to get rid of the bonds. He might—probably would—find a place of concealment for them near at hand. . . . But what was your other | possibility, Mr. MeTodd?” | “The other possibility — If, Mr. Vance, you will make up a foursome to- morrow of yourself, Mr. Ralston, Mr. Min- turn and myself, I'll try to think up the other possibility.” Mr. Vance frowned. “I don’t quite un- derstand,” he said. “Don’t think I’m meddling, sir. And I am quite sure the other possibility will be interesting when I have worked it over in my mind. At worst, it can do no harm.” “I confess you puzzle me,” said Mr. Vance. “But I can see no objections. | Certainly the other gentlemen are parties | in interest.” They finished their round without re- | ferring again to the matter, but as they | reached the clubhouse, Mr. Vance con- | firmed their engagement to play tomorrow. “At two o’clock, then,” he said. Just before two o’clock the three gentle- men appeared, dressed in the locker room | and came down through the shop. “Go right up to the tee,” said Jeff, ‘and I'll join you in three minutes.” Mr. Minturn’s attitude toward Jeff was not what could be termed genial; obvi- ously, he resented playing with the young professional, and set out to make the round as unpleasant as was possible without giv- ing offense to Mr. Vance and Mr. Ralston. But neither his overbearing manner nor the poisonous observations he east from time to time in Jeff’s direction seemed to ruffle the young man’s temper. He played splendid golf until they reached the fifth tee, back in the woods, secluded and far from observa- tion. There he alluded to the missing bonds for the first time. “Mr. Vance,” said he, ‘yesterday I was of the opinion there were but two possibili- ties from which to choose in this affair of the stolen bonds—Mr. Minturn’s bonds.” “And if there were a dozen possibilities, my good man, it need not raise your blood pressure,” said Minturn arrogantly. “I told you the first,” said Jeff, ignoring the Englishman. “It was that the securi- ties were stolen from the vault by one of your employes.” “T say, Mr. Vance, what has this fellow to do with our transactions?"’ Minturn de- manded. Again Jeff ignored him. ‘The second possibility, sir,”” he said, “can be only this: That the bonds never were in your vault.” “Eh?” exclaimed Mr. Vance. “Never in our vault. But that is nonsense, Mc- Todd. I placed them there myself.” “Then,” said Jeff, undisturbed, “‘there is nothing to do but turn your detectives loose on the people in the bank and sift out the guilty party. Nevertheless, I insist on the other possibility. I mean to say, it must be one or the other. If you put the bonds in your vault, an employe must have stolen them. If you did not put the bonds in the vault, then we must look elsewhere.” “But I did put them there,” said Mr. Vance. “You examined the bonds in your office and put them in one of your regular manila envelopes, which you tied with a piece of pink tape.” December /4, 1929 “Exactly. And took it to the vault and filed it in its proper place.” “Which, in the event the second possibil- ity is chosen, narrows our search. It gives us two more possibilities, sir; the first of which I think we may discard. Either you, Mr. Vance, took the bonds yourself or the magician pulled a rabbit from the silk hat.” “Young man,” said Mr. Vance, “‘ you are being offensive.” “T am being logical,” said Jeff. “Think a moment. Can you reach any other conclu- sion yourself? You refuse to admit the guilt of an employe. Very well. For the sake of argument we admit their innocence. What remains?” “T see your point,” said Mr. Vance in a more friendly voice. “‘ But I did not take the bonds. I put them in the filing cabinet.” “The bank examiner found an exact duplicate of the envelope there. It con- tained blank paper,” said Jeff. ‘‘Has the idea occurred to you that you might your- self have put it there? If a rabbit can be taken from a hat, you know o “What are you implying, Mr. McTodd.” “That the hand is quicker than the eye, Mr. Vance.” “By Jove! The blighter! I say, he’s in- sulting me, you know! He’s intimating I’m a bloody sleight-of-hand chap, eh? What? For two and sixpence, my man, I’d bash you in the eye!” “T wouldn’t,” said Jeff placidly. ‘And I’m not implying. I’m stating.” “But it is impossible. I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake discussing this with you, McTodd. You have let your imagination run away with your judgment and are making unfounded charges against a gentle- man whose birth alone is a guaranty of his integrity.” “Birth? Oh, to be sure. But, you see, this gentleman is not the second son of Lord Baizecroft. I’m afraid not. Eric Minturn lost an arm at Mons. So this gen- tleman has altogether too many arms to be authentic.” “What? What are you saying?” “A cable to London will clear up that point,” said Jeff. “And now, gentlemen, with your permission I will do a bit of par- lor magic. Not a rabbit from a hat but an envelope from a golf bag.”’ He pulled the fastening on the pocket of his bag and took from it a thick manila envelope tied about with pink tape. “T haven’t had time to go over them, Mr. Vance, but I imagine you will find the bonds intact.” The Englishman leaped to his feet, stood crouching with his driver clutched in his fists. His face was black with rage and his eyes dangerous. ““Now, now,” said Jeff. “Put it down. You really should have kept at least one arm buttoned inside your coat. Put down that driver, man. We can have no exhibi- tions of temper on the course.” Mr. Vance had torn open the envelope and was rapidly running over its contents; he lifted his eyes sternly to the English- man. “Perhaps you have some explana- tion of this,” he said gravely. “He hasn’t,” said Jeff. ‘“‘That’s one reason I brought you way back here out of the reach of curious eyes —so you could dis- cuss this and that. It occurred to me that, in view of various circumstances, you might wish Mr. Minturn’s unmasking to be a private affair, and that the whole mat- ter should be embellished with a certain quantity of circumspection.” “The boy’s right,” said Ralston. “ You’ve got to think of the scandal—the way Abbie’s name has been linked with his.” “You have shown discretion, Mr. McTodd,” said Mr. Vance. “ Rare discre- tion.” He turned to the Englishman. “Sir, the securities have been returned. For reasons which you will appreciate, there can be no prosecution. If you will accompany us to the bank we will wind up this matter, and then ——” “And then,” said Jeff, “‘he’d better be recalled suddenly to his ancestral estates.” “Exactly,” agreed Mr. Vance. (Continued on Page 122)

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Note the cars listed below. If yours is among them, see your dealer . . . insist that he install a Metalcraft The artistic polished aluminum nt or rear com- eater and you will experience the highest degree ” ra ndependent i . niches of mental as well as physical comfort! METALCRAFT HEATER CORP., GRAND RAPIDS, MICH. CANADIAN METALCRAFT CORP., Ltb., WINDSOR, ONT. Subsidiaries of Grand Rapids Meta!craft Corp. Metalcraft Heaters are now available through the following motor car manufacturers and their authorized distributors: Auburn—Buick Caditlac--Chrysler—De Soto—Dodge Durant — Franklin — Graham- Paige —La Salle —Marmon—Packard — Plymouth — Reo METALCRAFT HEATERS THE WORLD'S FINEST MOTOR .:: ~? (Continued from Page 120 “But,” exclaimed Ralston, “I’m busting to know how you got wise to this bird, and where those bonds came from.” “Our curiosity can wait,” said Mr. fance. “Please come with me, all of you.” They walked back to the clubhouse in silence, entered Mr. Vance’s car and drove to the bank. Presently the ci-devant Eric Minturn emerged from its doors and walked by the most direct way to the railroad sta- tion, where he purchased a ticket for the East. He did not wait to pack, because in the back of his mind was a justifiable uneasiness that Mr. Vance might change his mind. “Now,” said Ralston, leaning back in his chair, “come clean, young fellow. Give us the story.” “Mostly luck,” said Jeff, “but some swell guessing. When I first met this Eric Minturr I had an uneasy feeling there was something I should remember about him. There was something wrong with the pic- ture. That was the start of it. Then Jim Bolitho, my club maker, wanted to tell me something that had him all upset, but be- | fore he could tell me he disappedred. My guess is he was hired to disappear because he discovered something wrong. I was be- ginning to have a pretty uneasy feeling. Then this bank trouble came along, and I guess it jarred my memory, because all at once I recalled a picture of Eric Minturn I had seen—and he had but one arm.” “Where did you see a picture of Min- turn?” asked Mr. Vance cufiously. “Tt was over a fireplace,” said Jeff non- committally. “‘Well, when you find a man impersonating someone else and a crime is committed {n the vicinity, you get a sneak- ing suspicion. He wasn’t doing a masquer- ade just for practice.” “ Quite evidently,” said Mr. Ralston. “Then Mr. Vance told me about the affair. It was evident that the bonds must have been taken by someone in the bank if they ever got into the vault. But here was your fake Minturn on the spot. The obvious cofclusion was the bonds never left his possession. Also it was a cold day and he wore a voluminous overcoat, in which he could have concealed a goat, let alone a rabbit. The answer was that the hand is quicker than the eye. There was no other way out of it. Minturn must have shifted envelopes, and Mr. Vance must have filed away the one filled with blank paper.” “By Jove,” exclaimed Ralston, ‘the boy ean reason!” “Or guess,”’ said Jeff. “I had to guess after that, but I banked on guessing right.” “But where did you find the bonds? I can follow you so far, but how did you get ities oh A , December 14,1929 those securities, and without the man’s knowing it?” “It was his disposition. He bullied servants. Now, we must take it, he was a man used to clubs, and who was accustomed to being well served. He would want things done tor him in the correct way. Therefore, when he bawled out our locker boy for opening his locker to get a pair of shoes to clean, I was curious. That’s what locker boys are for. It struck me that if he didn’t want his locker opened, there must be some reason. Now, what more unlikely place to hide stolen bonds than in a golf locker? So I made a bet with myself and asked Mr. Vance to arrange our foursome today. When you were out on the tee I got the master key, opened Minturn’s locker, and there they were as big as life and twice as natural. And that’s that.” There was a moment’s silence. Mr. Ralston spoke first: ‘‘I call that a slick job, Vance. Brains. Um. I’vealways heard that brains were wasted in golf. I’ve got a place for a young man who can use his head.” “No, no, Bill,” said Mr. Vance. “I saw him first.’ Jeff smiled. ‘“‘Thank you, gentlemen,” he said, “‘but I like it outdoors. I’ve picked golf as a profession, and I’d cut up capers if I were nailed to a desk. No, I’ll stay put. But’’—he raised his brows over pleasant eyes—‘I can do with that fifteen thousand. I need a start in the world.” “You've earned it,” said Mr. Vance. He wrote a check and passed it across to Jeff. “We are still indebted to you. Now, may I ask what are you going to do with that money?” “I’m going,” said Jeff, “to see that it doesn’t die for lack of exercise. I’m going to use it to slap the world in the eye. I’m going to tie it to the treadmil] while I play golf. This is going to be the busiest fifteen thousand dollars ever printed.” The gentlemen smiled, and then Mr. Vance asked, “‘But have you no ambition to be more than a golf professional?” Jeff nodded. ‘Yes. I’d like to be an amateur. But I can’t afford it.’’ He arose to go, but stood for a moment in the door. “Golf is my business,” he said, “‘but I’m going to take on business as a recreation. Just reverse matters. If I can’t be an ama- teur golfer I’ll be an amateur business man.” “Very well,” said Mr. Vance, with eyes twinkling. “‘Come and play in the open tournament with us professionals.” “Any where, any time,” said Jeff, “but not for nothing.” Editor's Note—This is the first of a series of sto ries by Mr. Kelland. The second will appear in an early issue. ORAWN BY DONALD WC KEE Willie: ‘‘Shucks! I Thought Maybe You Was Lindbergh!” —— — Ane ADT me a OS Pig IEE ee Eee NORE

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Joe lighted another match for our cigars end breathed fragrant smoke with a sigh of supreme contentment. ‘This is the life of Reilly,” said he, ‘“‘and the moment of all moments in that blest existence. Good din- ner, good wine, coffee like this, good to- bacco and good talk of olden days when all the world was young, lad, and all the boobs were green. And I like the moment tc be in a plece like this, with everybody happy around me. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die—what? For tomorrow we die! Honestly, I love my fellow men; also my fellow women.” His roving glance stopped for an instant on the woman with Daw. ‘“There’s one easy and soothing to the eyesight,” he said, seeing that I had fol- lowed his gaze. ‘‘ Look at the curve of her neck and shoulders! What lines! Beauty! I’m crazy about beautiful things and glad faces—sunshine, if you get me— sunshine and smiles and kindness. I wouldn’t say that to everybody. Some folks think I’m hard-boiled. That gives me a laugh.” “T know,” I told him. “You're a sweet and simple soul, cruelly misunderstood. Charity to all, malice to none. ‘When the enterprising burglar’s not a-burgling, he ioves to hear the little brook a-gurgling and to listen to the merry village chimes.’” He disregarded the innuendo. “That takes me back too,” he said, and his smile was at once reminiscent and indulgent. “Why don’t they give us things like that now—good, clean, sparkling fun? I give you my word there isn’t what I'd call a good, clean show in town tonight. I was thinking of that a while ago— whether we'd look in on one. But it’s all straight smut or psychology with a smutty angle—trian- gle, mostly—and gloom. You pays your six bucks and takes your choice. Remem- ber the old Bijou? They'd call it hokum now, the good old stuff they gave us. There were black-hearted villains in the pieces, but they didn’t pretend to be anything else, and they always got it in the neck in the last act, when virtue was rewarded. There wasn’t any insinuation that we were all of us rotten. And we ate it up, and we went away better men. Isn't that so? You don’t believe it. You don't believe even that I’m kind-hearted, judging from that crack you made. Well, I'll give you an in- stance.” I really did believe he was kind-hearted. I was sure he was--pretty sure. Looking at him, listening to him, it was almost impossi- ble to doubt him. Shrewd, of course, and not very moral or law-abiding, but how could he have any heart but one of gold at least as pure as the filling in his front teeth? “We'll go back to the good old days,” said Joe. He twisted his chair sideways for the better convenience of crossing his legs. “About the time you knew me. They weren't what you might call palmy days for me, from a professional point of view. Pik- ing days, you might say, although once in a while there was a streak of fat in the lean. I wasn’t much more than a dip, although I was edging into the con racket—you never knew that. I hid my shame. If any- body had called me a bunko steerer I'd have felt flattered. I kidded myself that I was; but to be perfectly honest, I was noth- ing much more than a dip.” Joe paused to look reflectively at his hands and wiggled his slender fingers. “And there’s no jack to speak of in that,” he went on. “‘You’d be surprised. Unless you had the concession to roll the drunks in a respectable saloon — joints where affluence got pickled you had to take big chances for slim pickings, and at that the split went three or four ways. In the street cars the run would assay about a dollar-twenty to the leather; the theater lobbies were lousy with dicks—or you thought they were and a couple of tens was a bonanza; soap- box mobs— well, they weren’t worth trying unless you got a flash at a roll beforehand. I’ve nipped a woman’s shopping bag in a THE SATURDAY EVENING POST AN EVENING AT LEON’S (Continued from Page 15) store elevator that must have cost forty or fifty dollars, and had to throw it away after I'd emptied it of a library card, a postage stamp without any mucilage, a sample of dress goods, a telephone slug, a two-dollar biil and three nickels, a page ad from the morning paper, a handkerchief stained with rouge and a powder rag and a mother-of- pearl card case. Yes, the time you sprung me I was guilty as hell, but I'd slipped the leather to Lefty Sarkins and he made his get-away. They didn’t have a thing on me, but they’d have framed me just the same if you hadn’t kindly testified in my behalf. The beginning of a beautiful friendship what?” I hadn’t the heart to qualify that. Hu- man relations occasionally take on beauti- ful colors in their recession. Perhaps Joe and I had been warm friends in the bygone years. I had been under the impression that he was just one of the shady, but amus- ing acquaintances that a young newspaper reporter is likely to pick up—rather more interesting than most, perhaps. However, the “beautiful friendship” could stand. “IT was working with Lefty in our first tentative experiments on the credulous and trustful,” Joe continued. ‘‘One fine morn- ing we were hanging around the waiting room in the old Union Depot, and Lefty says to me ‘Pipe that rube,’ and ankled off to brace him. Well, there wasn’t any doubt that Lefty was right. I don’t mean to say that this youthful yokel had hayseed in his hair or that he was carrying a carpetbag and wearing a duster; but he was sun- burned and freckled, and his grip and his black clothes were new.” It was a rather amusing story as Joe told it, with a wealth of detail over which I skim lightly. Supplied by his confederate with certain basic information concerning the sucker or prospect, Joe accosted the young yap in the guise of an old friend of his fa- ther’s and a former resident of his native village. I could easily imagine the warmth of Joe’s greeting, his genial, candid smile, his hearty back slap. And they were effec- tive—too effective, in as much as the poor simp fell so easily that it was like taking candy from a kid. It also developed that his father — Joe’s old-time friend— had been dead for five years and that his mother— silver-haired —had very recently died, leav- ing her boy the painful savings of a life of hard work and self-sacrifice. I observed that Joe’s eyes moistened at the very recol- lection of the pathetic circumstance. Still, in spite of the struggle that rent his kindly soul, Joe had regretfully recognized the fact that business was business, and there was nearly two hundred dollars in currency safely pinned in the inside pocket of the hick’s coat. Two hundred dollars was im- portant money in those days. So Joe tolled the come-on along toward the den where he proposed to relieve him of that comfortable little wad, but Providence intervened and jammed them into the thick of a mob of strikers and sympathizers who were hurling bricks at some scab teamsters. The cops had taken a hand, and it was sauve qui peut,and when Joe looked around for his charge, there was no sign or trace of his intended victim. Two hundred bucks a total loss! “Wait!” said Joe, cutting short my com- miserations. “‘ The worst is yet to come. I had given him up and turned two corners on my way to the rendezvous at Jerry's, telling myself at every step that I was glad of it, or else wondering what Lefty would say when I blew in without our communal property, when I heard a gasping behind me and somebody grabbed my arm, crying joyfully, ‘I was afraid I’d lost you.’”’ It was the rube, of course — panting from the exertion of running with a heavy va- lise, but with his trustful face shining with delight. He had found his friend the one man whom he knew in this big, heartless metropolis—the kind gentleman who had known his father! “T looked at him long and earnestly, thinking of that dear old white-haired mother of his and taking note of the crape on his hatband,” said Joe. “I took him by the arm. I turned him around, put him on a rattler bound for Saugatuck Avenue, got on after him, and in twenty minutes I was yanking the doorbell of the Rev. Josiah Edwards, to whom my young friend had been consigned. “* Reverend sir,’ I says to His Sideboards, ‘this, as you see, is Dickie Pitts of Turner- ville. He is a good boy and my friend, but he needs looking after and instructing in the ways of the wicked city. You ought to have met him at the train.’ “*Who are you?’ he asked in a brisk, snappy manner and giving me the up-and- down with sharp gray eyes through highly polished spectacles. “*T’'m a dismal, abysmal failure and a false alarm,’ I confessed humbly. ‘I'm God's noblest work —an honest man — Hon- est John with the greasy fingers that noth- ing will stick to. Dickie here has been one too many for me.’ “He and Dickie tried to get me to stay, but I didn’t dare trust myself. I quit them cold and went away to hide my hot blushes. ! really did feel ashamed then, although now I glory in my noble conduct. I hold it’s no disgrace to have a feeling heart.” “Outside of business hours,”’ I suggested, and the white and gold of his teeth flashed at me appreciatively. “The trouble is my business hours seem to be all hours now.” grimaced ruefuily. “‘I never settle down to forget my cares and enjoy myself but some- thing or another breaks —like tonight — and takes the joy out of life. Well, some of these days I’m going to retire to a 98 per cent sunny clime, a nice little villa overlooking sunlit blue seas, rose arbors and palms wav- ing in the breezes, put all this be’ind me, and end my days in peace.” “The Riviera?” I asked. “N-no,” he answered. “I like it there, but after all, I’m an American, and Flor- ida ” He broke off, and I saw that Daw was helping the dark-eyed lady with her wrap. As the two passed us on their way out, Daw bowed to Joe. I thought there was something derisive in the man's grin. As for Joe, he fairly beamed, and then, as if by a sudden impulse, got up and overtook the two at the doorway. I saw him bow to the lady, who seemed to be do- ing her best to be enchanting, and succeed- ing fairly well. Something that Joe said made them laugh quite heartily. Then, after a moment or two, bows were again ex- changed and Joe came back to me, i ppar- ently well pleased with himself. “Is she charming as she looks, Joe?” I asked. “‘Whoisshe? I'm rather curious to know.” Joe’s blue eyes twinkled at me mis- chievously. ‘“‘Ye-ah?"’ he drawled. “‘ Well, she’s as charming as she looks, and I'm go- ing to give myself the pleasure of calling on her tomorrow. Whois she?"’ He consulted a handsome watch. ‘ We-ell, I won't say with absolute certainty, and she doesn't know it herself yet. Daw introduced me to Mrs. Da Costa, but I think —I think that by this time she’s the Widow Gooch.” Looking through my paper the next morning, I found the following item of news in an inconspicuous corner preceding the classified advertisements: The bullet-riddled body of a man, later iden tified as Walter E. Silky Gooch, a racketeer, said to be associated with the notorious Jerwir Franchio gang, was discovered at an early hour this morning near the apartment house at 1611 Bruce Court, in which he resided He had apparently been the target of a murderous fusil lade from sawed-off shotguns from an automo bile and, in the opinion of Police Surgeon Hislop, life had been extinct for some hours There are, as yet, no clews to the assassins Evidently my warm-hearted friend, Smil- ing Joe, had not been joking. 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——_—_—— THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 127 yo =, ge “We Will Make ‘Rzwyzanski Products’ a Household Word" | Y- Bit, ‘Who the Deuce are You?" “‘Graham McNamee" Little Willie: ‘‘Say, Pop, Why Can’t I Wear Short Pants?"’ The Maiden: ‘‘You Don't Mind, Do You? Father: ‘‘You're Too Young, My Boy—Wait Till You Grow Up!"' Tell Save Me Having to Describe it to Them Later'’

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But wait a minute. I almost forgot the very important and significant prelude to this story. It is this: I went into the state of Vermont to burglarize banks. Twenty- four hours after my arrival in the state I was arrested. Forty-eight hours after my arrest I was indicted. Twenty-four hours after my indictment I was tried, convicted, sentenced and on my way to prison. Those Vermonters didn't waste any time with me. Their philosophy was: Here he comes; there he goes. Bing, bam, boom! This here-he-comes-and-there-he-goes business gave me pause. I wasn’t used to such treatment. Such celerity didn’t ap- peal to my burglarious heart, and when I got to the state prison I was loaded for bear. I hadn't been in the joint five minutes before I knew that it was just a little bit different from the rest of the prisons in which I had tarried for a while. This reali- zation was born when I met the warden, Ed Harpin. He was a big fellow, standing more than six feet and weighing around two hundred pounds. He didn’t shake hands with me when I entered his office with my guards, and neither did he smile at me, as some other wardens had done. And yet he wasn’t rough or discourteous. He was simply one of those plain, right-to- the-point, matter-of-fact fellows of few words and very much action. When the guards had taken the irons off, Mr. Harpin took me into his office for a chat. I have never forgotten that chat or the effect of it. Discipline Without Luxuries “Well, young man,” he began, “you know why you have been sent here, don’t you?” Immediately I began to tell him that I was innocent. He interrupted me. “I’m not interested in that,” he said. “I've been here fifteen years and I have yet to run across a guilty man. They’re all innocent. You'll have lots of company if you're innocent.” ““He’s a tough gazabo,”’ I thought. *Now,” he resumed, “let’s get down to business. You know why you have been sent here, don’t you?” I acknowledged my understanding. “You've got seven years to serve,” he said, ‘and it’s up to you what sort of seven years they shall be. You and I will be good friends so long as you behave yourself, so long as you are a good prisoner. Now’’— he paused and raised his eyes as if he were trying to read something on the ceiling “‘what makes a good prisoner? First of all, a good prisoner is a good worker—a very good worker. A good prisoner does his task every day in the week. He is obedient and respectful to the keepers. He never breaks the rules. He keeps his cell nice and tidy. He doesn't pretend that he’s sick when he’s well, just to get out of doing a day’s work. Simple?” “Yeh,” I grunted, as though all this guff about good prisoners irritated me. ““Yeh?"’ he came back at me as he leaned over the desk and looked me bang in the eyes “Yeh,” I grunted again. “Yeh?” there was a challenging inflec- tion in his voice. “You mean, ‘Yes, sir,’ don’t you? Everybody in this prison says, ‘Yes, sir’ and ‘No, sir.’” “ What kind of a joint is this, anyway?” I thought. ‘And don’t forget that ‘Yes, sir’ and ‘No, sir’ while you're here. You must learn how to be courteous.” I was disposed to rebel at all this yes-sir and no-sir stuff, but there was something about Warden Harpin that made me hesi- tate. But the worst was yet to come. “ The rules of this prison forbid smoking,” he continued. ‘‘Newspapers are not al- lowed in the prison. Talking is prohibited at all times.”” He emphasized “all times.” “This is the limit,”” I mused. “Seven years in this joint will drive me bugs.” THE SATURDAY EVENING POST YOUR ENEMY, THE CROOK (Continued from Page 52 ‘Most prisons,” he went on, “allow their inmates to wear their own underwear and shoes. Here you must wear prison under- wear and brogans. We let you write one letter a month and receive one visit a month, provided you behave yourself. If you don’t behave yourself, you go to the dungeon. It all depends on you whether you remain in the dungeon a day or a month. I never take a man out of the dungeon until he asks me to take him out. Of course, we feed you while in the dun- geon. We give you bread and water once a day.” It seemed to me that all this guff called for a wise crack. “This is a real nice place, warden,” I said. “It’s a prison,” he snapped—‘“‘one that you won't forget. We try to reform men here. Of course we don’t reform all of them, but,”’ he smiled for the first time and added, “‘we straighten them out now and then.” The routine: The get-up bell rang at 6:30. Breakfast was served at seven. At 7:30 we were at work. At twelve we had lunch in our cells. At 12:30 we returned to the shops, where we labored until 5:30. Supper was served at six. At 9:30 the lights-out bell rang and we retired. There were no ball games, no moving pictures, no band concerts, no exercise periods in the yard. The only time we saw the yard was when we were on our way to and from the shops. There was no opportunity to stage riots or escapes. There was no opportunity to reminisce with underworld plug-uglies. We toed the mark and walked the chalk line from one week’s end to the other. There was plenty of time to think. This routine made one think very seriously about the futility of crooking. Warden Harpin was not a brutal man. He was a rigid disciplinarian and a hard taskmaster, but he was also square and human. He never held a grudge against a convict. You always knew where you stood with him. Too Much Glad Hand Ed Harpin convinced me that I was a brainless chump. But he was the best friend I’ve ever had. When I became intellectually curious about life and began to open books, it was he who helped and encouraged me. When I expressed an ambition to gostraight, it was he who urged me on. And it was he who persuaded the governor to parole me after I had served three years of my seven- year term. I owe Ed Harpin and the Vermonters a debt of gratitude, even though I was kan- garooed for a crime I didn’t commit. The kangarooing was a godsend, because that stretch in the efficiently managed bastile at Windsor converted me into a square shooter. If I hadn’t landed in the Vermont stir I might still be a fancy thinker. Now compare the routine of the Vermont prison with that of some other prisons in this country today. When you step into the warden’s office he greets you cordially. There is a make-yourself-at-home atmos- phere prevalent. The president of the pris- oners’ welfare league buttonholes you and buzzes you about the warden, the prison and the keepers. Everything appears to be hunky-dory. The league, the president says, runs the prison. The prisoners are their own bosses. Harmony, law and order, is its slogan. It teaches the cons the funda- mentals of self-government, so that when they go out into the world they will mend their ways. Convicts’ Clubhouses This idea was born in the brain of some- one who believed that porch climbers, burg- lars, cracksmen, dips and gunmen could be redeemed with a kiss and akind word. Some prison officials will tell you that the mutual- welfare league is O. K. because it makes their jobs easier. The cons will tell you it’s the goods, because it makes prison life easier. The get-up bell in the playhouses man- aged by the mutual-welfare league rings at seven o'clock. At 7:30 the boys have breakfast. At eight they go to the shops. Lunch is served at twelve. After lunch the boys roam the yard until they return to the shop, at one, where they labor until 5:30, when dinner is served. After supper the count is taken. Then the boys have the privilege of the corridors until locking-up time, where they may play cards, chess, checkers or listen to a band concert by the prison band. There are newspapers, maga- zines, cigarettes, cigars, fruits and groceries of all kinds, if you have the price. There are moving-picture shows. Now and then well-known artists visit the prison to en- tertain them. On Saturday afternoons and Sundays ‘they play baseball and handball. If you think that a term in a prison of this sort will make an underworld buzzard re- flect and repent, you’d better wake up. Your prisons should be taken out of poli- tics immediately. Good hand-shaking vote getters don’t always make good wardens. A prison warden should be a man of the highest character. He should be strong, resolute, just and, above all, intelligent; the sort of man who can command the respect of prisoners. Convicts never respect the wise-cracking, tobacco-chewing, politician type of warden. They think a fellow who The Coast of Kauai, Hawaiian Isiands December 14,192) talks their language and chews their to- bacco is not such a big shot. They know a real fellow when they meet one. A wise warden will have none of that do-good-for-evil stuff in his make-up, and neither will he be brutal. He will view every prisoner as an individual in need of disci- _pline. He will understand that if the prisoner isn’t disciplined he will always be a prisoner. The wise warden will know that singing jail birds never think; there- fore he discourages singing and encourages thinking by the simple process of substitut- ing punishment for entertainment. He will have no mutual-welfare league in his prison, no baseball games, moving pictures, band concerts, or special privileges for rich bur- glars. There can be no class distinctions in a well-regulated prison. All convicts will look alike to the wise warden. Further still, the wise warden will have no radios, cards, dice, newspapers, cigars or cigaret,es. These things are luxuries. The efficient; warden dispenses with them be- cause he believes that a prison with luxuries is not a very good prison. He will not per- mit convicts to wear their own shoes, under- wear, socks, suspenders, neckties. He will offer no rewards for good behavior. In his opinion, good behavior is compulsory. In a word, the wise warden strives to make the prison experience of his charges an unfor- gettable one, because he knows that the prisoner who can forget his prison experi- ence hasn’t been disciplined and will go right out into the world and stage another crime. A wise prison warden will convert many of your social liabilities into assets. A Leaky Parole System The parole system now in vogue in your prisons, state and Federal, is a big joke. It has been a big joke to the crooks for a good many years. Ask your detectives what they think of the parole system. They run themselves bow-legged trying to catch a crook and put him away for a term of years, and then, long before the term is up, they see the crook walking the streets. He was paroled. **Now, what’s the use of us coppers catch- ing these grifters, if the parole boards are going to turn them out?” a New York City central-office man said to me recently. Before I tell you how the crooks beat the parole system and how to stop them from beating it let me explain the mechanics of the system. John Brown is committed to the Government prison at Atlanta for ten years. If John behaves himself he is eligible for parole after he has served one-third of his term, provided he can get some repu- tabie person to guarantee him employment and will promise to abstain from the use of intoxicating liquors and not frequent places where such beverages ar2 sold. Further, he must promise that he will not associate with crooks and that he will conduct himself in a manner befitting a law-abiding citizen. Then he must promise to make a monthly report to the parole officers at the prison. So long as John reports that he’s living up to the terms of his parole, the officials think everything is O. K. with John. Well, it happens on occasion that everything’s all wrong with John, and yet the parole offi- cials don’t know it. There’s a hole in the parole system which ought to be plugged up. I have an idea for a parole system that the fancy thinkers couldn’t beat. When the reputable person volunteers to give the prisoner employment, the police should be solicited for a report on his reputation and character. This simple precautionary meas- ure obviates the possibility of a frame-up by the prisoner’s friends. Even after the police pronounced the guarantor O. K., the prisoner should not be turned over to him unless he, too, promises to make a monthly report on the conduct of his charge. Fur- ther still, the prisoner himself should be (Continued on Page 134) — Eo

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 129 SS Ee - ~~ HE knowledge, equipment and financial resources necessary to build a good automobile are neither remarkable nor rare. a I Many different manufacturers possess them in varying degree. . . . . . ww But the good will of the public and of dealers demands more than a meritorious product, if it is to thrive permanently. Since good will is an intangible quality, it re- Continued on the four following pages DURAN YI A G O

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130 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14,1929 quires more than forges and foundries, more than | motors and money, to create and foster it. It is not of Se AT Pate - —.~ the head and hand of men, but of the heart. And it eS ee is the final measure of the success of every commercial enterprise. Pe eae toe Cae a Increased good will for Durant products was assured by the character of the men who control Durant’s engineering, manufacturing, merchandising and financial activities. . ...... { A. I. PHILP, Chairman of the Board F. J. HAYNES, President J. A. NICHOLS, JR.. Secy.-Treas. Durant Motors, Ine. Durant Motors, Inc. Durant Motors, Inc. DURANT A

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ee THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 131 Collectively, these men achieved one of the most stu- pendous successes in modern automotive history. And they brought to bear in Durant management a wealth of experience and ability which compared favorably with that of any executive group in Ameriean business. The aggressive application of these time-tested ideals of integrity and fair dealing, is the most substantial assurance of Durant’s continued stability, progress i TI ns i ic ae en cae R. A. VAIL, Vice President NORMAN DE VAUX, President R. D. KERBY,, President Durant Motors, Ine. Durant Motor Company of California Durant Motors of Canada, Limited DURANT A G O A K

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132 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14, 1929 ‘ ed l= 2 " ~4janj ey — — LANSING, MICH. — - ~~ ri OAKLAND, CALIF. Nevertheless, Durant manufacturing facilities are among the most modern and extensive in the industry. The plants illustrated here provide a total floor space of one hundred and fifteen acres. With the comple- tion of important additions to the Lansing properties DURANT A G O

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SE I, ag at

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 133 + + b+ oho > SYRACUSE, N.Y, ee eeesecss a a Durant’s capacity for the economical production of high orade passenger cars and commercial vehicles has been substantially increased. Durant executives are using these splendid assets in building permanent dealer prosperity and increasing public good will.

DURRANI A G oO

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(Centinued from Page 128) ‘ompelled to make a monthly report to the hief of police of the town in which he is living. Under this plan you have a double check on the prisoner, and if he violates his parole, you know it immediately. Under the plan now in effect, you don't learn of the violation, in some cases, until the pris- oner has been arrested again for another crime. No prisoner should be paroled until the police have been notified. No parole system can possibly be a success without the aid of the police. You owe it to your police to advise them when a criminal’s paroled, so that they can keep him under surveijlance until he demonstrates beyond question that he has reformed. The police will help him if he is sincere. After you have cleaned up your prisons and manned them with competent officials and plugged up all the holes in your parole system, turn to your courts. There are holes in your court procedure which ought to be plugged up immediately. The method of dealing with first offenders and hardened offenders is all wrong. For example: You say a fourth offender is a habitual criminal and you imprison him for life. But are you aware of the fact that before you discover he is a habitual crim- inal it has cost you from nine thousand dollars to twelve thousand dollars to catch him, try him, convict and imprison him, to say nothing of the loot that he obtained during his career or the citizens he may have killed or injured? That procedure sounds like poor business to me. Now, why in the name of common sense should you wait until a crook has obtained a record of four convictions before you isolate him for life? And why do you per- mit a crook to acquire a record of four con- victions? What was he doing between convictions? Where was he? Does any- body know? No, nobody knows what he was doing between convictions and nobody knows where he was, where he lived or any- thing else about him. What a system! Catch Your Criminal Young Speaking as a gentleman who knows crooks, I say to you that every crook that ever packed a gat or carried a jimmy gave definite and positive evidence of his deter- mination to live by his wits all his life long, before he ever acquired a record of four convictions. Why, bless your heart, I know crooks, safe crackers, bank burglars and holdup men who have been grifting for twenty years and have only two convictions charged against them. I know a few fifteen or twenty—who have been on the beat for twenty years or more who have only one conviction to their credit. Ac- cording to your definition of a habitual THE SATURDAY criminal, these boys are a lot of harmless bums. First-rate crooks seldom go before the bar of justice four times. Gerald Chap- man and the writer were the exceptions. In support of my contention that every crook gives definite and positive evidence of being a habitual criminal long before he acquires a record of four convictions, I cite you the case of Gerald Chapman: Chapman was in the House of Refuge at the age of twelve. Before he was seventeen he was in the Elmira Reformatory. He was in Sing Sing doing a three-year stretch for breaking and entering when he was twenty. Then he went to Auburn with a ten-specker for burglary. After Auburn, he went to Atlanta with a twenty-five-year term for a two-million-dollar mail robbery in New York City. He escaped from Atlanta about a year after his arrival there. About four- teen months after his escape he was arrested for killing a policeman at New Britain, Connecticut, and subsequently was exe- cuted at the Wethersfield prison. Surely nobody will doubt that Chapman gave def- finite and positive evidence of his deter- mination to live by his wits all his life long, before he acquired a record of four convictions. Then why was a desperado like Chapman permitted to carry on for twenty-five years? But Chapman couldn’t have carried on for twenty-five years in a society whose protective system functioned efficiently. In such a society his career would have been halted at the door of the reform school. In a wise society Chapman never would have been given a determinate sentence. First of all, he would have been committed to the reform school for a term of from one year to life. Vocational-training experts would have taught him a trade. There would have been no release for him until he had mas- tered the trade and exhibited a predilection for industry. And even then his release would have been conditional. He would have to make good. The life term would have hung over him until he had made good. The state would have provided em- ployment for him after he had left the in- stitution. The police would: have been notified of his release. The police would have made a monthly report on him. His employers would have made a monthly report on him. Now, if Chapman went back to crime after society had done its best to put him on his feet—went back with the knowledge that he would be imprisoned for life when apprehended— why, then he dem- onstrated beyond all question that he was a confirmed criminal and entitled to no further consideration from society. Again I ask: Why give any criminal, young or old, first offender or hardened of- fender, a specific term of years when you know that he will! go right back to the old game after his release? It’s no problem wontons That Old-Fashioned Red Schoothouse: Then —— EVENING POST to differentiate between the professional criminal and the fellow who gets off the beaten trail once in his life. Who are the professional criminals? They are the birds engaged in rackets which require skill and training—the bank burglar, the safe cracker, the confidence man, the house bur- glar, and the stick-up man. Be assured that a first offender is rarely in any of these rackets. When the crook with the determinate term is released, please bear in mind that there are no strings attached to him. The police do not know that he has been re- leased. The crook is free to go and come as he chooses. Every time you release a crook under such conditions, you practically say to him: Well, boy, you have expiated your crime, so we’re through with you until you commit another one. Go commit another one. And under this hit-and-miss method of doing business you expect ycur police to cut down crime waves. It can’t be done. Ten million policemen couldn’t do it. Stop Babying First Offenders The advantages of the from-one-year-to- life parole plan over the determinate system now in vogue are, first, you always have the crook under surveillance. The police know when he’s to be released and where he is going to live and for whom he’s going to work. If he slips, the police know it im- mediately, and a country-wide broadcast, via radio, is made to other police depart- ments. His picture and finger prints are circulated. He never gets any rest. He’s a hunted man when he breaks that parole. And when he is caught again, back to prison he goes for the rest of his life. Be- lieve me, there wouldn’t be so many crooks if the from-one-year-to-life parole plan were in effect! The next advantage of this plan over the determinate-term system is that it elimi- nates the cost of subsequent trials. You simply recommit the fancy thinker. Every time you arrest, try and imprison him, it costs you from three thousand dollars to forty-five hundred dollars. You will save considerable money under the life-term parole plan In conclusion, I direct your attention to the probation system for juvenile offenders. Its sponsors say it saves many youngsters from criminal careers. Maybe it does. But it also fails to save many youngsters from criminal careers. I dare say it fails to save more than it saves. A recent report of the New York State Commission of Correction would seem to indicate that it’s not such a roaring success. This report shows that between May 1 and May 21, 1929, one hundred and twenty- nine young criminals, ranging in ages from sixteen to twenty-one, were confined in the December 14, 1929 Raymond Street Jail, Brooklyn. Some of them had been sentenced to long terms in state prison, while others were awaiting trial for serious offenses. In 1928, the report continues, 43'4 per cent of all persons called for trial in the courts of Manhattan were young men be- tween the ages of sixteen and twenty-one. The records of the Kings County Jail for 1926 show that there were twenty-seven hundred young men confined therein for various offenses. In 1927 the count rose to three thousand. In 1928 it jumped to thirty- one hundred. I tell you, Mr. Citizen, that the crime situation in this country is no joke when you can find thirty-one hundred young men between the ages of sixteen and twenty-one arrested in one city for a multi- tude of offenses ranging from petty larceny to murder. Crime must be a pretty attrac- tive proposition to the young fellows of today. And yet the sentimentalists say that the youngsters shouldn’t be punished. Well, all I, an ex-crook, can say is this: If society persists in babying these young men as it has been doing for the past twenty years, why, then God help society! Some day in the not very distant future society will regret its actions. You must stop babying first offenders if you want to reduce crime in this country. Put all of them under the life-term parole plan and keep them under it until they have been convinced that crime is poor business. My reply to the softies’ plea that first offenders shouldn’t be treated so harshly is that all notorious crooks were first of- fenders once. The smiling, round-faced juvenile of the reform school is the killer and bandit of tomorrow. He never responds to a kiss, but he will respond to the iron. I know them. My reply to the time-honored fallacy that punishment does not deter is: Show me a prison or a reform school in the United States wherein convicts are pun- ished. Every crook, young or old, is a potential murderer. He views every law-abiding citizen as his enemy. He never gives you a break. If you corner him, he kills you. Why be so solicitous about such a character? There is only one way to stop him. Get him when he’s young, put him in prison and keep him there until he repents. De- terminate periods of imprisonment in play- houses have failed to make him repent, but life terms in real prisons may make him get on his knees. Swift, sure and merciless justice is a pow- erful deterrent, the opinions of the softies to the contrary notwithstanding. I speak as one who has been led back to the straight and narrow by the beneficent influence of the blind goddess. Lo SS I

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a — ae f b2 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 135 BEAUTIFUL HOMES OF Woop ARE GUARANTEED HOMES . . . . . All the desirable qualities of the well-built home of wood | | | e | may now be realized to the fullest degree | | i a A a li tO a Ha with the inimitable Pausing before this charming home, one is im pre ssed aneu beauty, the mth, of Seepage from a natural rather than a synthetic product, hospitable u the well-built house of wood hn Now a new development in_ the lumber industry has made possible He vets pays for exactly what he orc ’ ‘Ts and the home of wood is warm and gquaranteed homes of wood Building now or later, vou'll find it friendly, comfortable, livable. For The National Lumber Manufa helpful to talk with your dealer about wood, in any form, preserves a sug- turers Association guarantees that ~Tree-Mark” lumber, and we will gestion of aliveness. It breathes the every piece of lumber manufactured ™ nd you a further account of it. Let forest rather than the factory. It is}, jt, members and bearing its Us also send you a copy of “ For Home typically American. “an, Mask * te of the quality indi- Lovers,” a book of lovely homes, with Wood is an adaptable medium. It cated thereon by the official marks practical ideas and suggestions for permits full expression of the home- of the expert grader is carefully your new home. This bool Tree The “Tvee-Mask™ damped on « pices of owner's dreams, the architect's plans manufactured * Aue rican Standard Just mail the coupon lumber is your guarantee that the quality It is the vogue always. Lumber from America’s Best Mills NATIONAL LUMBER indicated thereon by the marks of the Wood is a practical material. The Choosing “* Tree-Mark”™ lumber, the MANUFACTURERS ASSOCIAT ION expert grader is correct. homeof wood--luxuriously beautiful home-builder knows that every foot Washing D. ¢ costs less to build, is less expensive to of lumber that goes into his home is Cf New 1 ' ' anapol ° . ° ° . - ‘ M h i *, * : maintain and heat. It is readily altered. exactly according to specification New © ; ° . EIGHTEEN great associations afhliated dS gs arolina Pine fpnoctation Norfolk *+Weat ¢ st ' \ M 4 » National Association maintain a th Carolina Pine Seat Was a Fir ko 7 eet a i stion an i = *tNorthern Hemlock & Hardwood Manu West Coast He k, Western Red Ced K ( s ‘ 1 é and s ce facturers Association, Oshkosh, Wis *tMaple Flooring Ma actur A rganizations. Guaranteed grade marked Hemlock, Maple Birch and Northern tion, Chi a . it Cc end ( P Li Tree-Mark" lumber is available in all Hardwoods *Oak i mag F a. , , these species: *tNorthern Pine Manufacturers Association the United St P I Minneapolis, Minr White Pine rway National American V . I ‘ \ | California Redwood Association, San Fran Pine lation. New © NY ‘7 a cisco, Calif Redwood *+Southern Cypress Manufacturer Associa National A ati f Woods Box M / ‘ om ; la —_ aan A tCalifornia White & Sugar Pine Manufa Tat \ Jacksonvill F . and Brinios ago, | ; — turers Association, San Francisco, Calif Gaeat . _ ae pol a ‘ California Pines, White Fir *tSouthern Pine Association, New Orlean Man er, B¢ 4 > La.—Long Leaf and Short Leaf Southern Britis e Aas "€ tHardwood Manufacturers Institute, Mer Yellow Pine Va = @. ¢ phis, Tenn.--Oak, Gum. Tennessee ro *tWestern Pine Manufacturers Associatior America WW 1 Preserver \ matic Red Cedar, Southern and Appala Portland, Ore Pondos Pine Idah« Chicago. I > ; Bureau, Seattle, WV OOKIC chian Hardwoods White Pine, Larch Red Cedar *Standard lumber bearing this Association's grade mark available in these species tLumber shipments protected by Manufacturer's Certificate of Car Contents availab)

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14, 1929 ~~ en rg MA K E WATCH E S eS 8.8 8 EO 2-4 Wadsworth cases are sold to the makers and importers of good watch movements only. Therefore, one way to be sure of getting a good watch is to look for , | the name Wadsworth in the case. —_ r,s pore trated ne watches with movements by wal known maker and cases by Wadsworth. Other Wadsworth models will appear in succeeding advertisements THE WADSWORTH WATCH CASE COMPANY, Dayton, Ky., Opposite Cincinnati, Ohio Case makers for the leading watch movements

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Cr — ee CE. en erm 9 We observed Charles Major leisurely at work in the old Shelbyville office, resur- recting in primary colors a little of the pageantry of the old Tudor days. But now what do we have? A few miles away, a statesman examining for years every docu- ment throwing light on a great Supreme Court Justice and making him live for the women’s clubs. Carl Sandburg hewing out of the dusty accumulated lumber of the past a lifelike and still heroic Lincoln. Will Beebe lying on his back in the forests of Guiana, diving in tropical seas and en- trancing us with the maneuvers of armies of tiny ants or the evolutions of trigger fish. De Kruif pegging away in a seemir-zgly hope- less obscurity and living to see the result of his eight years of labor, The Microbe Hunt- ers, bound in bright covers and scught by thousands in the circulating libraries. Mon- sieur Hémon living with the primitive French in the North, buried in those woods and, before he is killed by that railway train, reaping rich royalties on that ex- quisite spiritual study, Maria Chapdelaine. H. N. Williamson watching the sand and the soil of Devon, studying lovingly each manifestation of animal and bird life, each aspect of the human, and weaving his years of findings into a tale of Nature and the human soul all so beautifully blended that it is taken to the hearts of thousends. Just a Scratch The American reading public has, with authors and publishers, found out that it likes truth, as with its mechanical ingenuity and inventiveness, its business efficiency, it should have discovered long ago. It could not fall for the glib and the spurious forever, though still it may, in a frivolous off-hour, dive for Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, and clever lightness still has and will al- ways have its place. Even where we do not demand material or concrete facts, we have discovered in ourselves an unsus- pected hunger for spiritual truth, though self-consciously we'd hate to call it that. Otherwise why should we buy a book Giants of the Earth—written first in Nor- wegian—by a Norwegian professor in a THE SATURDAY EVENING POST THIS GAME OF AUTHORS Continued from Page 66) far-off Minnesota town, and living on a meager fresh-water-college salary while he worked? But he wrote down truth. So did Galsworthy in The Forsyte Saga, Sedgwick in The Old Countess and The Little French Girl, Sheila Kaye-Smith in Joanna Godden, Ibanez in The Cabin, Wharton in Ethan Frome and The House of Mirth. Each de- picted a region, a people, métier or class with fidelity or truth. Possibly some of us who are writers have discovered, too, a very useful and eternal fact—that matter means as much as man- ner, not more, for the two are inextricably entwined as cause and effect—also that while you can never write down to people, not even to children, you can write, so to speak, face to face. Good style is a by-product, the clearest and most forthright way of telling what you have totell. One attains the best style when he is functioning perfectly, most closely fit- ting thought and word. But to return to the bookstores and pub- lishing offices, from which we have wan- dered too long—have they kept pace with the advance in taste? Certainly they have, in prosperity. The old daybook is gone, and most of the dust and the bins, except in the purely secondhand stores. The use of carbon paper is now understood, and the perforated statement— Return this stub; your check will serve as receipt. And in place of the old fixtures you find good oak, shaded lamps in nooks in restful interiors. And there are three bookstores where one grew before, and ten lending libraries. Even the tobacconists have shelves of Pollyanna close by their panetelas, books of wit and humor cheek by jow! with their humidors. And the novel that, when we began on the first page, sold for a dollar- eight, now brings two dollars, and some- times a half dollar to boot; while the octavo that could have been crowded into a duo- decimo sells at four, five and six. Not that these prices are exorbitant, at least under the system that now prevails. The wages of linotypers and binders have soared with costs of living. The electro- type plate that at the beginning of the cen- tury cost a dollar or only three-quarters, now costs two or more, including composi- tion. Where a few hundred dollars would have seen a novel modestly launched, it now takes from fourteen hundred to two thou- sand, with proper charges for plates, ce- signs, binding stamps, wrappers, binding, advertising, royalty and overhead. And since the average novel, and many a one well-reviewed, sells not more than fifteen hundred copies, much fiction is published ataloss. It is the sweepstakes winner that pays for the also-rans. And out of ten thousand horses entered now each year, there cannot be many winners. Some stables go without a single one in a lean year. But prices will take care of them- selves. Despite the gain in recent years in sales and types, the surface has hardly yet been scratched. There are countless mil- lions who never read a book outside of school, and 97 per cent of our population never buy any books at all. How much of life they miss! A Hard Choice Recently the book world has been set agog by the newly tried jury system of se- lecting books. We mean the system of pay- ing five men of experience to choose books for paying subscribers. And everybody has been set agog-—so agog, in fact, that the scheme and the selections are the subjects of conversations on the golf links and at the afternoon bridge. One of the bitterest arguments aroused is that of price or discount to these clubs, which is larger, because of edition printing, than that given to the dealers. But that is a trade, an internal, matter, for which these pages, no matter how we might feel for our old bookstore friends, cannot be properly used as an open forum. The chance that some of these clubs got off on the wrong foot in using the trouble- some word “best”’ is another matter. Too much decision for the public, and perhaps posterity, is thereby implied. Now, if only they had said “good books,” conditions would have been different! They have chosen many excellent ones, despite what you or I may think of their mistakes. As for their list of recommended books, their second and third, and so on, choices, there is argument even on that point. Undeni- ably, most of them are fine, but you cannot please everybody. One of John Erskine’s books was not selected as the leader of the month, but it was put on this recommended list. By a system of returns allowed by this particular jury, twenty thousand wrote in and asked to have substituted for the “best,” John Erskine’s much-discussed book. But this involved a lowering of roy- alties to which Mr. Erskine urbanely de- murred. “I cannot see,” he said, “any reason why I should pay to have my book called ‘the second-best book of the month.’” But then that was a witticism, and these clubs have done some good service to books in getting them talked about and increasing the number of readers, even when their more unfortunate choices have diverted the limelight, as some publishers feel, from worthy books that otherwise might have made their way. But if the judges are to be pitied, how about the public? Ten thousand books star- ing at them from the stalls and printed newspaper page! Batteries of blurbs, ad- jectives and superlatives engulfing them! And now fifteen juries selecting for them! To say nothing of the thousand and one diversions and duties that have a claim on the average reader's time. It is the foolish expenditure of this, more than that of money, that they dread. The crux of the trouble lies right there. It is the same with the legitimate stage. One hates to go to all the trouble of dressing up and taking a train, perhaps—-anyway, spending a whole eve- ning at five dollars a seat, and finding one- self sold in the end. If one drops in to the films informally, at any old hour, and pays only forty or fifty cents, he does not feel cheated if the film turns out a flim-flam. And it takes from eight to ten hours to read a book. It is easier, unless you are sure, to turn on the dial or run out the car. The best book of the month is chosen from the output of a month, the old ones come down out of a thousand years. And milestones don't, after all, come every few inches. THE LITTLE PEOPLE E ARE the little people who never have won to fame, We who tamed the grass to wheat, gave the stars a name, We who made the wolf our friend, sharing woe or weal, Yoked the ox and backed the horse, shaped the wedge and wheel, With our strong hands magical. Who will make a song for us, with no mur- murs languorous, But the crash of stroke on stroke, like our axes on the oak, Hammer clank on many a stone as we shaped them, one by one, Building, as our masters bid, temple, tomb and pyramid, By the rivers of the south? Dust and blood and fire and smoke, where the dim forgotten folk Saw their rooftrees fall in flame--knew all agony and shame Felt the lash and wore the chain—built their wattled huts again, In despite of man or beast, god or devil, king or priest, Made a home and reared a brood in the wasteland or the wood, In the islands of the sea. Long ago and long ago—but when you work today, Draining the swamps for plowland, dredging the silt away, Fluming the hills to ruin where the golden dust is sieved Still you find the little homes where the little people lived. Gently bare the narrow wall that to them was all in all With this puny ax and spear one man faced a world of fear; Here his hoarded food he kept; here the tired children slept, Tasted life and found it sweet. . . . Put your shoes from off your feet, For this place is holy ground. When the Sidonian galleys beat out to open sea, Steering by the Phanician Star to unknown mystery, We who bent the purple sails, plied the oars with pain Ho! The tales we told our sons when we came home again! Hiram sent his navies forth, Tarshish way, to bring Ivory, apes and peacocks to Solomon the King At midnight in the harbor, when the watch- man’s back was turned, The little people slipped ashore with liitle things they earned. David in the wilderness, Hector on the wall, Hereward in the greenwood —and we were with them all. Where the wanderer ventured, where the hero led, The little people went with him and struck to guard his head. Emperors and admirals, conquerors and kings, Crashing up and down the world — still the story rings. Beyond the farthest camp fire last flag furled, The little silent people went and built them- selves a world. beyond the Up across the World's Roof the untrod passes lay Till the little people made a path and fol- lowed to Cathay. Furderstrandi beaches and peaks of Hy- Brazil The little people found them first, and tell their children still. The books we write are age-long roads, the songs we make are stone, We build our dreams to dam and ditch where the bare brown deserts moan ; We build our dreams to dike and wall where the salt tides filter through A thousand years and a thousand years, and all our dreams come true! Lo, we have dreamed down slavery, and we have dreamed down kings, And still we dream of decency and the end of evil things; O builders, put your ships away and bid your nares cease, For vague and dim and shapeleesly, the small folk dream of peace! Sullen, stupid and sinful stubborn, silent and slow, We built and bridged and fed the world —and they paid us with a blow: Now that tale of bricks is done; our toil now to buy All that earth and sea can give they bring us for a spoil Such as Cwear never kneu And for you, the later-born — you who pelt us with your scorn, } You who ape the tyrant sti lacking only strength and skill When you twist your mouths to sneer, for your hate —- and for your fe ar We who work and dream and wait, give you laughter for your hate ind our pity for your scorn. Arms thet mocked at weariness feet that trod on fear , Stubborn neck and knotted hands you are here well that When the nations reel to ruin, when the golden lips are dumb, When the world cries to God for help — and the little people come! Eugene Manlove Rhodes,

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138 THE View of Boston SATURDAY EVENING POST marks December 14,1929 Smoke Paul Revere’s Foundry + WHERE THE ENERGETIC PATRIOT, AIDED BY U. S. GOVERNMENT, LAID FOUNDATION FOR A GREAT AMERICAN INDUSTRY Above print of Boston was engraved in 1788. The artist, bent on dramatizing Boston's industrial importance, etched in an eloquent cloud of smoke. This smoke, explains an old footnote, was from Paul Revere’s foundry. ¥ Cat Bells and Brats Cannon of all Sizes, and al kinds of Composition Work . Manufacture Sheets, Bots, Spikes, T’ails. te. fromMalleable Copper and Cold Rolled. 38 com for Git Brsis 55 Coppen ——_—$—_— Business Card of Paul Revere and Son oj Popular history remembers only Revere, the midnight horseman, but already in 1788 he appears as a spotlighted Boston manufac- turer. Six years later, he began that stirring expansion which broke European monopoly and established an American industry. | ~— ==> Cow wy ape Sketch of Revere statue ® modelled by Cyrus E. Dallin

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a Set we _ SS eS = mms ~~, in eel THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 139 THE FIRST NAVY 1794-98 were the years in which United States established its Department of the Navy and built the frigates Constitution and United States. Revere was the only American who knew the “secret”’ of forging malleable copper, and to Revere went the order tor copper spikes, bolts, brass fittings, bronze bells. GOVERNMENT LOAN OF $10,000 But, Revere’s cherished objectiy eC was an American copper rolling mill. In 1801, government gave him a loan of $10,000. At Canton, Mass., 15 9 £uréy miles from Faneuil Hall, Revere bought a water-power site, erected buildings, installed copper-rolling machinery and off. cially established the American copper and brass industry. Now came his greater “ride”. In 1803, the Constitution put into Boston shipyard, to be resheathed with copper rolled by Paul Revere. Her log reports: The carpenters gave nine cheers, because they had in fourteen days completed recopper ing the ship, with copper made in the States.” BIG BUSINESS IN 1803 Paul Revere & Son, 4 their BELL and CANNON Pounvtay, a the Ti ’ etl N In 1803, U. North Pert of BOSTON, ¥ CAst BELLS. of all fizes , every kind of Beafs ORDNANCE, and every kind of jem Work, for SHIPS, Ke. at the foveteft notice ; ManvfaQure COPPER into Smeets, Bours Semmes. Naits, Rivers, Dovevaits, Ke. from Afel- heade Copper. They always keep, them, kind of Copper fr pg yo 4 new ow hand,a number of Charch and Ship Beile, of dif- ferent fizes ; a large quantity of Sheathing Copper. from 16 up te 30 ounce: Spikes, Nails, &c of all Gres, which they warrant equa! to Englith manufaQure. Cath and the highe® price given for old Cop- per and Brafs- march 10 Ola Revere adVertisement S. Navy alone took $93 O00 worth and of Revere copper brass. Already » Rev ere copper sheets roofed Bos- ton State House and Old North Church. When New York’s City Hall was built, the architect turned for its roofing to Rev ere. Later, began the interesting association with Robert Fulton. Boilers of Revere copper were installed in steamboat Raritan. AFTER A CENTURY AND A QUARTER But even Revere’s dream did not soar to the picture of today. His original company, handed down to son, grandson, greatgrand- York City Ha: son, was first merged into the Vex Taunton-New Bedford Copper Company, and last year became the cornerstone of a nation-wide consolidation. In this consolidation are the two largest copper mills of the country, Baltimore Copper Mills, founded 1814, and the new continuous rolling mill, completed in 1929 by the Rome Brass & Copper Company. With these pioneers ot the Kast are joined Michigan Copper and Brass Company and Higgins Brass and Manufacturing Company, plants that grew with the lusty automobile industry of Detroit; and Dallas Brass and Copper Com- ultra-modern Chicago pany, plant g the industrial West servin REVERE IN 1929 ya¢ These six divisions, operating 25" ¢ of the country’s copper, brass and bronze rolling-mill tacilities, perpetuate the name of Paul Revere in the industry and in the very business which Revere Copper anno Brass INCORPORATED. he founded: Divisions : Higgins Brass 2 Manufacturing Uo. , Detroit, Mich Rome Brass S Copper Co., Rome, N.? and Brass RPORATED Baltimore Copper Mills, Baitiemore, Md... Dallas Brass 2 Copper , Chicago, lil Michigan ( opper S Brass Detroit, Mich Taunton-New Bedford ( opper ¢ snnton, Mz Cri NtRal Orrice ROME, N.Y

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system —and I think we can claim that it is, on the whole, successful— is due, apart alto- gether from considering the quality of the personnel, to the fact that it is a permanent service. The staff, from governor downward, remain in their appointments, subject, of course, to good conduct, whatever political party may be in power. One of the criticisms against the American system, which is heard perhaps more frequently in America than elsewhere, is that no warder of a state prison is sure of retaining his appointment under a new governor. Happily, in England the prison service, equaily with the other great branches of public administration, has been entirely divorced from politics. The Prison Philosopher There was only one prison disturbance during my term of office that I can record for you, and its cause can be traced to the curious fact that the effect of prison reform is not always good when viewed from every standpoint. For instance, a portion of our efforts is directed toward segregating pris- oners and dividing ther up into different classes—the first offender being kept apart from the hardened offender, who can go either to Wormwood Scrubs if he is a short- term prisoner, to Maidstone ii he is a long- term prisoner, or to Wakefield, in the north of England, if he comes from that end of the country. It is a curious thing that in Maid- stone there are a considerable number of murderers whose sentences have been com- muted for some reason or another to penal servitude for various terms extending up to twenty years. These men are nearly always first offenders; certainly nobody commits two murders—in fact, I think there is only one such case, that of a youth who was let off and subsequently committed a second murder, and he is now in prison. He was too young to be hanged, and his future is a matter of really grave anxiety. I have seen him and spoken to him; he is apparently perfectly norma! and a very nice lad. But there is always a grave responsibility con- nected with the prerogative of mercy; if you let a man off about whose sanity there is the slightest doubt and he commits an- other crime, or, still worse, another murder, a very grave and unpleasant responsibility would rest upon the shoulders of the Secre- tary of State who had permitted his release. I remember seeing an old gentleman walking along carrying a bucket one day while I was visiting Maidstone prison. Of course, you will understand that when the Home Secretary goes round a prison he does not necessarily go with the governor or officials. He speaks to any prisoner he likes, quite alone. He can have any cell door opened and go in and talk to the prisoners there. Once I remember finding fifty or sixty hardened criminals in a recrea- tion shed; it was a wet afternoon and they were allowed to meet and talk to one an- other. I saw two rather nice-looking men standing over by some hot-water pipes. I asked the governor who they were, and found that both had murdered their wives. He said, ‘Would you like to speak to them? I can cal) them over here.” I said, ‘“‘No, thank you. I will go and talk to them myself.” I strolled over, as one might to any ordi- nary person to whom one was introduced, sat on the hot-water pipes with them and had a most interesting chat about life in prison. They spoke with complete frank- ness, and I did in that case—as I have in others—receive hints as to the possible innocence of some other prisoners, which I had investigated as I have had others. There has never been the slightest attempt at violence in these encounters with prison- ers—except in one case—but I have had many interesting talks. I remember one delightful old gentleman, wearing a black silk skulleap, engaged in bookbinding. He had received sentences amounting to forty- two years—- which meant that he had been in THE SATURDAY EVENING POST ENGLISH PRISONS-WHAT THEY ARE LIKE (Continued from Page 30) prison for some thirty-odd years—for forgery. Time aiter time when he was released, whatever efforts were made to keep him straight, he always forged, and back he went to prison. After a little chat, I said, ‘“‘ Have you any complaints?” “No,” he answered, “‘none at all.” “Is the food all right?” “It isn't Ritz-Carlton,” was the reply, “but there’s nothing to complain of.”’ I said that I was glad to find somebody with no complaints. He looked at me with a twinkle, and he said, “ Well, sir, if you are asking for com- plaints, I really have got one.” I said, ‘“‘ What is it?”’ “You know,” he answered seriously, “IT have been in prison for so long that I imagine I am a bit of a philosopher. And there isn’t a single book of German phi- losophy in any of the prisons I have been in. I want to read Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, and several others of that kind.” I was so interested that I gave orders to the officials and the books were provided. He was not the only philosopher in prison. I was going round a prison one afternoon and went into a hospital ward where some of the older men were who suffered from colds. In the course of conversation, one old man said to me: “Eh, Mr. Joynson-Hicks, I knacws,you. I voted for you in Man- chester years ago.” “Well,” I said, ‘what brings you here?”’ “‘Well,”” was the reply, “I’ve no right to be ‘ere at all. The police nabbed me before ever I got into the house’”—meaning, of course, that he was attempting a burglary, but was caught in the act before he had secured any of the swag. I sympathized with him, and said, “‘ How many times have you had penal servitude?”’ “About seven.” “But,” I said, “supposing you have been wrongly convicted this once, how many times have you escaped conviction when you ought to have been convicted?’’ And there was a titter round the room. “Well, guv’nor, I should think over seventy!" So I said, ‘Don’t you think we can cry quits on this occasion?” “Ah, well,”’ he said, “I’m not complain- ing. Of course in the case of an old criminal like that, there is not much to be done for him. It is a form of sport to many burglars; if they win they get clean away with, it may be, five hundred pounds, or two thou- sand five hundred dollars, and they live in comfort and luxury for six months. If they are caught—well, the luck was against them and they take their punishment, and I am afraid plan out new methods of getting away while they are serving their sentence. Tempered With Mercy But to return to my old man at Maid- stone—because I want to show you the human side of the Home Secretary’s work— I asked him what he was there for. He said, “‘I did someone in’’—-that is the euphemism for murder. “How long have you been here?” I asked. ‘Sixteen years.’’ Then he looked at me. “You are the Home Secretary, aren't you?”’ at Sag “Then why not let me go?” he said quietly. “‘I shan’t be any more likely not to commit a second murder after twenty years than I am now.” “That is all very well,” I replied, “but who is to look after you?” “That's all right” was the quick reply. “I’ve got a wife and children whom I’ve kept in touch with all these years; they are waiting for me to come out.” I did not make him any promises, but I sent for the chaplain and told him to try to find out whether the story was true and let me have a human report on the man’s case. I had it after a week or two, and found that the old man was perfectly right, and that his family were anxiously waiting for him. I remitted the remainder of his sentence and sent him home to his wife and children. That kind of action is one which could be put on the other side, as against the punitive work in which the Home Secretary is concerned. Several times I let men out to attend the funeral of a wife or child who had died while they were in prison; they were let out on parole, and never once did a convict fail to return within the time limit. I am quite sure that the convict is a better man for being treated as a human being. Almost Over the Wall But as I said, the improvements and re- forms in prisons have one bad effect: They collect the bad men together as well as the good men; and the disturbance I have mentioned did take place at one of the prisons which had been cleared of all its first offenders, and, in consequence, the remainder were a very tough lot. Had the situation not been handled firmly and, at the same time, tactfully, it might have de- veloped into serious consequences. The prisoners conceived that they had a griev- ance against the governor, and, incited no doubt t» desperate courses by the more abandoned of their number, conspired to demonstrate their hostility at the con- clusion of the Sunday-morning service. After the blessing had been spoken, of one accord they rose in their seats and with many voices abused the object of their dis- like. The governor, who had previously been made aware of the probability of such an occurrence, and had, with the most com- mendable foresight, forbidden the prison officers, in that event, to resort to forceful measures, confronted the insurgent crowd and by the agency merely of a powerful per- sonality reduced it within a few minutes to an uneasy silence. He rebuked the prison- ers for having embarked on so unconstitu- tional a means of airing their grievances, reminded them of the method, then long established, of approaching the governor, and quietly ordered them to return to their cells. Abashed by a force which they could sense but could not understand, they re- sumed their habit of obedience. I have visited that prison, I have been in the chapel and I have seer some, at any rate, of the prisoners who took part, and I was more than glad, when I was offered the oppor- tunity by a question in regard to the disturbance put to me in the House of Commons, to commend the action of the governor to the approbation of the House. Escapes and attempts to escape, when they become known, are, not unnaturally, accorded considerable prominence in the more sensational of our newspapers, but their number is, in fact, negligible com- pared with the total prison population. For 1926 and 1927 the figures are 21 and 32 respectively, while the average daily popu- lation was 10,860 and 11,179. There was, however, one attempted escape which never got into the press, but which I shall always remember. It was really so ingenious that it ought, if success is the measure of reward for industry, to have succeeded. It was, moreover, so contrived that if the prisoner was detected in the attempt, there was a sporting chance that he might regain his cell with his identity undiscovered. One of the prisoners possessed himself of a key of his cell door—that story is in itself an epic which I*shall not reveal, lest it serve as an inspiration to others—and at dusk released himself and a companion. The two shut behind them their cell doors, which closed with spring locks, in order that they might leave nothing patently amiss, retrieved a length of rope which they had managed to secrete in some place which to this day is December 14,1929 undiscovered, and made their way across the courtyard into the shadow of the gate. One end of this rope was heaved over the top and drawn back under the gate, and while one of the prisoners held the return end, the other started to climb. It so happened that one of the prison staff chose that moment to cross the court- yard toward the warders’ recreation room and observed, in the shadow of the gate, a darker shadow where no shadow should be. With considerable presence of mind, he con- tinued his leisurely stroll to the recreation room, from which, a few seconds later, he led the necessary force to prevent the escape. As soon as the prisoners saw that their attempt had failed, they abandoned the rope and fled back across the courtyard into the prison building, where, with the aid of the key, they let themselves again into their cells. Fortunately—and I say “for- tunately”’ with a shade of regret-——the door of one of the cells was just seen to close, and an immediate examination soon exposed the truth. I have diverged so much that I have al- most forgotten my friend the prisoner who was convicted at the beginning of this article. He goes first to a temporary prison, where he has for a week or two solitary con- finement. “The old sentence of solitary confinement has been done away with altogether; it is too cruel and adds nothing to the improvement in the condition of the prisoner. It is only in the temporary prison, which one might consider a kind of clearing house, that the man is, of necessity, kept in his cell, where he is examined medi- cally, educationally and morally, by the chaplain, so that a decision can be arrived at as to the most suitable permanent prison for him to be sent to and the kind of work that he had better do. Let us sup- pose, for a moment, that he goes to Dart- moor. He will be met at the prison gates by some of the warders. He will be allotted a cell and will be seen by the governor from the very first he will be treated as a human being. The whole service now knows that when once he is there, the conviction, the police court and the police are all be- hind him. He and the prison officers look forward to the day of his release; he, per- haps at the beginning, with the thought of more crime; they with the hope that they can turn him out fit to take his place in society and, in fact, make a man of him. That is the object of our prisons nowadays. Real Work for Convicts His food is ample, though plain, and perfectly good. He rises in the morning, cleans out his cell, has his breakfast, and then he is detailed for work. If he is an exceptionally strong man he goes to the quarries. If he is less strong he takes part in agricultural work. It may be that he comes from some farming district and is fond of horses; then he is given that work-—and nothing is so humanizing for a prisoner as association with animals. I have seen men tremendously proud of the well-groomed condition of the horses under their care. It may be, on the other hand, that he has to work inside the prison, as he is lightly built. If he is used to any par- ticular trade he is put to do something as nearly like that trade as possible; it may be a blacksmith’s shop, a tin-maker’s shop, a bookbinding establishment. Then there is the sewing of mail bags, the making of prisoners’ clothing. The coats may not be very grand and the cloth not such as you and I would care to wear, but it is sound and serviceable, and the clothing, from the boots to the cap, is all made in one or other of our prisons. There are very few men left nowadays who have to pick oakum. If they have no aptitude for any other work or if they have been troublesome in refusing to do other work, then they may be told off to pick oakum—that is, unraveling bits of (Continued on Page 142 | | SS

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Toys that resist wear for sale at our new RETAIL STORES Joy-Toy Velocipede — Real !'/," balloon type tires; leather saddle and tool bag; French style* bulb horn. Nickel plated rustproof bicycle spokes and hub; extra large rear wheels. Baked-on enamel finish. 2-3 year size *$10.48. 6-8 year *$14.45. U. S. Mail Monoplane — that builds and strengthens child's body. Operates with revolving propeller Balloon type, roller bearing wheels with %" rubber tires. Height 27"; length overall! 53/2"; wing spread 30” For children 5 to 10 years *$15.79. De Luxe Wagot —Sturdy one piece body that will not warp, 33 x 15” of heavy automobile steel. 10° double disc wheels riveted so they won't come apart I” balloon style rubber tires. Beautiful, massive appearance, large roll rim at top and double beaded sides and bottom Sahieadl "$6.39. Dump Truck— holds 120 Ibs., 23” long and works ~-/most like a real truck. Made of pressed steel, with real dumping body *$1.00. Rubber Tire Bus— 25” Jong, double disc wheels, bumper, dummy headlights and dummy steering wheel *$2.19. All-steel Airplane — the propeller whirls and makes a rea! motor noise while being drawn around. Made of 22 gauge steel, is 234" long “$1.98. *Prices slightly higher in some states. We guarantee our merchandise to be satis- factory in every way; if il is not, your money will be refunded without question. THE SATURDAY EVENING POST We WENT TO AN AUTO PARTS MAKER “TT WANT a coaster wagon that boys won’t break, and I’m going to an auto parts maker to get it,” our toy buyer announced last Fall. So he went to a well known worker in pressed steel, who made tough durable auto- mobile fenders, hoods and running boards. Our buyer, an expert in the manufacture of toys, explained how the wagon should be made — “and build it out of the same material as your sturdiest auto parts,” he instructed. The wagon when completed withstood every test, including the holding of six men with a total weight of 1200 Ibs. Our toy buyer was delighted, and contracted at once for a tremendous number of the wagons. So Sears, Roebuck customers not only get the best quality wagons, but also a much lower price, because of large quantity buying. Thousands of cases like this occur in the daily routine of Sears, Roebuck and Co. We employ many skilled merchandise specialists and quali- fied engineers, who are constantly searching for new raw materials . . . new methods of manufac- ture... and other ways of making Sears, Roe- to get a coaster wagon that boys won't break / buck merchandise even better than it already is. That’s why, in actual use, Sears, Roebuck products give more satisfactory service, over a longer period of time, than similar products that oftentimes cost much more. And it also explains why Sears, Roebuck and Co. in 43 years have become the World's Largest Store, with 12,000,000 customers that trade with them steadily. These customers have learned to depend on Sears, Roebuck and Co. for exceptional values .. . for the highest quality merchandise at the lowest possible cost. ’ ’ ’ The items of merchandise shown on this page are only a few of the exceptional values offered you by Sears, Roebuck and Co. If you do not live near a Sears, Roebuck retail store, send direct to your nearest Sears, Roebuck mail order plant for their illustrated catalog, con- taining full descriptions of more than 46,000 products. You will find this catalog a treasure house of fine merchandise . . . everything for the family and the home .. . at prices that enable you to save on everything you buy. RETAIL STORES MAIL ORDER PLANTS AT » CHICAGO + PHILADELPHIA - MINNEAPOLIS » KANSASCITY » ATLANTA ~ MEMPHIS - LOS ANGELES ~ DALLAS ~ SEATTLE » BOSTON 141 SEARS, ROEBUCK awp CO.

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ee eee ee ee Se Se ee Give Him SOMETHING TO LOOK FORWARD TO! rRNHREE kinds of gifts he’s sure to receive this Christ- mas: one that arouses a groan of pained amazement, another that he forgets the morning after, a third that he enjoys for many days. But you can send a gift which he'll look forward to every week for a@ year. This gift is THE SATURDAY EVENING POST $2 for 52 issues (Canada $3) Swift-moving stories of adven- ture, mystery, romance; fasci- nating articles flavored with business, industry, politics how gladly he'll join millions of Post “fans” in enjoying these weekly features. To each friend whom you so re- member, we will send a brilliant announcement card printed in full color to arrive in the Christ- mas mail. The face of this card, the original measures 819 x 7’, is suggested above; the reverse, showing how your name is in- seribed, is pictured below. Just hand your order today to one of our authorized rep- resentatives ‘or mail. it direct to the address below. Two Other Ideal Gifts Especially for Women LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL 12 iesues for $1 For Country Folks THE COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 3 years for $1 Foreign prices upon request The Curtis Publishing Company 194 Independence Square Philadelphia Pennsylvania At the direction of We have entered your Name upon our let fora years subscription fo SA The Saturday Evening Post We trust that the copies we shall heave the pleasure of sending will prove wek come reminders of the friend who sends to you this holiday remembrance The Uurtrs Publishing ~ Company - Philadcipina THE SATURDAY (Continued jrom Page 140) — | | old rope, the resulting fiber being used for stuffing mattresses. The treadmill has long since been abolished, and it is our endeavor to abolish all kinds of unremunerative work—work that a man knows is given to him merely for punitive purposes. I have devoted a good deal of time and thought to the improvement of work in the prisons. I am not even yet satisfied that | more cannot be got out of prisoners in | respect of work. I think and hope methods | will be devised—they were being considered during my term of office—to reward good work either by little privileges, such as jam for their tea—and remember that the way to a prisoner’s heart lies so often through his stomach. .Then there are the other privileges of the men who have served a certain number of years without appearing on the defaulters’ sheet. They are allowed an hour or two of what is called “‘associa- tion”’ every evening—that is, they may sit and read in company with one another, and in certain cases they are allowed the great- est solace of all—tobacco. When the Sentence is Ended Our prisoner goes through all these stages. He may be quarrelsome, and quarrel with the warders or the other prisoners; then he will find his life not so easy. The man who means to improve will undoubtedly do so. In addition to the ordinary work, there are lectures and educational classes, largely taught by volunteers. In one prison I went to in a country place, I found that the teachers of the council schools fifteen miles away came over in relays day by day to teach, voluntarily, the men in the prison. Every cell contains, in addition to a Bible and one or two other books of a devotional character, three books from the prison library, which can be changed at the choice of the prisoner from time to time. Does our system work, we are asked. And, after all, that is always the question which must determine improvement in every section of life. Do the improvements in hospitals work? Do the improvements in education work? Dothe improvements in prisons work? The first two have not been under my control, and it is not for me to answer the questions; but I have no hesi- tation whatever in answering the third— that they do work, that the reform of the prison system has been a sound investment, that the number of prisoners has been re- duced wholesale, by the probation system, by the giving of time for the payment of fines, and by the abolition of imprisonment for debt, so much. so that we have, in the last ten years, been able to close no less thar twenty-five prisons. If it is possible to stem the flow of recruitment to the ranks of the habitual criminals, the numbers of those requiring prison accommodation will, when the present generation of old jailbirds has died out, inevitably and substantially diminish. But not only that; we are restoring the man to citizenship. His career in prison is watched carefully by prison visitors—and how can I say enough of the prison visitors? Men and women unknown to the world at large, figuring in no charitable reports, speaking on no public platforms. Going every afternoon to our prisons, they are given the keys of certain cells; day by day or two or three times a week they visit the prisoner without any warder being present. They make friends with him or her, they get to know the condition of his home life, they get to know what his aspira- tions are at the conclusion of his sentence, and, working in close touch with the Prisoners’ Aid Society, it is they who have put the coping stone onto the work of the prison reformers. In thousands of cases they have taken charge of a prisoner when, on some cold winter morning, perhaps, he finds himself outside the doors of the prison. It may be some old lag is waiting for him, ready to influence him to dip down again into a life of crime. But he will see there a friend also waiting for him, ready to take him off EVENING POST to a hostel where he will find a warm break- fast, perhaps some fresh clothes and, it may be, the payment of his fare home, or per- haps the redemption of his tools from some pawnbroker’s; in any case, there will be an effort to start him in a decent, honorable life. Many are the men who have gone through prison and who are now occupying decent posts, whose past life is known only to themselves and, perhaps, to the senior employer in the firm for which they work. They have made good, they are entitled to leave behind them the stigma of prison life and to say, “We have paid our penalty; we have put away from ourselves the in- tention of crime; we can once more take our places in the ranks and hold our heads up with our fellow men.” There are a few points that arise in con- nection with this position which are worth while putting into words. It is necessary for the general body of citizens to play their part in the matter; they have a duty to the ex-prisoner to see that when he has paid the penalty he is not ruined for all time, and secondly, they have a duty to society as a whole to see that the man about whom we have been thinking does not remain a plague spot in the community, preying on his fellow men for a living and lending him- self as a ready instrument to any forces of general disorder. Many prisoners, though not all, can be made into good citizens. A minority are men of such determined selfishness that there is, humanly speaking, no prospect of a change in their mental outlook. But the great majority are merely weak, foolish, vicious or impulsive. For many of these latter there is hope. Character and physique can be strengthened by prison training, and latent generous impulses can be aroused. In such cases a real start on discharge after a period of prison training may prove, and in numbers of cases does prove, all that is required to withdraw a recruit from the ranks of crime and enroll him in the great army of steady citizens. But the lack of this fresh start may, and often does, cancel all the efforts which have been made to train the offender in prison. In such a case the man, after a period of drifting and ir- resolution, is led by want to commit a fresh offense. Happily the general body of citizens is coming to realize their respon- sibility in this matter, and the Discharged Prisoners’ Aid Societies, which are largel:’ supported from voluntary funds and manned by volunteers, have been instru- mental in giving a fresh start to thousands. It might also be pointed out that prisoners’ aid work, on its lowest basis, is economical. Between 50,600 and 60,000 persons leave prison each year after serving their sen- tences. The daily average population is between 11,000 and 12,000. To keep a per- son for a year in prison costs altogether nearly £100. Once a man has become ac- customed to a life of crime, he is likely to spend a good many of his years in prison and tocost the country a thousand pounds or two merely to keep him, without counting all that it costs to get him arrested, tried and sentenced on each occasion, and the prob- able cost to the guardians for maintaining his relatives. Two Grateful Youths Special reference might, perhaps, be made to women prisoners. In 1901 some 40,000 or 50,000 women passed through the prisons, but it was not the quantity only that was appalling but the quality. Taking the fig- ures for 1900, it appeared that 72 per cent had been previously convicted, 42 per cent five times and more, and 15 per cent—that is some 7000 women—twenty times or more. Since 1900 the annual number of women coming into prison has fallen from December 14,1929 a figure of between 40,000 and 50,000 toa figure between 7000 and 8000. That great improvement is no doubt due to many causes—partly to social and eco- nomic changes, partly to changes in the law—but it can also be attributed in part to the devoted work of the women prison visitors, who have done their best to turn the minds of the prisoners into new direc- tions and to help to secure for them, on dis- charge, chances to lead new lives. Shall I confess that the prison visitors are not always successful? Two quite young lads in prison were visited by a very charm- ing lady, rich and well dressed. After a time they were discharged, but soon after, they came back to the prison and asked to see the governor’s wife, who fortunately was a woman of forethought. They came quite pleasantly and humbly into her pres- ence and said that Mrs. So-and-So had been so good to them when they were in prison that they would like to see her and thank her. Could they have her address? The lady of forethought smiled a little and said, “‘It isn’t usual to give addresses. What do you want it for?”’ “Oh,” they replied, “we thought we would like to thank her.” And then she suddenly said to them, “You young rascals, tell me the truth. What do you really want that lady’s ad- dress for?” And seeing that they were cornered, the younger of the youths said: ‘ Well, ma’am, she really had such beautiful pearls!” Needless to say, the address*was not given, and up to the present the lady’s house has not been burgled. The Problem of Women Prisoners Now that the problem of women prison- ers has been reduced to comparatively small and manageable proportions, it would seem desirable that further consideration should be given to the question whether the numbers can, and ought to be, still further reduced. It is a noticeable fact that almost half of the women sent to prison are sent for very short sentences of a week or a fortnight, and almost half of the sentences are imposed for offenses connected with drunkenness. In 1927, out of 7636 women sent to prison, 3260 were committed for offenses connected with drunkenness, and of these 7636 women, very nearly 3000 had been previously convicted more than twenty times. From these figures it appears that the main element in the problem of women prisoners is the woman who comes back again and again for of’enses connected with drunkenness. There has been a slight but satisfactory decline of recent years in the number of women imprisoned for drunken- ness. The figures have steadily fallen from 4000 in 1922 to 3260 in 1927, and when these figures are compared with the prewar figure, in 1913, of 15,000 women imprisoned for drunkenness, there is cause for con- gratulation. But can anything be done to hasten the improvement? A decline from 4000 to 3200 in six years is not very rapid. This raises questions beyond the scope of this article. The desirability of and the effects of inebriate reformatories, penal set- tlements, long periods of detention —these are all questions which have to be solved. Our legislators and our humanitarian workers must put their brains to work and find a remedy for the constantly recurring convictions, particularly of women. Itisa loss to the community, and I hope before long—now that I have more leisure—to be able to make some investigations into the way in which you in America are dealing with this problem. As always, there are two points to be considered—the interests of the individual and the interests of the state. I will not go further into it now than to say that the whole point is: Hew can these two interests be reconciled? Editor’s Note—This is the second of three arti- cles by Lord Brentford. The third will appear in an early issue. c eee = 5 ee wy 4 oe

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ag we = THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 143 For home office and branch office letterbeads, Hammermill Bond is available in thirteen practical colors and white, bond or ripple finish, with envelopes to match all colors and both finishes. The price is moderate BOND LOOK FOR THE WATERMARK li 05 eur word of bomor te the pubix WHITE BLUE PRIMROSE 17 x 22—20 BUFF 17 x 22—20 CANARY 17 « 22—20 GOLDENROD 17 x 22—20 CAFE 17 x22—20 17x22—20 17 «22—20 4 LB. RIPPLE FINISH, WHITE AND ALL COLORS The mail that sorts itself... FOR EXECUTIVES Please attach this coupon Even before the envelopes are opened, modern branch-office mail sorts itself. Color __ to your business letterbead does it. Buff—that’s Chicago. Blue—that’s Boston. Goldenrod— Denver. All down Scieniaiahs — Nits . the line, colored letterheads and envelopes to match are used nowadays to speed up the ae handling and distribution of mail. Phe — raed et etter oy hove And for such signa! systems, Hammermill Bond is, of course, the paper that business 7 ais tants bk oe heen eee men use. Not only because this paper offers thirteen practical colors and white to leigh et : on cm ope = ach choose from, not only because you can have Hammermill Bond envelopes to match the United States. Canada, sof.) Name — any of these colors, but because a// Hammermill Bond—white, colors, and envelopes— is the accepted standard among men who ow bond paper values, OE IO AAS

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144 Bluntly: him.” “It'll hurt Steve's feelings, Kerry.” “Which is more important—his or mine?" “ Aw, fer cripe’s sake,” said Tom, “I bet- ter take you back an’ give you some warm milk. When a guy gets to worryin’ about his own seconds he needs a nurse. Come on.” Returning to the cabin, they were met by a newspaperman who carried a sheet of flimsy fluttering in the breeze. “Here's the latest from the Red Men- ace,’ the reporter greeted them sardoni- cally. ‘He ate two pounds of raw beefsteak for breakfast and drank a chicken-blood cocktail. His manager announced that Kesloff has bet fifty thousand dollars on himself to win. The boss wants a statement from you, Kerry.”’ Manager Brook spoke up hastily: “Just say for us that we don’t take no notice of Kosloff's cheap publicity tricks. As for the bet, you better tell your boss to get the bookie’s name before you print anything about it.” The reporter eyed Kerry Sheridan ex- pectantly. “Tom does my talking,” the fighter said. But when the interviewer had hurried on, Sheridan clutched Manager Brook's arm “Do you think that bet is on the level?” Tom cussed lengthily and fluently, wind- ing up with the remark and further- more, Kosloff ain't got fifty thousand, even if he was dumb enough to bet it.” Sheridan had about decided that his sus- picions were due to fighting-edge nerves when, an hour later, Tom Brook was sum- moned to the long-distance telephone. “Who is it?” he heard Tom demand. “Mr. Tierney in Chicago,” the negro rubber said. That brought Sheridan to Tom’s elbow. He heard Tom say reassuringly, “There's nothing to it, Jack. The boy never felt better. Sure, it’s a cinch. Won't go five rounds. Nick's just playing one of his fool hunches.”” Tom tried to laugh it off. “Nick the Greek has been scattering some dough on the Russian in Chi. Can you tie that?” The boy rubbed a three days’ growth of bristles on his chin nervously. “How much is the Greek betting?” “Not important dough; you can bet on that. Pool-hall fifties. Tierney’s like all these bookies. He's almost as fidgety as you are, Kerry.” Tom's laughter didn’t help much. If Jack Tierney was worried, then Nick the Greek had put out considerable money on Kosloff. And Nick the Greek was the shrewdest plunger in the game. Nick the Greek sometimes played hunches, but he usually played tips good tips. Was Rip Harkness betting against him too? A hundred grand judiciously dribbled in parcels of fives and tens through fifteen or twenty big cities at four to one? It wouldn't show in the odds. It was just the kind of stunt Rip would like to pull. Rip never got much of a kick out of trimming suckers. It was tooeasy. Rip liked to trim wise guys. ‘Listen, Tom,” Kerry Sheridan said; “I don’t like the looks of this. Is there any way I can find out whether Rip has bet any dough on the fight?” “Don’t be crazy. Think Rip would take a chance on letting it get out that he had bet on one of his own fights? Come on, now, Kerry. Snap out of it!” The boxer’s jaw set hard and his eyes were cold. He said, finally: ““Go and get Steve. I want to talk to both of you.” Tom stopped smiling. He looked hurt. He blinked and started to say something, then gulped it down. In a few minutes he was back with Steve Grace, a swarthy, blue-jowled handler of pugilists. “I'd sooner trust you than THE SATURDAY EVENING POST THE BUILD-UP Continued from Page 13) “Steve,” said Sheridan, “has anybody talked to you about a fix on this scrap to- night?” “Hell, no,” said Steve promptly. ‘““Who give you that idea, Kerry?” Before he could answer, Tom Brook spoke up: “Kerry thinks you and me will slip him some fuzz powder tonight, Steve.” Steve grinned unbelievingly. “TI never said that,’ the boy corrected “You guys have always played fair with me and I got no reason to call you crooked. I'm just warning you to be on the lookout for funny biz tonight. See?”’ “Maybe you'd better change seconds, Kerry,” answered Tom Brook, reddening with anger. Steve didn’t say anything. He dismissed them with a growled: ‘I know Rip Harkness too well to take any chances. I didn't mean nothing personal against you and Steve, Tom. I’m depend- ing on you to see that I get an even break. That's all.” But that wasn't all. For the first time in his ring career he found himself distrustful of the men who would be in his corner. Didn't Steve look kind of funny? And did Tom get honestly sore or was it just a stall to throw him off? He had to depend on Tom though. Tom was the only one who knew how to pace him in a fight. It was Tom who told him when to bear down and when to cover up and rest. It was Tom who knew, better than he himself, how much steam he had left. During fights he had seen only two faces clearly — that of his opponent and Tom’s. Tom with his twin- kling blue eyes and tobacco-stained mouth. Through the roar of the crowd he heard only two voices -that of the referee and Tom’s. Tom saying: “‘Look out for his left, boy—look out for his left! Keep away keep away! Steady, boy! Now! Yee-hoo, Kerry!” little war cry. At lunch he was sorry he had doubted Tom. Steve might sell out, but not Tom. He said, ‘‘ You ain't sore at me, are you, Tom? I'm just edgy like I always am fight days.” Tom brightened. across the table. “It’s all right, boy.” “Okay, Tom. We'll lick em tonight, won't we?” “If you don't have him down by the fifth I'll go out there and lick him myself!” But after lunch and a short time be- fore the take-off for the flight to the city, Kerry Sheridan received two messages which plunged him again into a torture of uncertainty. He was conferring with the representa- tive of the news syndicate which was to earry his story of the fight—written by a ghost -when the syndicate man produced a sheet of telegraph copy. “They've got your friend Rip on the run,’ the syndicate man said, chuckling. “He's just released a statement for the afternoon papers denying that the Cossack will be a set-up for you. Rip says here that Kosloff is terribly underrated as a fighter and may spring a surprise.” Kerry Sheridan joined in the general laughter that followed. But he was think- ing: “‘Is that the play? Have they been holding Kosloff under wraps? Has he im- proved a lot since I saw him fight Sharkey? Is that what Rip means? Or is Rip just spreading a lot of last-minute apple sauce to fill the five-dollar seats?”’ The possibility that The Big Sock From the Steppes might turn loose some unknown fighting genius was heavy on his mind as his party formed to go down to the sea- plane. There was joshing, laughter, click- ing of cameras. ‘‘So long, Kerry. See you tonight after the second round!’’ ‘Sock him one for me, big boy!’’ “‘Send him back to Roosia with a shamrock in his hand!” A press telegrapher thrust a telegram into his hand. It was their own private His right paw came “From your girl, Kerry,” he said. He had the yellow envelope clutched tightly in his hand as he boarded the launch to go out to the plane. A radio announcer was speaking confidentially to the whole United States: = and, folks, Kerry just got a message from his fiancée, Miss Ruth Dahlgren of Denver. I didn’t get to read it, but judging by the smile on Kerry’s face, it’s all right, folks. Kerry is waving his hand at us now. You might think he was going to a picnic, folks. Just a big light-hearted boy. That’s Kerry!” In the seaplane he looked surreptitiously at the telegram. It read: SINCE YOU'RE DETERMINED TO FIGHT | HOPE IT WILL BE AN HONEST ONE AND THAT YOU'LI WIN STOP LOVE STOP RUTH An honest fight? What did Ruthie think he was? Of course it would be an honest fight. Well, that is, it would be, unless Rip Harkness had put a fix on it. If he had his way, it would be an honest fight. He’d sail in and knock this Kosloff ham into the middle of next week. Would he win? Sure, he would. Well, that is, if it was an honest fight he’d win. But if Rip Harkness —— He sat in his corner while the announcer bawled out his name to ninety thousand fight fans. He got up perfunctorily and raised both bandaged hands in acknowl- edgment of the cheering. In the white shower of light he couldn't see beyond the middle of the fifty-dollar section. Except for the roar like the beating of lazy un- decided breakers on a rocky beach, and except for the sense of some vast hot band of life encircling him, he got no impression of the crowd. He shrugged them off as he sat down again. Shrugged them off as he thought: “They want a knock-out. They always want a knock-out. They want me to slug with this big ham. Boxing, I could play with him all night and never show a welt. They don’t want that. They want me to chop him down. I'll do it too. I gotta get him while the getting’s good.” He stared insolently across the ring at Serge Kosloff, The Red Menace. He felt curiosity and excitement, but no fear. That was the guy he had to lick. Big hunk of cheese. Looks like a gorilla. Got eyes like a cow though. Red trunks, black hair all over his stomach, chest and shoulders. Gee, he’d scare you on a dark night. But not now. Not when you had a kick in both fists and felt great. The bigger they come the slower they are and the harder they fall. He must watch that overhand right though. Tom Brook yelled in his ear, ‘“ Referee wants you!” There it was the old tightening in his throat. They’d be putting on the mitts ina minute. He sauntered to the center of the ring. They got to work on the mitts. The referee started the usual jabber about, “In case of a knockdown, go to your neutral corner. The count doesn’t start until you are there. And no rabbit punches, hit- ting He didn’t bother to listen. He was eying the Russian. The big slob was wider than Sam-—his chief sparring part- ner -but no taller. He'd have his distances «out right. “You boys shake hands.” Grinning derisively, he slapped the Rus- sian’s right paw. The Russian had big brown eyes. Just like a cow. He was nerv- ous. Drooling out of the corners of his mouth. The Russian was scowling, trying to look fierce. The Big Sock From the Steppes. What a laugh! Somebody gave him a shove toward his corner. Tom grabbed him and said: ‘‘ Re- member, he telegraphs that punch of his by dropping his right shoulder. And don’t waste your strength trying to get his kid- neys in the clinches. Take your time—take your time! You got all night!” December 14, 1929 He stood facing the crowd, a tall ivory- and-gold young athlete. Hands clenched on the ropes, he kicked at the resin box. Hundreds yelled greetings. He didn’t hear them. He didn’t hear the radio announcers as they spoke of him to listening millions; he didn’t hesr the telegraph keys in the press boxes clicking out his story. He was thinking: “IT feel swell. I guess I was a boob to worry. Nothing’s happened. It’s going to be all right. But I gotta get him quick. Not later than the second. Something might happer.” It didn’t occur to him that he owed it to the ninety thousand to give them a run for their money. He had lordly contempt for fighters who stalled along. He had lordly contempt for fight fans. He stared at the noisy night momentarily as Tom pulled him into his corner, and thought: ‘I'l! make it short and sweet—short and sweet. By rights I oughta K. O. this big bum with the first punch. Maybe they wouldn't fall so quick for Rip’s next set-up. Next time Rip had better send me against a guy who can make a scrap of it.” The bell! He sprang up and glided across the daz- zling white silence. The Russian lumbered out, bearlike, to meet him. The Russian’s big paws were cocked. He feinted with his left and threw a hard right at the Russian’s jaw. It landed with a jolt that burned all the way up to his shoulder. The Russian fell back, blinking. A left to the body, a right to the head, another right. Blam! He pulled his head over just in time and took a heavy right on his shoulder. He circled. This guy could hit! He went in with the one-two and bounced his left off the side of the Russian’s head. He heard Tom’s voice saying through the slam-slam- slam: “‘Take your time! Steady, boy! Get set-—-get set—steady!”’ How good was this guy Kosloff? He backed and let him rush, ducked his left, knew the right was a feint, took the second left on a glance as he pivoted, danced away; then came in, caught Kosloff off balance, and sock! The Russian sat down, looking foolish. The referee motioned him back. The Russian scrambled to his feet; angered, he rushed like a bull. This guy could take it, all right. Still, there was that black jaw again, behind that left shoulder. He left himself open to a right as he shot a left hook to the jaw. The Russian shifted and the blow glanced, tearing flesh with it; the Russian dropped his left shoulder and— wham! But he wasn’t there; the blow whistled past and, getting sore, he bored in to try out the big ham’s wind—a right, a left, another right to the belly. The Rus- sian clinched. “Hey!” The referee pulled the Russian back. . . . Did this guy think he was wrestling? . . . He went in again to warm up the Russian’s belly—one- two, one-two, and The bell. In his corner: “He's tougher than I thought, Tom. Gimme a rub, here—shoul- der--got a kinked muscle.” Tom said, “Quit slugging with him. Wear him down some more. You got nine rounds. Get in close and work on his guts more.” The bell. Short and sweet. That was him. Sock! He caught Kosloff with a iong right to the head. Quit that rushing, big boy. I'm poison when you come at me that way. There! That’s better. Ha! He felt that one, right down to his toes. Gotta be careful though. My hands. Bust my knuckles on the bigslob’s head. . . . Here he comes! Two uppercuts. What had he hit? Left eye, upper lip. Taste good, big boy? Come on. Blam aw-aw. Gotta get away; shook me up. [| saw that one coming. Why didn’t I duck? Here goes. I'll put him down this time-—a right, a left, another (Continued on Page 146) i ang pea

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The monel metal American Cas- cade Dry Cleaning Machine, in which miniature torrents of the cleaning solvent are constantly rained through the garments. In a single load, the Cascade thor- oughly cleans as many as thirty three-piece suits, © 1929, The A. L. M. Co. THE SATURDAY EVENING POST hy bring the dust-pan to the ining- lable? HERE are still a few men—alert in other ways—who, nevertheless, may be said to carry some real estate about with them wherever they go—a bit of the garden to the office, and to the dining-table they bring enough dust to fill the dust-pan. For there’s actually a half-pound of dust in a suit that has been worn a leng time without cleaning! That is why most successful men have their suits dry cleaned so often. These men wouldn’t wear a dust-dinged suit. Indeed, even a spot on their clothes would be a blemish on their repu- tation for smartness. That is why, in every community, there are master dry cleaners, equipped to keep gentlemen's clothes gentlemanly. And that is why, too, since the invention of “‘American”’ machines for quicker, more thorough dry cleaning, there has been a quite noticeable betterment in the appear- ance of hundreds of thousands of men. Yet these machines—marvelous though they are—represent but a small part of the work of ‘“‘ American” engineers. For ‘‘American”’ inventiveness 1s always on the front line wherever the battle for cleanliness is being fought. THE AMERICAN LAUNDRY MACHINERY COMPANY Executive Offices, Cincinnati, Ohio In the Cause 145 of World Cleanliness

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WHY. GLOVES, OF COURSE?! WHen vou taste in ties—when you know he has don't quite trust your a book, a pair of slippers and piles of handkerchiefs—remember gloves! They're acceptable to any male. Par- ticularly Fownes Gloves. No question of taste when you choose Fownes. All models are au- thentic in design, smartly styled through Fownes of London. No ques- tion of quality either. Fownes lead- ership in the fine-glove field, based on superb leathers and honest crafts- 1777. You simply can't make a mistake! manship, has endured since Iustrated here ideally adapted to gift purposes. One are two gloves is a luxurious slate-gray mocha, lined with soft, warm rabbit fur. The other is soft, sturdy pigskin, unlined— hand sewn or plain stitched. Either the drives—-or for any man who wants is appropriate for man who cold-weather comfort. There is a rich variety of Fownes Gloves in other leathers, from $3 to $15. Particularly popular is the side- cut Sesqui style. At your favorite shops. Fownes Brothers & Co., Inc., 354 Fourth Avenue, New York City. IT’S A FOWNES THAT'S ALL YOU KNOW ABOLT NEED TO A GLOVE THE SATURDAY (Continued from Page 144) | left. . Hell, I missed time. : You can’t run away from me, big boy.. . . See? I told you. . . Sock, sock, sock! . Why doesn’t he fall? The clinch. .“‘Hey!” Damn that referee. Quit hugging me— get away. Ha! On the ropes— that’s got him. No, he’s pulling up. The bell. In his corner: “‘Why don’t he fall, Tom? Why don’t he fall? I got him with all I had, twicet. What's holding him up?” Tom’s voice, “He’s nearly gone. eyes are rolling. How're your arms?” “Pretty tired, Tom. But I'll - “ The bell. I gotta get him this time or rest a coupla rounds. Here he comes. Blam, blam, blam. He’s wabbling. . . . Quitit! . Hey, referee! Make him quit hangin’ on Come to me, big boy. No? Okay, here goes——left, left, right, left; on the ropes again. I’m going in to finish the bum—sock, sock, sock, sock. This guy sure can take it. Aw-aw, he’s coming back. I gotta rest. I gotta rest. Around to that corner. ‘ Aw-aw, jolted me that time; hurts like His hell. I got enough of this; you're going down this time! A left, a right, the one-two, quick! He’s down. . . Where’s that neutral corner? “One, two, three, four ———”’ The bell! In his corner: “ What round is it, Tom? Seven more? I can’t wait. I'll get him next time sure. I had him down. . . . Give me some water— burning up. Wipe that sweat outa my eyes, Steve; swab 'em out!” Tom said, “Don’t try to get him this time. He was stalling on the count. You got a hard one coming in to the ropes. Take it easy next round, you hear?” The bell. He went out feeling pretty good. The Russian looked bad. He sure did—-one eye closed, lip split open. The Russian was pawing the air; he stood flat-footed waiting for Kosloff to come, but Kosloff didn’t. Well, it was up to him. He danced in, | sparring—love taps to get the Russian sore. . . . Hey, what was this? He tried a right, missed; he tried a left, missed. . . Where was Kosloff? What had happened? There he was, big, black, sprawling in front of him? Something was wrong. He shouldn’t have missed those punches. He tried again. Aw-aw, slam, slam—he himself took two that time. What was the matter with him? . . . There’s that right of his. . . . He felt the blow land; it jerked his head back. . Why hadn’t he ducked? He meant to duck. Everything looked funny. His eyes—he wasn’t seeing right. He bored in close. One-two, one- two—he landed those. They sank deep into the Russian’s belly—the clinch. He hung on, shook his head, tried to get that fog out of his eyes. The bell. In his corner: “‘Tom! My eyes! Wash "em out—sweat, blood, something.” Tom said: ‘Steve cleaned ’em out last time. . . . You’realittle punchdrunk. .. . Here’s the ammonia—a deep snifter. . . . Clinch and fight close to him till your head clears.” The bell. Something was wrong with his eyes. The Russian loomed before him like a gorilla swinging a windmill of fists. He bored in taking hard rights and lefts; they drove him back. He tried again. He threw two hard rights and a left hook, then a straight left; he missed them all. Thud, thud, thud; a bonging in his ears—sounded as if he had water in them. He clinched, hung on, felt the referee’s hands prying him loose. The Russian grunted; his breath was hot; he began to take a beating. He was scarcely conscious of the rounds; time slipped into an eternity of clinches, of faltering retreats. On the radio it sounded this way: “They're coming out for the ninth round. Kerry looks pretty well messed up, EVENING POST folks, but the Cossack don’t look much better. Kerry seems out on his feet; it don’t look like he can stand the gaff much longer. The Russian landed a hard right, and another, and another. Kerry fell intoa clinch. Kosloff’s seconds are yelling at him to go in and finish the job, but Kosloff is too tired. Both boys are very tired. They’re sparring now.” One sporting writer explained it as fol- lows: “‘ Kerry was going great guns until the middle of the fourth round. Then he took a terrific right on the forehead. The punch seemed to have affected the optical nerves. During the fourth, fifth and sixth rounds, Kerry was swinging wildly and missing punches repeatedly. The Cossack tried to make the most of his opportunity, but the terrific lacing he had taken earlier in the fight rendered him powerless to put over a finishing punch. Kerry recovered somewhat in the ninth and tenth, and fought Kosloff on an even footing. But he was too tired to overcome the long lead the Russian piled up in the middle rounds. The decision of the judges awarding the fight to Kosloff on points was merited.” Another lyric sports writer had this to report: “Sergei Kosloff, the Blasting Siege Gun of the Soviet, became the Red Menace of fistiana in very truth tonight, when, in the mort cataclysmal upset in the history of the ring he battered the mighty Kerry Sheridan into impotent pulp. Only Sheridan’s great fighting heart and indomitable will pre- vented the Cossack Bone Crusher from winning by a knock-out. Rising to great heights after a bad start in the early rounds ad While these explanations were traveling to a startled world via telegraph and radio, Kerry Sheridan was getting an explanation of his own from Manager Tom Brook. They were alone together behind the locked door of the arena dressing room. “Did you sell me out, Tom? Did you, Tom?” he implored through puffed and bleeding lips. “I won’t sock you, Tom. I just want to know how you did it, so I'll know it wasn’t my fault.” Manager Brook, tears in his eyes, pushed the battered fighter down on the cot. “By all that’s holy, I didn’t do it, boy,” he said. “It was Steve. Remember, just before the fourth round? He was swabbing your eyes? He had something that dilated the pupils. I didn’t tumble to it at all. I thought you was punch drunk. I didn’t tumble to it until Steve beat it right after the tenth-round bell.” Sheridan pulled himself to a sitting pos- ture, his fists clenched. “Where is he now?” “You'll never be able to give him what he deserves. He'll make it his business to see you first.” There was a rapping on the door. “Who is it?” “A reporter. We want a statement from Kerry.” The fighter stood up. “T’ll give ’em a statement, all right,’’ he said. “I'll let °em know how Rip Harkness fixed this fight!” Tom Brook’s hand was over his mouth before the thick, husky words were fully uttered. “You can’t do it, Kerry boy,” he said in an earnest whisper. “They'd put it down as a loser’s squawk. You couldn’t prove it. They'd howl you down as a bum sport.” The boy sank weakly to the cot. Tom was right. Nobody would believe it. December 14, 1929 Manager Brook stepped outside to dic- tate a statement to the press. He said in part: ‘‘Kosloff fought a fine clean fight. I was never hit so hard as he hit me in the fourth round. After that punch I couldn’t seem to get going. But I certainly would like to meet him again. I’m confident that the result will be different next time.” Two hours later, in Kerry Sheridan’s hotel room, the arrival of one Denny Cros- land was announced. “Don’t send that guy up here,” said Kerry. “I’m feeling good enough now to kill him.” But, again, Tom Brook’s counsel pre- vailed. “We'll talk to the lousy rat,” he said. “Rip sent him over with a proposition. You can bet on it. Act like you don’t suspect a thing and we'll hear what Rip has up his sleeve.” Although Mr. Crosland had fortified him- self with considerable whisky, he entered the presence of Kerry Sheridan and his manager warily. “Just wanted to know how you was feel- ing,” he said, “‘and to say how sorry I am you didn’t win.” “That’s all right, Denny.” Disarmed by Kerry’s mildness, Denny continued: “I’m awful sorry I talked so wild this morning, Kerry. I didn’t mean a word of it. Everybody knows you're a square-shooter. ‘May the best man win’ is my motto; yes, sir. And say, have you heard from Rip yet?” “No. I guess I will though.” “Sure you will,’”’ said Mr. Crosland heart- ily. “Rip is sorry the fight ended the way it did, because he’s strong for you. But cheer up, Kerry. I say ‘Cheer up.’ Un’er- stand? Every cloud has a silver lining. I saw Rip just a while ago. ’S’matter of fact, he’s down in the lobby now. I think Rip wants to sign you up for a return fight with Kosloff.” “That so?” “Sure. And what a clean-up that will be! The fans don’t like this Russian. Jush between me an’ you, y’un’erstand, they don’t like him. He’s a Bullsheeveeky, ain’t he? Sure he is. Keep the champeenship in Amurricka—that’s my motto. The way the fight turned out tonight, it’sh all fer the best. It gives you a swell build-up for a return fight. Un’erstan’? You’re the White Hope. Sure y’ are, Kerry. The next time you fight K-Kash—what’s hish name?— the next time you fight ’im, the fans’ll tear down the park! The gate’ll be three million dollarsh, at leastsh. I say at leastsh.” “‘Swell,”’ said the White Hope; “the old build-up, hey? The old Rip Harkness build-up! Rip’s a smart guy. He sure is. Why don’t he come up? I'd like to talk over a contract with Rip before he changes his mind.” “Good idea. I'll go get him.” Rip Harkness—suave, flinty-eyed, debo- nair—appeared in due course. He was im- maculate in evening dress. He had a mauve orchid bud in his buttonhole. “"Lo, Kerry. ’Lo, Tom,” he greeted, seeming to smile, but not quite smiling. “Denny has been telling me the fine, sports- manlike way you’re taking defeat. That’s the spirit, kid! You fought a game fight tonight. I’m proud of you. America is proud of you!” ““Yeah?”’ said Kerry Sheridan pleasantly. His right fist clenched and he moved with lightning swiftness. It was the best knock-out punch Kerry Sheridan had ever delivered. It ought to be on record. “ Kerry!” Manager Brook stooped over the uncon- scious figure of Rip Harkness, who in press dispatches that night was being hailed as “‘the world’s most daring impresario of the prize ring.’”” Manager Brook looked up. Kerry Sheridan had started for the door. “Hey, where you going?” The bruised and battered figure straight- ened. “To Denver,” said Kerry Sheridan calmly. “I’m getting married next week.”

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 147 “a. A Christmas Reminder” /’.% « exv t ive him (freedom from shaving torture ] SAVE HIS FACE AND YOU SAVE ALL | A dull and scratchy razor can ruin even the sweetest of dispositions. That’s why many a grouchy morning often springs from a scratchy shave... and it’s a wise wife who knows the symptom .. . and the remedy. This Christmas, be a little diplomat and give him the new Valet AutoStrop Razor. By saving his face it will save his disposi- The Valet AutoStrop Razor is the only one that strops, shaves and cleans without removing the blades. By automatically stropping the blade, just as the master barber does, the Valet AutoStrop Razor instantly smooths out the scratchy needle points . . . and makes each shave swift . . . smooth . and cool as a tion... and safeguard the family peace. white Christmas. STROPPING tS ESSENTIAL TO THE PERFECT SHAVE 7 ae, vAL! we ro 5trop RO™ A The ROMAN Complete with strop 5 and ten blades (Other DeLuxe Sets $5 to $25) New _ million dollar VALET AutoStrop RAZOR « Also, London « Paris « Rio de janeiro AutoStrop Safety Razor Co., Inc., 656 First Avenue, New York « AutoStrop Safety Razor Co., Ltd., 83 Duke Street, Toronto, Canada

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 149 THE PRINCESS AND THE PLUMBER Centinued from Page § “*T don’t know when I shall ever wear it,” she said; “unless this American, when he arrives, should ask me to dine.” “‘He will undoubtedly ask you,” said Miss Eden. ‘‘ Whether it will be wise for you to accept or not ie Stephanie laughed and chucked her gov- erness under the chin. ‘‘Edie,”’ she said, “there isn’t anything anyone could ask me to do that I wouldn't accept.” The first thing Stephanie could remem- ber was her mother dressed for a court ball in Vienna in all the family emeralds and pearls—the pearls had gone long ago, and the emeralds were now going — the beautiful Princess of Daritzia, much more regal and regularly beautiful than Stephanie would ever be. The child had been only six when the war began. Miss Eden, recently released from another princely schoolroom, had come to her then, and had never left her; not through all the disintegration that had fol- lowed the war; not even now, when, as Stephanie could not help suspecting, her father often acted on the belief that the last of the Daritzia jewels could be better spent than in paying the salary of a weather- beaten old Englishwoman. Once she had asked Miss Eden outright, and been severely snubbed: “What a curious question for you to ask, my dear. Of course your father is scrupulous about my salary.” And still Stephanie had her doubts. She had inherited conflicting qualities from her two parents — a little mysticism from a Rus- sian strain, something gay and worldly from her Viennese ancestors, and something deeply practical and sane from her Italian mother. Until very recently, she had not been unhappy. She loved her native moun- tains, and under the guidance of the old head forester, now dead, she had become an ex- pert mountain climber. Miss Eden kept her mind actively at work, and she had taught herself music, so that she played very nicely by ear, and the song hits of Broadway, only two or three years late, could often be heard echoing through the castle of Daritzia. But for the last year or so the girl had been less contented. In the first place, she had always assumed without contradiction that when she was eighteen she would go to live wherever her father was, and now she was almost twenty-one and there had been no suggestion of such a plan. Then she had ceased to blind herself to some of her father’s less charming qualities— his selfishness, his irresponsibility. People who are much alone become clear-sighted, they turn the pages of life very slowly and read every word. Stephanie’s present had become no less agreeable, but she could not deny that the future was black. At her father’s death the Daritzia estates passed to a distant cousin. What would be left for her—a grudging home with her aunt in Spain, a refuge with a well-to-do half brother of Miss Eden’s near Liverpool; or to stay on here in her own mountains and quietly relapse into the peasant class? There were many such cases known to her in recent years. Poverty and self-denial were not terrible to her, but the idea of losing caste, here, in the country that had given her family all its power and position —this terrified her so that she hardly dared think of it. She made up many romances as to how she might be saved: She would wander as a piano player through all the cabarets of Europe and arrive finally in Paris. ‘“Who is the blond-headed pianist?"’ She would turn her head. “My God! My daughter Stephanie, Princess of Daritzia!"’ Or there would be another war, and all the monarch- ies of Europe would be restored, and the first action of a certain good-looking young crown prince Or else, suddenly one day a handsome stranger would appear in the valley, having heard that there was a beautiful and unfortunate princess im- prisoned there—a great noble, probably an English earl-—for Miss Eden, like all her countrymen, had been able to throw an extraordinary glamour over the history and aristocracy of her own land the son, per- haps, of the English ambassador whom her father, in old times, had considered the handsomest man he had ever seen. It was not these dreams that alarmed Miss Eden; it was their combination with the warm, practical, southern blood of her mother that might so easily lead the girl to act upon them. Through the winter and the spring the renovation of the castle went on without event. Fat brown little Herr Potzi grew neither thin nor pale, for that was not his habit of body, but he put as much devotion, passion and energy into the work as if his own future and finances depended on it, in- stead of the prince's. As the day for the arrival of the tenant drew near, everything was in order except one— the central heating plant was not func- tioning; at least not in the great drawing- room. Everywhere else it worked perfectly. A valve was turned and almost at once a pleasant glow began to make itself felt in the bedrooms, the servants’ rooms, the din- ing room, the corridors — everywhere except in the great drawing-room; a room so vast that its one fireplace had never made much impression on it and there had been for a hundred years a huge porcelain stove in the opposite corner. But with the installation of the heating system this had been taken out and sold to a museum in America at an astounding price, and now, at the last mo- ment, Herr Potzi discovered, to his horror, that the radiators in this room — the most important of all— remained absolutely cold or emitted a faint tepid air from their up- per sections. Potzi was in despair. He re- membered there was a clause in the lease which stipulated that a modern heating system should be installed adequate to raise the rooms to a designated temperature; without this, the lease might be canceled and a demand made for the return of the rent—the rent already spent. He began harrying and abusing Merk], the local plumber, and at the same time dis- patching long letters and even telegrams to the United States Central Heating Cor- poration at Turin. Merkl, whose grandfather had put in the first stationary bathtub in the castle--a huge tin affair with brass taps —had three answers to make: First, that you could not expect any heating system to be as good as stoves; second, that he would have made even this one work, if he had not been inter- fered with by that man from Turin who came and made drawings, as if he, Merkl, had not come of a long line of plumbers; and, third, that all American inventions were cheap and undependable, and this was the worst of all. Herr Potzi's instinctive sympathies were with Merkl, whom he had known as a little tow-headed boy carrying his father’s tools; but Potzi was a just man, and he could not help thinking that a great company success- fully heating so much of Europe must be supplying a better type of equipment than Merk! admitted. Besides, Potzi had been impressed with the slow, solid, German en- gineer who had been sent to make the plan and had left those rolls of impressive blue prints. He telegraphed again to Turin, but it was not until two days befofe the expected ar- rival of the American tenant,that he got any reply. Then he received a telegram that said “‘our Mr. Petres’”’ was even then on his way to Daritzia, and that it was essential that the local plumber be there to meet him. Hopé sprang in Herr Potzi's breast, al- though Mr. Petres was not the solid Ger- man who had made the first plan; he wished the company could have sent the same man. Early the next morning, ‘‘our Mr. Petres” got off the train, after many changes at the most inconvenient hours of the night, at a small railroad station in a green meadow beside a swiftly running river. He would have called it a brook in America, but he knew that in Europe it would be put down on all the maps as a river. He was met by the pony cart; only this time Herr Potzi was driving, not the princess. At the first sight of ‘“‘our Mr. Petres,” Potzi’s heart sank; he looked so young and slim, standing there in a dark flannel suit that might do very well for summer in Turin, but which seemed thin and poor for these high valleys. Then, almost automat- ically, Potzi began to bully; not noticing that ‘‘our Mr. Petres” had a forward-thrust chin and a strangely calm blue eye, under a thatch of black hair As the pony started on its slow journey home, Herr Potzi put his case strongly: The equipment was inadequate, worse than useless; everything must be corrected or else entirely removed; a suit for the full amount of the rent might very well be brought; a company that could not give better service should be publicly branded. The anxiety of a month broke out in his flowing eloquence. Mr. Petres was sympathetic. “E vero e vero,”’ he kept saying. Speaking correct, but rather careful Italian, he began with great gentleness to extract from the swirl- ing waters of Herr Potzi's rhetoric the small nuggets of actual fact. By the time the pony had crept up the beechwood avenue and stopped suddenly before the side door of the castle, Mr. Petres had contrived to soothe Herr Potzi; had made him feel that responsibility was lifted from his shoulders, that the heating system would either work or all moneys would be refunded, that the whole situation was not a black welter of despair and dishonesty, but an interesting little difficulty, quite in the line of every- day experience. And for a young man under thirty speaking a language not his own, this was something of an accomplishment. In fact, Herr Potzi now began to suspect that “‘our Mr. Petres”’ was not just a grace- ful black-haired boy who smoked a good many cigarettes as he talked, but a care- fully trained American executive, with that passionate belief in the value of American business methods which makes American business romantic to those who so believe. In his capacity of executive, “‘our Mr Petres’’ had been under no delusion; he had known from the beginning that his chief problem would be with Merkl. Herr Potzi, fiery and confused, was yet eager that the system should work, but Merkl, sulky and silent, cared only that he himself should not be put in the wrong The investigation was a slow process. Petres asked first for the blue prints, and as there was a long delay on Merkl’s part in producing these, he made a < areful in- spection of the boiler and radiators. Then, on the production of the blue prints, it was evident, after a little examination, that one of them was missing the sheet that dealt with the drawing-room. Merk! declared that it had never been there, that he had never seer it, that he had done the best he cOuld without. Petres wasted no time in argument, although Potzi, dfiven mad by Merkl's obstinacy, was almost ready to shake him into confessing that he had lost it. Petres firat sent a telegram to Turin, in the hope that there might be a duplicate on file there, and then asked to have the drawing-room, floor taken up This had taken time. It was now late in the afternoon, and Merk! declared with truth that his legal working day was over He had not liked the trend of events for some time, and a sneaking suspicion that something his wife had once wrapped his lunch in was the missing sheet gave him an unedsy feeling in Petres’ presence. He agreed to let his journeymen take up the floor for Petres, and then they both haugh- tily withdrew. Herr Potzi was more upset than ever Take up the drawing-room floor when the room was all mounted curtains and rugs and silver bibelots on the table, and price- less miniatures in the vitrines? He trotted off to consult Miss Eden. Miss Eden pointed her nose. “Oh,” she said, “so this is American efficiency, is it? Everything has to be done twice.” She and Stephanie were sitting in their little schoolroom. Stephanie, like a princess in a fairy tale, was embroidering a chair cover, and Miss Eden was reading aloud an expurgated edition of The Morte D’ Arthur At the idea of foreign workmen being in the prince’s drawing-room, they both decided that they woultl transfer themselves there and guard the prince's treasures. And so, when Petres came back in over- alls — very dirty ones borrowed from Merkl's helper — he saw this picture: A golden head bent over a piece of tapestry, and a small alert little figure in gray tweeds with a black velvet collar and a pair of spectacles Neither of them looked at him, and he went to work. It was just as he had expected. Merk! had laid out the piping in defiatice of the law of gravity. ‘Good old law of gravity,” he thought. “If these fellows would only recognize that it always gets you in the end.” He was about to gather up his tools, when he became aware that the book Misa Eden was reading was Malory’s classic —it had always been one of his favorites and he delayed a moment, lying flat on his face, squinting down under the flooring, and listened. Miss Eden read: And as they rode by the way, Sir Gawaine said, ‘Sir Knight, | marvel that so valiant a knight as ye bee have no love of ladice or gerithe women.” ‘Sir,’ said Sir Marhaus, “they nam me wrongfully that give me that name, but well I wot it is the damsels of the turret that so name me, and other such as they be. Now shall I tell you what cause I hate them so. For they bee witches and enchantresses the most part of them e “Oh, there’s the mail!" cried Stephanie, interrupting. “J think there must be a let- ter from my father"’ and she ran out. But, as usual, there was no letter from the prince or from anyone else; only the local newspaper, printed with very black ink on very thin paper. Stephanie came hack reading it as she walked, ahd it was mere luck that she did not trip over the blue- denim legs extended on the floor. She had found an exciting bit of news. Count von Arli, their former neighbor in the valley, had engaged himself to an American widow of colossal fortune “Imagine it, Edie!"’ cried the girl. “Oh if my father would onty do something like that!” “Marry an American?” exclaimed Miss Edie in careful Anglo-Saxon French. Usu- ally she and Stephanie spoke Pinglish to- getber, but now, for fear the American plumber should overhear them, they spoke in French. “Oh, I don’t think the prince would ever do anything like that.” “Don't you think it would be possible to marry an American?’’ said Stephanie earn estly, and at this the figure on the floor raised his head, turtlelike, and took a good look at the speaker “It's been done,” answered Mise Eden with aslight sniff. “ They are extremely imi- tative adaptable, | believe is their word They learn to copy good models and almost forget their unfortunate accent “T have an idea they are kind and kind,” said the princess “What do you know of them, my dear?’ “1 know a great deal,” replied Stephanie, rather hastily assembling her knowledge. “T know that they are very rich and have buildings a hundred feet high, and that North and South America quarreled once over their slaves, and | suppose they built the Panama Canal in order A bit of dust must have fallen into the throat of the plumber at this point, for he gave a series of short coughs, which the two women did not notice at all, as Miss Eden pointed out a slight, and to her mind er tirely natural, historical mistake Not North and South America, dear, but Northern and Southern States Continued on Page {5! generous

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14, 1929 Ask your dealer to show you this beautiful Normandy chair (C 3015 CX) and gateleg end table (C 5023 G) illustrated in Antique Maple Send 6 cents to Heywood-W akefield Company, 209 W ashin ton Street, Boston, Mass., to cover the cost of mailing our new edition of “Color Furniture in the Home,” a helpfu book on interior decoration.

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(Continued from Page 149) “Then who was Bolivar?” said the prin- cess. “But no matter,” she added, and it is to be hoped that the shades of the Great Liberator forgave her. “The point is: Would my father do such a thing, if he could?” “You mean,” asked the governess, “he would be too proud to stoop an Stephanie shook her head. “No, Edie; I mean he would be too selfish, too easy- going. You know it must take a good deal of courage and self-sacrifice to marry for entirely mercenary reasons. It takes a cer- tain sort of character. No one ever admits it, but it’s true. People pretend they don’t do it from noble reasons, but really they don’t do it because they haven’t enough will power. I could do it, but I doubt if my father could.” “I hope you never will,” replied Miss Eden. She was often shocked by something clear and executive in her pupil—something which she, with a touch of Victorian senti- ment in her make-up, called hard. “I certainly shall,”’ said Stephanie; “at least I shall if I ever have the chance, which does not seem very likely.” “You would regret it, I can tell you.” “Probably. But do you think I shouldn’t regret not doing it?”’ said the girl, with real feeling trembling in her voice. “I should be desperately unhappy. I shudder at the mere idea, but it would be an active, violent, lively sort of unhappiness. I might even kill him, Edie. I wonder if a jury here would hang me if I did. But look at the other possibility—the certainty, indeed. You know, as well as I do, that when my father dies there won’t be a penny left; perhaps even before he dies.”’ “Your aunt would be obliged to offer you a home.” “But I don’t like my aunt, even under the best circumstances, and she hates me. I can imagine what it would be like to be a pensioner there. No, I should stay here like the Countess of Iskia, and try and farm like a peasant, and take up with the forester, who, they say, beats her.” “My dear a) “Edie, [want to be immensely, gloriously rich. I want to snub my Aunt Elizabeth and make this castle comfortable for my father to live in, and help all these people who have always looked to us for help. I want to have an apartment in Paris in the spring, and a yacht at Cowes. I want to go to balls like my mother, all in jewels, and be admired and have everyone say, as I come into the room: ‘Oh, voila la belle princesse de Daritzia.’ And as she said these words she rose to give a spirited sketch of her en- trance into a ballroom, and fell over the ex- tended legs of ‘“‘our Mr. Petres.” “Veuillez—entshuldigen—I mean,” she said, finally remembering that the creature was probably English-speaking, “I’m sorry. I hope I did not hurt you.” Petres, biting back the words: “Rien de quoi, mademoiselle,”’ for French was almost as his native tongue to him, said in his best New York accent, but without taking his head from the shelter of the radiator: “‘No harm done, miss. I guess my legs are too long anyhow.” The princess laughed so gayly at this, that Miss Eden, who was getting just a little deaf, asked sharply: “‘What did he say to you?” “Il disait que ses jambes étaient trop longues. Il avait peut-étre raison,” replied the girl. The interruption had seemed trivial to Miss Eden and had not altered her train of thought: ‘“‘Of course,” she went on as if nothing had happened, “if your family had not lost its fortune, if the war had not come ——”’ “Isn’t it queer? I might have been a queen or an archduchess. But it isn’t pov- erty I mind; it’s being so bored, Edie— having nothing to do or to look fc rward to. It might be rather fun to be poor like Trilby, and go out ——”’ “My dear, I hope you will never be like Trilby,” said Miss Eden. She always knew she should not have allowed the girl to read that book, but it was a favorite of her own. THE SATURDAY Theexamination of the drawing-room had long ago been completed, but Oswald Petres could not tear himself away from a conver- sation which seemed to him, on the whole, the most interesting he had ever heard. It was not until he heard Miss Eden comment- ing on the length of time he was taking that he rose reluctantly, gathered his tools to- gether, and left the room. Neither of the women even glanced in his direction. He finished his examination, and early in the afternoon sent off his report by tele- graph to Turin. He added a suggestion that if he were not needed in the head office, he thought it advisable for him to stay and see the thing through—a week at most. Then he had another long struggle with Merk] over the question of whether water could or could not be made to run uphill, and about eight o’clock received an answer from Turin, directing him to stay. Under Herr Potzi’s guidance he found himself a lodging in the town, and spent a pleasant evening, drinking a mild local beer and lis- tening to the band. He had come from Turin with nothing but the clothes he wore and things for the night, expecting to go back the next day. So, having nothing to do until Merk! had undone some of his mistakes, Petres got up early the next morning, bought himself a pair of heavy hobnailed boots, gray stock- ings always rolled below the knee, green cloth shorts, a green coat with silver but- tons, and an alpenstock. He intended to climb a mountain or so, for though he had had no mountain climbing experiences in Europe, he had spent several holidays as a boy, in Wyoming and Montana, and knew his head was steady on a height. Sitting among bare rocks and snows, look- ing out over peaks and clouds, he smoked a pipe and thought about Stephanie. Prin- cesses were not an entire novelty in his life. As a child he had lived several years in Paris, where his father was a minor official in an American bank. He remembered there had been 2 princess about then, American-born—an elderly lady in a faded sable cape that always smelt of camphor. When he was ten his father had gone back to America, and Oswald had gone to school and a technical college there. He had begun his business life in another heat- ing company, but had been with the United States Central Heating Corporation for sev- eral years. A few months before, they had sent him to the Turin office. Since he ar- rived he had been working very hard, partly because when he wasn’t working he was hideously lonely. His Italian was not quite up to social contacts. Besides, he missed his rather tempestuous family—his mother and father and three brothers. And now suddenly into his empty horizon this girl had flashed, with her funny, eager little face and her incredible hair. “If I were sixteen,” he thought, “I should say I had fallen in love with her. And,’’ he added more candidly, “being twenty-nine, I’m not sure I haven’t. Lord, what would the family think if I should bring home a princess?” He thought of his father, now the presi- dent of a bank in Baltimore, working harder than any of his clerks, but always allowing himself time off to go to the races; of his mother, high-spirited and good-tempered, who took in all daughters-in-law with a sort of anaconda embrace. His elder brother had married his trained nurse, his second a spoilt little heiress. It made no difference to his mother; she did not ask what their qualities or tastes were; she simply ab- sorbed them as part of the larky, rollicking, affectionate hierarchy that was the Petres family. Doubtless, she would do the same with a princess. And this, it must be con- fessed, was all the consideration that he gave to the problem of a certain difference in rank. He lost his way coming down the moun- tain and found himself descending a rapid stream that ended in a dark gorge, a place of waterfalls and pools. Near the bottom of this he found that wooden galleries and bridges had been built to facilitate access to the more spectacular waterfalls; but it EVENING POST must have been done in the prosperous days of the castle, for now the wood was rotting | and boards here and there were broken, so that the whole structure formed more of a danger than a convenience. Still, it was a comforting assurance that he was approach- ing civilization again. Then, as the largest waterfal! swirled into a big black pool, he saw a golden head be- low him. Stephanie had on hobnail boots like his, a green cloth skirt made by the tailor who had made his shorts, but there the likeness in costume stopped. She had on a faint blue flannel shirt, open at her throat, and she wore no hat. She sat bend- ing over the pool, and dabbling the alpen- stock she held in the dark water. Oswald Petres swept off his hat. jour, Altesse,”’ he said. She raised her head, startled at this ad- dress, and saw a man dressed, according to her ideas, as a gentleman should be dressed for mountain sport. “‘ Bon jour, monsieur,” she answered. She was racking her brains to think if she had ever seen this slim, black-haired stranger before. “I have just been up the Grumalian Mountain,” he said, “and what a beautiful lump of a mountain that is.” Her face softened, for she loved her native country. This time he spoke English— not in the ac- cent of East Side New York, as he had done when under the radiator, but in the speech of educated America—a speech difficult for Europe to identify. The English, hear- ing it, are apt to exclaim: ‘Oh, but I should never have taken you for an American” —naively supposing that anyone would be pleased with such a compliment. Stephanie was completely baffled by it, for she had been brought up by Miss Eden to believe that all Americans shrieked through their noses and burred their final r’s. “It’s very hard climbing—the Grumal- ian,” she said politely; “especially that last face of rock on the western side.” “You've done it?” “T do it often.” “Alone?” “ Bon She nodded. His heart fainted with ad- | miration; it had been all he wanted in the way of dizzy dangers. | “I don’t know any other woman who would dare to do such a thing.” She smiled. “ You don’t know any other woman who has so little else to do.” “a Bored? ” She evidently felt that this was moving alittle toofast. ‘I think,” she said, “that it is time for you to tell me who you are.” He disagreed with her. “Suppose,” he said, “that I told you that I was a great English nobleman come to carry you off to a Norman castle on the North Sea.” She stared at him. Could it have come at last? P “Or a Russian prince, escaped, exiled, penniless, but ———”’ “You might be Russian—yes, that might be. You are not so unlike my father’s cou- sin, Prince Serge of Oscara.”’ She believed so easily that he said hastily, “How would it do for me to be just an American plumber?” At this she laughed pleasantly. “I know you are not an American,” she answered, “and I am sure you are not a plumber.” “How can you be so sure! You have not had much experience of either.”’ “I know something of America,” she said with dignity, and he felt tempted to answer that if it were just that North and South America had quarreled over slavery, but he refrained, and she went on: “I admit I don’t know much about the world or the people who are running the world nowa- days, but I do know my own sort of people. I know you are a gentleman. I could not be mistaken about that.” “How do you know?” She found it not easy to say, but made a brave effort. “‘ You are so sure of yourself,” she said. “‘ You're not thinking what I will think of you, and you speak to me as an equal. I know that nothing I did to snub you would ever make you feel inferior.” (Continued on Page 153 151 1NGS CW pleasure, i Here is that amazing new electrical cooker that boils, poaches and scram- bles eggs right at the breakfast table, every one done just right, without timing or watching. Com- pletely automatic. A practical gift and a handsome addition to any breakfast table. HANKSCRAFTET EGG COOKER $6.00 West of Rockies Cooks eggs in live steam, four at a time. Water poured in top cup completes electrical circuit. The amount of water regulates the cook- ing time. Starts in five seconds. When all water turns to steam, cur- is automatically shut off Plug into light socket, i ce C85 in cooking »f” and replace top. Pour 2 to § of water in top ing to directions. When steam stops tom- ing from top remowe eggs cooked exactly | right. Choose from three colors—green, yellow and blue. Ask for a demonstration at your local electrical dealer, electric i? light company or department store. 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(Continued from Page 151) He looked at her, thinking how much democracy and the higher aristocracy had in common. “I dare say you could make me feel morally inferior to you,” he said. “But never socially,”’ she answered, and added suddenly, “I must go home.” She had begun the declaration bravely, but her voice failed toward the end. “Oh, no,” he said. She laughed. “There; that’s what I mean. A peasant would say: ‘I beg of the honored lady not to leave.’” “I didn’t lay any claim to being a peas- ant,”’ said Oswald; amused to think she knew of no intermediate rank. “And I would not have believed you if you had. Good-by.” She obviously lin- gered. “Will you take me up one of your other mountains tomorrow?” he asked. She looked up at him and smiled. She looked away and became inordinately grave. She dug holes in the rock with the point of her alpenstock. Entranced, he watched the spectacle of a pure spirit yielding to temp- tation. “T know I ought not,” pered. “Why not? Give me one good reason.” ““You don’t need it. You know very well that if your sister “ “The Lady Grace Emeline Victoria Alex- andra’ ad “Exactly. You would tell her that if the man was of her own rank in life he would find a way to make her acquaintance cor- rectly. And if he were not “Well, what then?” “It would not be dignified to meet him clandestinely.”’ “On the contrary, I should tell her that until she learned to judge a man as a man, and not as a member of a class, she was in danger of knowing nothing about human nature.’ “How can you judge anyone not in your own rank? What standards have you? Oh, a man may have, but not a woman.” “You make me see why it is that aristoc- racies are going to the wall.” She laughed. “‘You argue too much,” she said. “‘I was going to do it anyhow. I know the most beautiful place in the world to take you.” He answered that anywhere she took him would be the most beautiful place in the world. They made an engagement for two o'clock the next day in the ravine, and parted at the edge of the whirling black pool. He raised her hand to his lips,.rejoicing that what was to him a caress was to her a merely formal salutation. Once she looked back and gave him a queer little smile. She had looked back to assure herself he had not vanished into thin air. At last—at last he had come. Who could he be? Some relation of the Arlis? But their castle was shut up. Some Vien- nese on a walking tour? He might be Irish, with those gray-blue eyes and that black hair—one of those great old Irish houses risen from barbarism. Miss Eden had told her about them. A great Irish peer—that would account for his accent, which she thought was not quite that of an English nobleman. She went home on the wings of a wild elation that was somehow not love; that was excited, curious, not tender. She found Miss Eden in the little school- room with her feet on the last porcelain stove left in the castle—for, obviously, the expensive new system was not to be set go- ing when there was no expensive tenant to warm. Miss Eden was reading the English newspapers, which had just come, and she did not even comment on the fact that the princess was a little later than usual. “Where have you been, my dear?”’ she said, glancing her eye over the court cal- endar. “Oh, just up to that dell in the Frauen- berg I like so much’’—so easily can the habitually truthful deceive. Finding her companion occupied, Ste- phanie slipped to the bookcase and ab- stracted an English peerage of an ancient she almost whis- 9 THE SATURDAY date and spent a long time fruitlessly flut- tering the pages. Before she went to bed, she asked, “‘ Edie, do you know any English lady with this combination of names— Grace Emeline Vic- toria Alexandra?” No, Miss Eden didn’t; though, as she said, they were good, sound English names, every one of them. “‘Why do you want to know?” Stephanie seemed suddenly to grow vague: ‘“‘Isn’t she the one who is going to be married— whose picture was in the Illus- trated?" she said, and began talking of something else. That night she hardly slept. She was plotting how to get away for the afternoon, considering the adventure of her own dar- ing, and the enigma of the stranger’s per- sonality. It was like living a mystery story, in which the excitement of the plot ob- secured the charm of the hero. She kept thinking: ‘Before the day is over I shall know who he is.” She had no trouble in getting away, for immediately after luncheon, Miss Eden sank into a comfortable doze, and the girl fled away to the ravine unobserved. But even that day she was not to know who he was, for, by one of those strange reversions to infantile fantasy that come to people in the first gay excitement of falling in love, they found themselves in the midst of a long game—of his being a king’s son, and she a beggar maid held in captivity by a dragon, or an ice king, or an old witch, for Miss Eden figured thus for a few mo- ments in the drama. After two hours of climbing, they sank down in the deep, soft, arsenic green of the undergrowth. They were in a little depres- sion in a high ridge between two mountains; alpine roses grew thick about them in every variety of pink. Between the boles of the tall trees there were glimpses of snow fields and gray rocks. On their way they had started roebuck and espied chamois. The air was crystalline. Oswald had brought tea, rather meagerly compressed into a box that could be strapped on his back, but as Stephanie had never heard of such luxury as this, she had no criticism to make. In fact, she enjoyed it so much that she ate a little more than her share. “T see the dragon starves you as well as everything else,’’ said Oswald, as the last piece of F-uchen disappeared between her red lips. She shook her head guiltily. “‘I’m afraid I’m rather greedy, and my mountains al- ways make me hungry.” She laid a mild trap for him. “English girls—they do not eat?” “Heartily, as far as I’ve observed,” he returned. And they instantly began to com- pose a fairy feast as it would be served in the king, his father’s, great hall, with the EVENING POST major-domo in black with gold chains, and the hothouse fruit in gold platters, and the orchids in tall gold vases. He had not the faintest intention of de- ceiving her. In fact, it never crossed his mind that deception was possible. He as- sumed that anyone who spoke with him five minutes would know he was an American, and that the princess had always known that there was only one American he could be—the man sent up by the Turin office to attend to the heating system. In fact, it seemed to him that their whole game of his being a king’s son was based on their com- mon knowledge that that was just exactly what he wasn’t. But worse than this, he would never have guessed that, even if she had failed to understand, it would make any difference to her. He had found that Europe nowadays very generally shared his own conviction that it was a fine thing to be an American. Again they parted in the ravine. He had an excellent plan for the next day. He found that she had never been farther than the pony or her own feet could carry her, except when, as a child, she went to and fro in the train. He found he could hire a motor and take her the tour of thirty or forty miles in the afternoon. She hesitated, but not very sincerely. “TI think I am getting very wicked,” she said, but she said it as if this were an aspect that could be dealt with at some future time. He did not mention a cloud on his own horizon—namely, that he would be obliged to do some work the following day, and might not be able to get away quite as early as three o’clock. All the next morning he drove Merk! and Merkl’s helper; and Herr Potzi, watching the process, admired and exulted. There was a young man who knew how to get work done, who considered the responsi- bilities of his superiors as if they were his own. It was nearly three and Oswald was giv- ing his last instructions; he was speaking slowly in Italian, and Herr Potzi was trans- lating, with equal impressiveness, into Ger- man. Oswald, towering over both Potzi and Merkl, was looking at the door, when suddenly it opened and Stephanie entered, looking for Potzi in order to give him a message she had just received in a letter from her father. Oswald, not much occu- pied with his instructions, for he had given them all once before, had a mind free to smile at her, to go on with the game; at least as far as eyes meeting eyes could do it. But the girl looked at him an instant, unsmiling, and turning, ran out of the room. A plumber! Her peer, her prince, her ro- mance, a common workman. She remem- bered a story she had read once in Spanish of a girl who, like herself, permitted a stranger to converse with her in a railway carriage, supposing him to be an English nobleman of racing proclivities because he spoke so much of his horses in a box car—his ten horses that he must see to at every station and he had turned out to be a clown travel- ing with a circus. A clown! He and his sister Lady Grace Emeline! He had de- ceived her, mocked her—or no, she had made herself ridiculous. Her only comfort was that nobody knew; not even Miss Eden. He came striding out after her, having found his explanation of her sudden horror “You mustn’t think,” he said, “that I'm going to be long. I'll get away in time for us to start as we said.” She shook her head; she did not even look at him. “I can’t go. I can’t ever go anywhere with you again,” she said. He was standing, staring after her, as lit- tle Anna, her childhood playmate, came running down the corridor, crying: ‘Oh, gracious lady, the American gentleman has arrived, so handsome and bright colored, and in a magnificent motor car, with bags and servants!" And still “our Mr. Petres,” growing taller and straighter and angrier, stood and stared. TO BE CONTINUED 153 A Tire Gauge on every heel tires and trou PRESSURE DOV No more “off and on” with the air hose. Pressure Dots for Model A Ford tell to a pound when the correct amount of air has been supplied. Bl Installed on rims, Pressure | j Dots tell “*tire pulse’* at a glance or touch. 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154 He didn’t see Maddox enter; Tony said some terribly vulgar things in regard to Luella Maddox. Bob Maddox couldn't help but hear. Between the two switchmen trying to get out the door and Maddox trying te murder his fireman, business was brisk in that restaurant for several mo- ments. A mob of good Samaritans pulled Maddox off of Tony. The engineer calmed down, the fireman took on the semblance of life, and the whole affair seemed to blow overt. “Maybe that'll teach you how to speak of your betters,”” said Maddox coldly. Tony mumbled and hung his head. As has been said, this happened the after- noon of March third. The storm had just started. Yet, after Maddox left the res- taurant, he worked on his engine until train time—worked out in the open in the driving rain. Tony didn’t show up, and wouldn't go out on his run until he was threatened with dismissal. He didn’t want to go to Carlysle and have Maddox face him with Luella. No. 5—the Cannonball—was due at Townley at 6:58 p.m. She was late that night —better than two hours late. It was after nine when her whistle screamed through the brawling storm and the gleam of her headlight played dimly on the tim- bers of the viaduct. She ground to a stop. Oily flares flickered, leaped high to smatter the drab coaches a bloody hue. Voices called to other voices through the rain, a lantern bobbed, the engine chuffed away. The Luella Maddox, gleaming under the oggy, driving blanket of rain, coupled in under the steady hand of Maddox. “T don’t want to go,” said Tony Polk to the ell boy. “There’s no tellin’ what Maddox might do.” ‘He's not crazy enough to hurt that en- gine,” answered young John Griswold, the call boy. “What a night!"’ mumbled Tony, shiv- ering. From the cab, Maddox shouted at the fireman, cursed him. “See?” said Tony miserably to the call boy. “Whatcha want?” he demanded, climbing bravely up the gangway. “A fire, you loafer,”” said Maddox. “I'll give you a fire,” retorted Tony, ‘but you'd better save your compliments.” “You'd better save your breath for work,” said Maddox, cursing. Tony was not without a certain amount of courage, but though he mumbled under his breath, he built up his fire and kept the back talk in his throat. “We're goin’ in on time,” said Maddox grimly, “‘and if you don’t give me the steam to do it with, you'll wish you'd never been born.” Tony should have jumped—dropped his scoop and jumped. He missed his chance, and he never got another. A lantern bobbed, Maddox widened out, and they slammed westward. The devil marched his cohorts out of hell that night, and their playground was the stretch between Townley and Carlysle. The wind was an avalanche, the rain a second flood. There was a tugging, soggy suction through the cab, and the glare from the fire door clotted deck and gangway and bunker with bloody stretches. Tony had ten pounds of lead in his belly. Maddox had said he was going through on time! The fireman glanced at his watch, read- ing it in the red maw of the fire box. Five hours and thirty minutes was the schedule; to come in on the money better than two hours must be sliced from the running time! One hundred and ninety-six miles to Carlysle, with roller-coaster sags and curves where even heart oak couldn’t hold the rails in line. With washouts as common as fleas on a gutter mutt. It was madness! Suicide! “Suicide!” thought. thought Tony. Ghastly THE SATURDAY EVENING POST Al TALE OF THE OLD MAIN LINE (Continued from Page 21) He pitched his scoop in the bunker, slid across the buckling deck of the Luella to plaster his face against the narrow front window. The rain was a writhing curtain flung in long streamers from stack and dome and sand box; the sound of the flail- ing waters half drowned the rhythm of ex- haust. They were rocketing through an interminable cascade, packed in inky black- ness above and from the sides. Fifty feet in advance of the long-nosed pilot the beams of the headlight were gulped from sight; only when the crackle of lightning split the universe could Tony pick out land- marks and trace the shimmering, beckon- ing rails. Dimly through the murk Tony could make out the side of the headlight, could glimpse the lighted face of the ‘un- faithful wife of the engineer. Lightning short-circuited the heavens; he saw her plainly, clearly in the goblin flare. His guilt was the rack of a torture chamber, the sweat oozed from his pores. He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, whirled to face Maddox. ““Get back to work!” snarled the engi- neer. Careening, pitching, bucking through the black night went the Luella Maddox, hanz- ing to the slippery rail somehow, wrenching around the bends, smashing through the sags. Eighty, ninety, one hundred miles an hour on the down grades; the cab floor a jackstraw in a typhoon, the fireman white- faced, Maddox sneering, jeering down from his seat on the right-hand side. Tony looked ahead again, saw the bright face of the woman leading them on that wild, in- sane ride, and he looked no more until the end. Over the hills to the river, westbound for the river—the meanest stretch of rail ever spiked. Tony shoveled, clung to a grab iron, shoveled, clung like a leech again, prayed for the luck to hold. She flattened out the bumps, she straightened out the curves. “IT want steam!" Maddox standing over him on the pitching cab floor, snarling in his ear, the Luella blaring, bouncing, the storm screaming, brawling, as they cannon- balled down the steel highway at eighty miles an hour. Twice, climbing hills, Tony saw the water drop from sight in the gauge glass, knew that only a thin film lay between them and destruction. And twice he tried desper- ately to prime his inspirator, and twice Maddox sneered at him, cursed him: “Scared, you lousy scum? Keep her hot! D’ya hear me? Keep her hot!” And the engineer would wait until they’d climbed the grade, wait until Tony would know an explosion was only a matter of minutes, before he’d throw cold water into the boiler with his crosshead pump. They came down on Mill Creek with the exhaust a blended ripple through the storm, Tony saw the lights flash by the gangway, knew the section men were out on emer- gency work. Washout! He waited numbly for the crash, clinging to his favorite grab iron. She flipped up drunkenly, dropped like an elevator, tore Tony loose from his hold and flung him against the back boiler head! They thundered across the bridge, trying to swap ends! Maddox nearly went through his win- dow, but he climbed down, wooden-faced, picked up Tony’s scoop, handed it to him, and then deliberately kicked the fireman into the bunker. “T want steam!” said Maddox. Tony resumed his shoveling. They made the river, outrunning the storm. No rain now, but the mists from the Smoky wrapped about the woman on the heedlight, em- braced her, enveloped the cab, streamed behind like ribbons in the wind. Down the twin steel lanes, hugging the river bank, a comet through the night. ‘She'll make it!’ Maddox was jabbering. “She'll make it! We're coming in on time! I knew she'd do it!”” He danced crazily, crowing, flapping his arms. Tony was par- alyzed. Maddox glared at him insanely. ““When we get in, you'll eat what you said at Townley!” he screamed. ony backed away, but Maddox cuffed him. The fireman fell near his seat box and Maddox shouted at him, cursing, and then went back to his side. Tony crawled to- ward the bunker. From Long Street north up the Smoky the rising vapor hung like a bank of cu- mulus along the right of way. Level as the water in a tumbler ran the rails; the lady of the headlight split the fog as a flaming arrow rips through cheesecloth. Tony filled her up with coal, kicked the fire door shut, climbed wearily up on his seat and prayed for the luck to hold. Ancient records, mellowed and yellowed by the years, established the fact that the Luella Maddox was doing close to ninety miles an hour as she came down on Long Street, with three coaches on her tail. Tony said ninety. Maddox said he didn’t know and didn’t care. The conductor, just before he joined the angels, said at least ninety. The fog must have thinned about two hundred yards from the crossing, for Tony saw and screamed to the engineer. Maddox had time to blow the whistle of his engine for the last time. They were on top the horse and buggy within one hazy second; two humans went to their Creator in the click of a rail joint. The horse, by some trick of fate, fell as the pilot struck—and was swept beneath the front end. Some twenty yards below the cross- ing was a switch, and the body of the horse and the wreckage of the pilot broke the bridle rod of this switch, and the Luella Maddox, whistle screaming, left the rail. The-banks are high along the Smoky near Long Street, and the water flows deep. Tony jumped and lost his legs, but Maddox stayed with his engine, hand on the throttle, gaze riveted on the picture on the side of the headlight. She came over the bank in a long arch, struck an old stone pier with her left side and ruptured boiler and fire box. As the waters closed about her she exploded. To which fact Maddox owed his life, even though he cared nothing about living. The blast of steam blew the fire door off and shot the engineer to the surface with half a cab window around his neck, no shoes on his feet, no clothing on his body except his garters and his cap. A stupefied fisherman, nearly swamped by the geyser of water, picked Maddox up. There was little left of the pair in the buggy, but the woman was easy to identify. She was Luella Maddox. The other was identified as a local man, none too savory of reputation. There is little left of this story, too, beyond the following facts: In April, 1903, Maddox returned to the cab. He had purchased the lot near Long Street and had erected the marble head- stone. When passing it he always whistled, December 14, 1929 always made the fireman ring the bell. He whistles for Long Street to this day—not the standard crossing whistle, but a series of long blasts. Perhaps Bob Maddox tells the woman he named his engine for, each time he whis- tles, that he doesn’t believe she was un- true—or if she was, he doesn’t care—that he suffers daily because of her death, and that he still loves her. Most of all, that he still loves her. For that’s the way he whistles. Iv OHNNY GRISWOLD finished reading the above manuscript. He leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. Finally he spoke. “Kid,” he said, “there was a part of this thing,” he waved the manuscript, ‘that started to come close. You got warm, see, but you petered out. You missed it.” He seemed to be trying to stare a hole through the roof of the caboose. “*I was a call boy at Townley then,” he resumed. “‘I remember, plain as day, Mad- dox workin’ round his engine, shinin’ her up, makin’ her the classiest mill that ever turned a wheel. Kid, he was so proud of that engine that there ain’t no way to tell how he felt about it.” He paused again, staring at the creaking roof. “That bulletin you found—about her failing out on the road. That like to broke his heart. I know you've been thinkin’ all along about his wife. Why, kid, you could pretty near leave her out of this yarn and it wouldn’t hurt it none. Maddox had known for about a year what she’d been up to, and he’d quit her. It wasn’t common knowledge, but he wasn’t, even livin’ with her at the time of the wreck.” “That doesn’t make sense, skipper,” I said. “‘He nearly murdered Tony in that restaurant for what he said about her.” “There’s the catch,” said Johnny, smil- ing grimly. “‘Tony was talkin’ about Lu- ella Maddox, all right. Tony said some lousy things too. I was standin’ behind Maddox, I'd followed him in the door. Tony said something about puttin’ her in pooled service. ‘She’s gettin’ old,’ said Tony, ‘and she’s not so spry. It’s got so lately that anybody can run around her in a horse an’ buggy.’”’ The light began to dawn. “*Maddox thought he meant the engine,” said Johnny. “She'd failed, they were taikin’ about poolin’ all the power. He was thinkin’ about his engine al! the time.” We were silent awhile. The shadows from the coal-oil lamp behind us bounced dizzily, there was the sleepy roar of the moving train. “Hey, skipper!” bawled the rear brake- man from the cupola. “‘ They’ve got a hand- up for you.” “*T’'ll get it,” I told Johnny, grabbing the chance to shake the cobwebs out of my mind. I caught the order off the hoop, handed the green slip to Johnny. He read it, stepped over to the brakeman, shouted for a moment, handed him the order. He came back and sat down. “What do you think Maddox has got under that tombstone?” he demanded sud- denly. “I don’t know,” I answered, startled. “He’s got a locomotive bell and a whis- tle,”” answered Johnny grimly. I nearly jumped out of my skin. “How close did you look at that slab?” demanded the skipper. “Pretty close.” “You didn’t look close enough,” was the cold answer, ‘‘or you’d have known all this before now. Lemme have your pencil a minute.” This is what Johnny lettered on the back of a time card: THE LUELLA MaDbDox Marcu 3, 1903 )- _ le eae = SS

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST EMPIRE BOLTS-NUTS- RIVETS t | | _ ange Faith in 4 their performance ee ee In the old"“Bolt Works’ at Pemberwick, Connecicut, promises made to custom- n § is the background of I all business! The foun- ers were written down in Dele of contin’ Tis the’ Promise Book;’a book na ; ms whose obligations wer 4 builder of reputations! wy Siti“ ; religiously adhered to. . . e . 8 ears | ) se oa } In the great bolt and 4 y Taday, 94 pag 5 i | : modern factories at Port ! nut plants of Russell, 0 ld as le Seaiucls d Ward : Chester, N. Y., Rock “ff ee re Keeping Falls, Ill., and Coraop- i the promise is regarded Faith olis, Pa., have far out- i as a solemn obligation. grown the little old plant | It is kept as inviolate at Pemberwick, but they | today as it was in can never outgrow the 1845 and the years of spirit of the old Promise sf growth that followed. Book”’ which 1s still | keeping faith with i the customers of today. PEMBERWICK, CONN. f MAIN OFFICES AND FACTORY AT PORT CHESTER, N. Y = - 1. ra or) - Trew } ye i . at : v8 RUSSELL, BURDSALL ee RS | ks & WARD es oo BOLT AND NUT COMPANY PORT CHESTER, N. Y. ROCK FALLS, ILL. CORAOPOLIS, PA : CHICAGO + DETROIT + PHILADELPHIA > : PLANT AT ROCK FALLS, ILL SAN FRANCISCO + LOS ANGELES + PORTLAND + SEATTLE | PLANT AT CO RAOPOLIS, -PA__

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156 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14, 1929 How to he —Saucwe— to a man at Christmas dust how does the Gillette Fifty Box qualify as the ideal Christmas gift fora man? Here’s how —on these eight counts: it is practical ... Man, famous for his practical mind, insists on useful gifts. Yet he probably wouldn't buy this for himself... From long habit, he is used to getting his blades in packs of five and ten. This will be a new and re- freshing idea for him. He'll be sure to use it... Blades are a daily necessity in every man’s life. The Gillette Fifty Box is the most convenient way to have them. It is personal ... It’s all to himself, for his own inti- mate, bathroom use. it is good looking ... Packed, as you see, in a strong metal box, velvet lined, with a spring-hinge cover. Blades are enclosed in brilliant Cellophane. It is truly generous... With fifty smooth, double- edged Gillette Blades in easy grasp, a man can look forward to more continuous shaving comfort than he has probably ever enjoyed before in his life. it will last well beyond the Christmas season... For months his mornings will be free from all thought of buying Gillette Blades. It is reasonabie in price ... Five dollars buys this ideal gift. On sale everywhere. RADTO—Tune in on “The Gillette Blades’ every Saturday eve- ning, 9:30 to 10:00 o'clock, Eastern Standard Time, over the National Broadcasting Company's Blue Network, WJZ and associated stations GILLETTE SAFETY RAZOR CO., BOSTON, U. S. A. illette _ itl Fo_Das W GIVE HIM SHAVING COMFORT IN ABUNDANCE WITH THE FAMOUS FIFTY BOX OF GILLETTE BLADES

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| ve = : — } THE SATURDAY EVENING POST THE BEAUTIFUL RED WAGON “Mechanical ice box,” said Joe, who had climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘‘That’s just ginger ale in there now, but you could use it for other things. You'll find some glasses in the little cupboard on the side.” “No, thanks,” said Mr. Henderson. “Not just now. Let’s see how she runs.” “I suppose,” said the president, “you have a shower bath and a toilet too?” “No,” said Joe, “‘but we have a very fine hot-water heating system for wintertime. And there is a miniature folding gas stove so you can make coffee, or tea and toast. The gas is compressed in a cylinder under- neath.” “‘This isn’t a tractor,” said the president. “It isn’t even an automobile. It’s a yacht.” “*Let’s see how she runs,” said Mr. Hen- derson. Joe stepped on the starter, and the big motor began to purr softly through the ef- ficient muffler. The big door of the building was opened by the mechanics of the final- repair department, who had been standing around admiringly. Joe drove out and cir- cled the test field a couple of times. “Notice how silently she runs,” he said. “IT worked a lot of rubber pads and bumpers into the tracks and roller frames. But if you want some noise I can give it to yeu.” He spun a couple of knobs on the dash, and at once the whole car was flooded with music. “That’s WGN up at Chicago. Eight-tube set under the cowl here. Loop aerial in the top.” Joe made another circle of the field, and then drove up on the loading platform, where a special end-door box car was wait- ing to take the machine to Connecticut. “How do you like this bus?” asked Joe as his two passengers alighted. Mr. Henderson held out his hand. “‘Con- gratulatjons, Joe,” he said. “It’s a work of art.” “How much did you say this thing cos asked the president. “A little over sixteen thousand,” said Mr. Henderson, “and we're selling it for twenty thousand.” “Has this woman paid for it yet?” “Of course not. She’ll pay on delivery. She gave us atwo-thousand-dollar deposit.”’ “Not enough. What are you going to do if she changes her mind?” “She won’t,” said Mr. Henderson. “Well, I hope you're right,”’ said the president. He and Mr. Henderson said good-by to Joe and started back to the office. Joe drove the machine into the box car and blocked it down. And later in the afternoon it started on its way to Canaan, Connecti- cut. Two days later Joe himself left to be on hand to unload and deliver it. And the day after Joe left, Mr. Hender- son had a long-distance call from New York. “Hello,” said a voice, “is this you, Hender- son?” “It is.” “This is John Kinsey.” “All right, Kinsey.” “T called up to tell you you had better stop construction on that fancy job for Miss Mather.” “Stop construction? We can’t. done.” “Finished already? That’s too bad.” “Tt’s finished, and it was shipped to Con- necticut three days ago.” “Gee, that certainly is too bad.” “What do you mean? What’s too bad? W!:at’s the matter?” “Miss Mather has just sent us word that she won’t take the machine.” “She won’t take it?” “No.” “But she signed the order, Kinsey. She can’t change her mind now.” “She can’t, eh? Well, she has.” “Why? What’s the reason? What’s the idea?”’ “Well, it’s along story. She got into an- other fight with George Sherwood.” “George Sherwood?” er” It’s all (Continued from Page 9) ina Yes.” “TI thought I told you to keep George away from that dame. Good Lord, Kinsey, after she threw him out of the house once, you might have known enough to keep him out of her way.” “T did. I tried to. This was all an acci- dent.” “What do you mean, accident?” “Well, you see I had George up at Spring- field, Massachusetts, running our exhibit at the Eastern States Exposition. I thought that was safe enough—or rather, I didn’t think anything about it, because Spring- field is at least fifty or maybe a hundred miles from Canaan, where Miss Mather lives. It’s in an entirely different state.” “Yes, yes. But what happened?” “Well, it seems George was sitting in our tent on the exposition grounds, with a couple of Earthworm tractors behind him, and the big Earthworm sign overhead. And all of a sudden who should come rolling in but old Agatha herself, in a tremendous imported car with an English chauffeur.” “What was she after?”’ “Apparently she had just driven over to see the exposition, but when she spotted the Earthworm exhibit she came right in. She told George that her contract provided that we were to teach her chauffeur how to drive a tractor.” “That's right.” “T know. And she said she wanted him to have a driving lesson right then, so he would be prepared when her own machine was delivered. George says it wasn’t a very good place for a driving lesson, but he didn’t want to argue with the old lady.” “‘Didn’t want to have her get sore and spoil another pair of pants on him, eh?” “Probably. Anyway, he started in to give this English chauffeur a lesson on a ten-ton model. And George claims he was awful dumb.” “Who was—George or the chauffeur?” “TI imagine it was both of them. But George claims it was all the chauffeur’s fault. He says he showed him exactly how to handle everything, and then let him drive. And the first thing this guy did was run into a pop stand.” “Into a what?” “A pop stand. A soda-water stand. It seems there was a little stand right beside the tractor exhibition field where they sold soft drinks and ice cream.” “Oh, I see. Did he hurt it any?” “From what George said, I guess he just naturally annihilated it. There were busted bottles all over the landscape. The proprie- tor leaped out just in time. He was some sort of a Greek and right away he set up a big holler—wanted to get paid for the damage.” “Well, I can’t say I blame him.” “No, but George didn’t like the idea of paying for it himself. He said it was al! the fault of the English chauffeur. It was a mistake for him to say that.” “It was true, wasn’t it?” “Yes, I guess so. But I’m afraid “.eorge stated it a little too emphatically. Appar- ently he must have explained to everybody in the vicinity that this Englishman was nothing but a fool—that he had no sense, never had any sense, and never would have any sense. You know how George is when he gets started.” “Yes, I know George.” “And then Miss Agatha Mather came trotting up. She’s a fairly lively old lady, you know.” “Yes, I had guessed she might be.” “And she announced it was George's fault. She said he had agreed to teach the chauffeur how to drive, and he had bungled his job. So George told her the guy was a mental defective and nobody could teach him to drive. He thought that would hold her for a while.” “Did it?” “No. She said that she would not do business with a firm whose employes insulted her. And if we couldn't teach her chauffeur to drive, as provided in the con- tract, the whole agreement was void and she wouldn’t take our tractor. And before George could say anything more, she got back in her car, called the chauffeur, and had him drive her away; leaving George to argue with a couple of cops that the Greek soda-water man had called.” “Did anybody pay for the damage?” “Yes, George finally squared it for three hundred dollars. And then he wrote me a long letter about the whole business, in- closing his expense account, with the three hundred duly entered.” “He would.” “Yes, but he was very apologetic, Hen- derson. He felt pretty low in his mind about it.” “He ought to. But maybe it’s not so bad as you think, Kinsey. Probably, when the old lady got home and thought it over, she realized she had spoken too hastily.” “Not Agatha. She sent her lawyer around this morning to demand that we re- fund her two-thousand-dollar deposit. He had a long spiel to the effect that our failure to instruct her chauffeur rendered the con- tract null and void. Those were his exact words—null and void.” “‘He’s crazy. Of course we’ll instruct her chauffeur. If he can drive a car, he can drive a tractor. Suppose George did fail to teach the guy. Suppose he did tell her it couldn’t be done. Does that amount to anything? No. George is nothing but a salesman; he has no authority to speak for the company.” “IT know. I told this lawyer all that, Mr. Henderson. But he said he had no discre- tion in the matter, and that if we didn’t pay him within a week he would bring suit. So I told him that if he did, we would bring a counter suit for the eighteen thousand due us.” “What did he say to that?” “He just laughed and walked out. He should worry; another suit would be just so much more work and much more pay for him.” “But the whole business is absurd, Kin- sey. We don’t want any lawsuits. But we can’t afford to lose this sale. The president was bawling me out the other day for not getting a bigger deposit. I wish now I'd asked for cash in advance. We've spent more than sixteen thousand on the machine already, and if that crazy old hen doesn’t take it I don’t know what we'll do. I don’t know anybody else I could unload it onto.” “Neither do I, Henderson.” “Well, I'll tell you what we'll do. I’ve got to take a trip East pretty soon anyway. And I'll make it the end of this week. You sit tight till I get there, and then we’ll both go up and have a talk with Miss Mather. If we talk to her fair and reasonable, she ought to come around all right. We'll have to try, anyway. I'll wire Joe Mullin. He's gone up there to make the delivery, and I'll tell him to wait till we get there.” “All right, Henderson; I'll look for you in a few days. And I sure hope we can fix things up.” “So do I, Kinsey. “Good-by.” Mr. Henderson turned from the telephone and wrote out a telegram to Mr. Joseph Mullin, Canaan, Connecticut: ‘ Hold trac- tor at Canaan. I will be in New York Friday and in Canaan Saturday. Do not make delivery until I get there. Gilbert Henderson.” He called his stenographer and had the telegram sent. This was on Tuesday. On Thursday he left Earthworm City, and on Friday morning he walked into the com- pany’s New York office. “Hello, Kinsey,” he said. news from Agatha?” “No,” said Mr. Kinsey, “but there’s a long-distance call for you. They want you to call the Canaan, Connecticut, operator.” Good-by.” “Any more Bunte Cough Drops soothe the throat and relieve the annoying tickle. Made of pure cane sugar, menthol and horchound. The menthol heals—the horee \ hound soothes. ri \ a COUGH a MENTHOL HOREHOUND BUANTE eevee CHICAEO Radio Products Ar e invariably recommended by reliable de sles, because they know thet the finest receiwer mode mey pre ve to be & tremendous disappointment equipped with inferior sccessories EQUIP. YOUR ELECTRIC Radio NOW 9225 With A-BRACH Tres ~ Tenna »0 Protects Radio Against lightning Entering Through Antenna o: Lighting Circuit . For Storage Battery Sets Use Only BRACH STORMKING LightningArresters ‘1, Ov Als Pa a er 4 000,000 Now /n Use o Complete Aerial Outfits L.S. BRACH MFG. CORP Makers of Lightn Newark, N. J ng Arretters te U.S.A 24 Years " eronto, Cap

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158 “Well, well,”” said Mr. Henderson. “A message from Canaan. This may be inter- esting.” The office operator put through the call, and after a few minutes’ delay, the connec- tion was made. “Hello,” said a voice. “‘I want to talk to Mr. Gilbert Henderson.” “This is Henderson.” “Well, this is Joe Mullin. Canaan, Connecticut.” “¥en.” “T'm out at Miss Mather’s place, and I’m afraid I’ve done everything wrong. I’m afraid I’ve got myself into an awful mess.” “You have? Did you get my telegram?” “Ten.” “Then what are you doing out at the Mather place?” “I drove the tractor out here.” “Did you drive it out before you got my message?” “No. Afterwards.” “Well, what was the idea? I thought that is just what I told you not to do. I thought I told you to keep that tractor at Canaan and not deliver it until I came.” “TI know, Mr. Henderson. Your wire came day before yesterday, and I was plan- ning to wait for you. But yesterday it seemed as though it would be better for me to take the tractor right out. So I did.” “Say, who do you think is the boss of this sales department— you or +e?” “Oh, I didn’t mean to disobey orders, Mr. Henderson. But various things came up that made me think I ought to take the tractor out. I'm sorry now that I did, but at the time it seemed the only reasonab!e thing to do.” “Well, what happened? And exactly what sort of a new mess are we in now?” “It all started yesterday morning. A man came into the hotel where I was stay- ing and asked for the Earthworm-tractor man. Somebody had told him I had arrived in town with the tractor.” “Who was this man?” “His name was John. I forget his last name. Hesaid he was Miss Mather’s chauf- feur. When he came into the hotel he was wearing a chauffeur’s uniform that was pretty well smeared up with mud. And he said that they had been having unusually heavy rains for this time of year, and the road out to Miss Mather’s place had all dissolved into mud.” “Yes.” “And he had just got stuck with Miss Mather’s car on the way to her coun- try place, and had walked back to town. He said that the car was so heavy and the mud was so bad that he didn’t think horses could pul! it out. And of course another car would be no good at all.” “So he wanted you toe haui him out with the tractor?” “Yes, Mr. Henderson, that's exactly what he wanted. And he told me a long yarn about Miss Mather having a big fight with the company and deciding not to take the tractor after all. This was all news to me, but probably you have heard about gg “Yes, Joe, I’ve heard all about it—worse luck. But this man you call John—was he the half-witted English chauffeur that wrecked the soda-water stand?” ‘He's English all right, and he’s the one that ran into the soda-water stand. But he’s not half-witted. He claims he didn’t understand what George Sherwood told him about the controls. And you can’t blame a man for making a /ittle mistake the first time he tries to drive a tractor.” “Well, maybe not.” “Oh, he’s a bright man, Mr. Henderson. He’s a swell mechanic. And he’s a nice fel- low; he told me a lot about Miss Mather. She’s a fine old lady, but she’s quick- tempered. And she likes to do all the talk- ing herself; she just goes crazy if you start arguing with her or telling her where she gets off. So he advised me that if I wanted te get along with Miss Mather all I had to do was to keep my mouth shut except when spoken to.” I'm up at THE SATURDAY “Very likely that was pretty good ad- vice. “It was very good advice, Mr. Henderson. John has a head on him. And he said that if I pulled the car out of the mud, I might make such a good impression that Miss Mather would change her mind and buy the tractor after all; provided I didn’t spoil it all by shooting off my face too much. You see, Miss Mather, all this time, was sitting inside the car that was stuck in the mud up the road a ways.” “Oh, she was?” “Yes, and John thought she was prob- ably getting weary of sitting there in the mud and would naturally have a kindly feeling for anyone that pulled her out.” “That sounds reasonable. So what did you do?” “Well, I hated to disobey your orders. But after I had spent so much time on this tractor, I hated to see it fail to sell. And I knew I couldn’t get hold of you, be- cause you would be on the train between Earthworm City and New York. So I just decided to go.” “And what happened?” “We drove out there. On the way I showed John how to drive the machine, and he caught on right away. He’s a bright guy. When we got tothe car, Miss Mather started in talking at once and asked me if I thought I could pull it to the house for her. I said, “Yes, Miss Mather.’ Then she got to look- ing at the tractor and asked if she could ride in that. I said, ‘Certainly, Miss Mather.’ So she got in, and I hooked onto the car and we drove up to her house.” “And then did you ask her whether she would take it?” “T didn’t ask her anything, Mr. Hender- son. And I didn’t tell her anything except what she asked me about. I was using John’s system.” “Yes, yes. Isee. Well, what happened?” **All the way along, she kept asking about the tractor. She was very much interested, and I told her all about it. I gave her a drink of ginger ale out of the refrigerator, and that tickled her a lot. You know she’s quite a jovial old dame. I like her.” “But wait a minute. I thought you said you had got into a bad mess up there.” “I’m coming to that part, Mr. Hender- son. After we got to her place, I had lunch with John in a cottage that he lives in near by. And in the afternoon Miss Mather had me take her for a drive around the estate in the tractor. She’s a wonderful old lady. Nothing underhanded about her. She would never say anything mean about you behind your back. She would tell you right to your face.” “Yes, yes. But what about this mess you say you got into?” “Well, I spent the night at John’s house, and this morning Miss Mather sent for me and told me that she liked the tractor and wanted to keep it.” “She did! Say, Joe, that’s fine!” “That part is all right, but that isn’t all she said.” ““What else did she say?” “She said the company had broken her contract, so she didn’t have to buy the machine. But she would take it anyway, provided I would quit the company and work for her as tractor chauffeur.” “You must have made quite a hit with her.” “I just followed out John’s system. And now you see what an awful hole it’s got me into.” “She won't take the tractor unless you go with it?” “i.” “And you don’t want to work for her?” “Of course not.” “IT thought you said you liked her.” “I do, Mr. Henderson. She’s a marvel- ous old lady. But I don’t want to be a chauffeur for anybody. There’s no future in a job like that. I want to stay with the company, where I might have a chance to amount to something.” “Couldn’t you just work for her until she pays for the machine, and then come back to us? ” EVENING POST ‘She wants me to agree to stay a year at least.” ““Maybe you could agree to stay a year, and then quit sooner.” “That wouldn't be any way to act, Mr. Henderson. If I agreed to stay a year, I'd have to stick around that long, unless I could persuade her to release me, and I doubt if she would. She’s very strong- minded.” “Couldn't you reason with her a bit and get her to take the machine without you?” “I tried that. I pretty near broke all of John’s rules. I almost argued with her. I told her I was glad she liked the tractor, and I would hate to disappoint her, but I was really under obligation to stay with the company.” “And what did she say to that?” “She said she was going to call up the company and ask them to fire me, so I would feel free to work for her. I don’t know whether she has called yet or not. I’m talking over another line from John’s house.” “She hasn’t called me so far.” “Well, if she does call you, Mr. Hender- son, don’t make the mistake of firing me to do mea favor. Of course, if you are sore at me for disobeying orders and messing things up, and if you think I deserve to be thrown out, I suppose you'll do it.” “Don’t worry about that, Joe. You've done as welMwith Miss Mather as any of the rest of us have. Probably better. We won't fire you this time. And I tell you what you had better do. You had better just sit tight till tomorrow. Mr. Kinsey and I are plan- ning to come up there. We'll arrive to- morrow morning, and then we'll all get together and see if we can't talk Miss Mather into a reasonable frame of mind.” “Well, I certainly hope you can, Mr. Henderson. If I can arrange it, I’ll drive in and meet you with the tractor at the Canaan station.” “Thanks. If you can’t, we'll get out there somehow -if we have to walk all the way to the house. Good-by, Joe.” ““Good-by.” Mr. Henderson had no sooner hung up the receiver than there came another call for him—this time from the president of the Farmers’ Friend Tractor Company, at Earthworm City. “Hello, Henderson,” he said. “I’ve just been talking to Miss Agatha Mather.” “Oh, she called you up, did she?” “Yes. She had a long tale about a soda- water stand that got run over, and one thing and another. And she claims she is under no obligation to buy that fancy seven-passenger sedan contraption.” “She’s crazy. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” “Well, I didn’t understand all her argu- ment, but I gathered that the only way we can get her to take the machine peacefully is for you to fire young Mullin, so she can hire him.” “*T can’t fire him.” “*You’re his boss, aren’t you?” “Well, I suppose I can fire him, but I won't.” “Why not?” “Because he’s a good man, and he has al- ways treated me square, and he expects me to treat him square. And he doesn’t want to work for Miss Mather. He wants to work for us. I won’t throw him out just because this fool woman asks me to.” “Suppose I ask you to.” “Well, you're the head of the company. You can fire him yourself if you want to. But if you do, I'll quit myself. As long as I'm running this sales and service depart- ment, I've got to do it in what seems to me a decent way. If I was to fire that kid, it would be a low-down, dirty trick. And I won't do it. I'll be hanged if I will!” “All right—-all right, Henderson. Keep your shirt on. You can handle this your own way. But you better be sure you get some results. You certainly pulled a boner when you put sixteen thousand into a special order on a deposit of only two thou- sand. So it’s up to you to straighten it out somehow.” December 14, 1929 “Don’t worry about that. Kinsey and I are going up there tomorrow, and we're going to fix everything.” “Well, I hope you can. Good-by.” “‘Good-by.” As Mr. Henderson turned away from the telephone, he smiled a rather sour smile. “This tractor business is a great business,” he said. “I almost thought I had worked myself out of my own job. And I may lose it yet, if Agatha won’t listen to reason.” He called one of the stenographers and had her get reservations on the night train to Canaan. Then he started in and worked most of the rest of the day with Mr. Kinsey on various miscellaneous problems of the business. Late in the afternoon there came an- other call from Canaan: “Is this you, Mr. Henderson?” “ Yes.” “This is Joe Mullin, and everything is all right. Miss Mather is taking the tractor and I am staying to work for her.” “Well, it’s too bad you couldn’t have de- cided a little sooner. I’ve just been having a swell fight with the old man about you. I certainly got myself in wrong—and now you go and change your mind. What’s the idea?” “T’ll let you know later, Mr. Henderson. I have no time now. Miss Mather is right here, and she’s waiting for me to take her for a ride. Good-by.” “Well, good-by, Joe.” Mr. Henderson hung up the receiver. ““What’s the news?” asked Mr. Kinsey. “Agatha takes the tractor. Joe stays and works for her. So you can have your stenographer cancel those reservations. And everything is all right. But it puzzles me to know what came over young Mullin. He was so positive he didn’t want that chauf- feur job.” Mr. Henderson remained puzzied for sev- eral days. He stayed over in New York until the following Tuesday, on which date Miss Mather’s check for eighteen thousand dollars plus freight charges came through and was duly deposited in the bank. On Wednesday Mr. Henderson left New York, and on Thursday he entered his office in Earthworm City. He found Joe Mullin there waiting for him. “What!” he said. “You here, Joe? I thought you had a job as chauffeur.” “That’s right.” “Have you quit?” “No, I didn’t quit. I just worked a little system that John suggested.” ““What do you mean?” “Well, after I had talked to you the first time on the telephone, I got to discussing things with John. He’s a bright guy. And he said it was perfectly safe for me to hire out to Miss Mather for as long a time as she wanted. Because if I handled her right she would be reasonable and let me off when- ever I wanted. So I hired out, and after she had paid for the machine I got her to let me off. Everything is perfectly all right, be- cause John can drive the tractor.” “How did you persuade her tolet yougo?””’ “It was very simple. I just followed John’s suggestion, and reversed his other system. I began to get talkative.” “You talked a whole lot?” “I didn’t have to. Two remarks did it all. First, I told her that she wasn’t half bad, but that if she would talk less and lis- ten more, she would be better off. And while she was drawing in her breath to an- swer that, I suggested that she ought to get her face lifted--it would improve her looks a lot, I said.” “And what did she say to that?” “I'd hate to repeat her exact words, Mr. Henderson. But she rose to the occasion nobly, and made it plain that it would be all right with her if I went back to the trac- tor company. So here I am, and I want my old job again.” Mr. Henderson looked at Joe a long time. Finally he said, “‘We haven’t taken your name off the pay roll yet, Joe, so we'll just let it stay. We'll consider that you have been working for the company straight through. And I guess you have.”

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 159 Maa THE WELL-DRESSED NEW MONEY IS WEARING | TAILORED TO FIT— and styled in keep oa } ing with its content a Sleek, slim, CHECKS ane BILLS i handsome new billfold that meets the spirit | of the new currency more than half-way SMALL BILLS | O longer may crisp green and yel- yt low notes abide in bulky mid-Vic- | torian raiment. And least of all the neu i currency. Even though smaller, it surely | has proven far more fastidious in its mi choice of container! | And so, male carriers of the peren- : nial billfold acclaim the smart, modern it) Bill-Tainer now showing in leading re- | tail shops. In its cleverly divided interior, checks, cards, stamps, and memos are mobi- lized in military order. And licenses are kept bright and clean in an ingenious sliding window, instantly readable on both sides. Yet the Bill-Tainer always remains sleek and slim as a watch of the mode— \ and warranted not to rip, tear, buckle or | bulge—because it’s folded throughout, not sewn. Replaced free if it gives way at any point. é The accompanying illustrations picture } only a few of the many smart finishes in . which the Bill-Tainer is made. In the } complete assortment there are many other fine leathers, exquisitely fashioned in con j trasting combinations and dignified solid effects satisfying to the most conservative ) Women, too, hail the Bill-Tainer with } relief. Not only because of the dainty feminine model, but for the obvious gift possibilities the man’s model presents. At 2 last here is a gift that need answer for no perjury w hen men say, ‘Just what | ‘ wanted — If your regular dealer does not vet carry ¢ Bill-Tainers, write to Buxton, Inc., 116 Main Street, Springfield, Massachusetts ’ Sf// IMMEDIATELY ABOVE is the ne ae Tainer the smallest practical / ip Ned ’ a ha ndba j , A) Pte ’ ind ae vik everal har ’ ther s ) New “Tri-lainer’ model for bills, coins and cards \ , Last rd 1 mbined accommodation for bill THE FAMOUS BUXTON K T AINE Bill-Tainer shows Sm , Key -Tainer har ( j “r § eee Kew Bi . adsem j P $ , j BUXTON BILL-TAINERS Not a stitch to rip or tear

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160 THE CHEESE FROM SWITZERLAND THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14, 1929 NUT-SWEET, MOUNTAIN FLAVOR... FULL-BODIED, OLD-TIME RICHNESS... ONE generous bite of Switzerland Cheese will convince you that fine flavor is more than a matter of holes. The style of the true cheese from Switzerland is copied often— but the flavor never. Flavor is the secret of Switzerland's mountain pastures, where cattle graze on fragrant herbs and grasses and drink from rushing, glacier-fed streams. It depends, too, on patient, pastoral methods which have been passed down through generations of Swiss cheese-makers. In Switzerland, cheese-making is an art. To duplicate it outside the homeland is impossible. # In the American market today, it’s an easy matter to make sure of buying the genuine. You have only to look for the many imprints of the word ‘Switzerland’ stamped in red on the rind. You will be rewarded by nut-sweet savor and fine-textured tenderness. #* Each different way you eat it means some new discovery of its deliciousness. In sandwiches, cold or toasted. With salads and cold-cuts. Diced fine in soups. Folded into omelets. Served with apples, pears or grapes. * The natural color of Switzerland Cheese varies from a cream to a butter yellow, depending upon the season of the year in which it is made. The size of the eyes may also vary. But the rare, true flavor never varies. Switzerland Cheese is sold everywhere. Now it's easy to make sure of getting Switzerland Cheese. The rind is stamped with many imprints of the word ‘’Switzer- land.’’ No other cheese canbe thus marked. May we send you a copy of the beautiful booklet in color—" Switzerland Cheese— How to Use and How to Serve It’”—show- ing many unusual and attractive dishes? It's free for the asking. Switzerland Cheese Association, Inc. 105 Hudson Street, New York City Name Address SWITZERLAND CHEESE AN ADVERTISEMENT PUBLISHED B} IND CHEESE ASSOCIATION OF BERNE, SWITZERLAND

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theft. We first pondered and then investi- gated that odd indictment and finally we reached the conclusion that the firm did not wish to expose its books and accounts. Conspiracy could be proved rather easily; the actual theft would call for more detailed statements with regard to the firm’s transac- tions. We were not absolutely certain of these deductions, because powerful pres- sure was being brought to bear upon all interested parties to let the defendant off lightly. Conspiracy was a misdemeanor punishable by a year in jail. Any jail sen- tence would permanently remove our client from politics and the pay roll of the afflicted contracting firm; therefore the misde- meanor charge was adequate. Why send him up for a long penitentiary term? The loss of twelve thousand dollars was not a serious matter to the firm. They could tack that onto the next padded account and de- mand that the man who first wished our client upon them approve it as a matter of poetic justice. Mercy and expediency as well as safety-first could have dictated the misdemeanor indictment rather than the felony indictment. I decided to apply my own test to un- cover the motive, and during the trial of the case contested every point so bitterly that the prosecutor called twenty-four witnesses to the stand instead of the five he had orig- inally summoned. When he got through he had proved not only the conspiracy but the actual consummation of it in the theft of the twelve thousand dollars. I doubt that one criminal case out of a thousand has ever been so thoroughly proved against a de- fendant. But the prosecutor and executives of the contracting firm were adroit in the use of the books; either that or the books could stand examination. At any rate I didn’t succeed in routing their witnesses on cross-examination. My client was found guilty and sentenced to a year in jail. That sent me back to the law books for my next move—and I found it. In New York state it is still possible to raise the point of “merger of offenses.” It is an ancient proposition that comes down from the English common law and in most of our states it would be no good nowadays, but in New York State it still serves. I raised the point that the prosecution had in the course of proving conspiracy proved grand lar- ceny—if they had proved anything. Of course, I also took the position that nothing had been proved, this being the natural course for counsel for a guilty defendant. But under the law I was entitled to demand that my client be tried for the actual theft rather than the conspiracy to steal, in view of the fact that a felony rather than a mis- demeanor had been proved. Such a chal- lenge coming from counsel for the defendant makes a very good impression on the public, and as matters stood at that time it placed the trial judge in an embarrassing position, because there was much talk of outrageous graft and protection of the grafters in high places. If he overruled me it might impress many persons that his purpose was to pre- vent full exposure of the facts. He himself expected to be a candidate before many months elapsed. He took the matter under advisement and no doubt pondered ear- nestly over the fact that the theft actually had been proved. I never did find out why the indictment had been for conspiracy and therefore I concede that he also may have been ignorant. If my client could be proved guilty of the felony he had beyond question committed why should the state let him off with a year in jail? Something of this sort must have gone through the judge’s mind. At any rate he granted my motion to set aside the verdict, leaving the way open for an indictment charging grand larceny. But my purpose in all of this had been to gain time. The case could not be tried again until after the local elections, and my client’s political friends were campaigning on a reform ticket to “throw the grafters out.”” They were THE SATURDAY EVENING POST THE SHYSTER (Continued from Page 34 elected. And the case against my client died on the docket. Other grafters were tried, but he was not. The contracting firm also died. Its friends were no longer in office. But the fact that I had kept a man out of jail on the ground that he was con- victed of a mere misdemeanor when guilty of a felony impressed many persons as black magic and some of them later be- came our clients. I never had been much of a lawyer until I joined this firm, but now I really studied. I couldn’t study except with a specific case before me, because I cared nothing for the law as a profession. I was in no sense a professional man. Fees alone inspired me. Money was what I wanted. Exploits of this kind made me a terror to the trial judges. And that rdle, by the way, is far more valuable than having political influence that might frighten them. They resent such a threat with all the manhood in them. But facing a lawyer who knows the law better than they do makes them buckle and crumple—usually without much bitterness. Man is a fighting animal and the sporting blood in him refuses to hate the better fighter who vanquishes him. An attorney, addressing the court on a point of law, has a choice of two attitudes, and in- stinctively adopts the one that expresses his personality. He can be humble or truculent. If he is humble, he says, in effect: “If the court please, I judge that the law on this point is thus-and-thus and now with all humility I ask for a ruling in order that I may know how to proceed.” My attitude was always truculently con- fident. It said in effect: “‘ You are a quite ordinary person sitting up there on the bench and you have not studied this case as I have. I know what the law says on this point and I am now informing you. In or- der to justify your sitting up there you will hold with me. If you don’t, this case will be reversed on appeal and that will count against your record as a judge. I’m just as eager to have the decision in this case up- held as you are, and I know my business. What I am telling you is the law, therefore rule accordingly. If you don’t, I'll blister you in my brief to the appellate court.” And I never failed to redeem the threat of blistering. Confronted with a pleader of this type the judge has an easy way to retreat grace- fully. If he makes an error in ruling against the prosecutor he is in no danger of being blistered in a brief nor criticized adversely by the higher courts; the prosecutor has no appeal. To me it was amusing to watch the sudden changes of manner in certain judges, depending upon which lawyers were before them. With some they were calm, confident, or even overbearing; with others they were as nervous as frightened cats. I kept them nervous. The winning, or rather the destruction, of the case against Casey’s thieving lame duck brought politicians to us on their knees, with the result that even so clever and shrewd a man as Katzenjammer lost his bearings and began to agree with Casey that we could increase our profits by de- veloping our political affiliations. It is worth noting at this juncture that we did not know what our profits were. We kept no books. When a check of con- siderable size came in we showed it to each other as a matter of pride, rather than jus- tice, and it was divided. Small checks were cashed and spent by the first one who found them. Unless a check set a new high mark for the firm, it was scarcely considered worthy of mention. We were doing well; petty matters didn’t interest us. Some- times our stenographer accumulated a handful of checks for sums under $500 and had to call them to our attention every day for a week before any member of the firm would take the trouble to carry them to the bank. That kind of procedure suited Casey and Katzenjammer perfectly, but it always troubled me. I would have cashed those checks the moment they were called to my attention except for the fact that I wanted a fair division. Eventually I took this matter up with my partners and we agreed to give the stenographer power to endorse and deposit these checks to the credit of the firm with the understanding between ourselves that they were to serve as reserve capital. The sort of clients we had were always in need of money and almost always able to pay about 100 per cent interest for the time they needed it. This time might be one day, one week, or one month, but never a year. The loan covered a transaction and time was an incident. There were other men in this field of finance whose loans were sought because they had political in- fluence, and the mar who borrowed from them was willing to pay a rate of interest ranging up to 100 per cent because he could say: “I am operating on So-and-So’s money.’ If he was doing that, it meant that he had protection. In a different way, but not so very different, we could do the same thing. When we loaned money to a crook he could say in effect: “I couldn't have got this money if my racket were dangerous. I have legal advice. The prob- abilities in favor of my winning are at least one hundred to one.”” And you may be sure that they were one hundred to one, or we wouldn't have let him have the money. As our prestige grew, several murder cases came in. But I protested against these because they attracted too much at- tention to our firm. Katzenjammer agreed with me after the third trial, although he insisted upon that one because the fee was 25,000. But the easiest and quickest money came from representing crooks. Stealing is profitable; murder, as a rule, is not. Moreover, you get only one case from a murderer, while a successful thief pays what finally amounts to a large annual re- tainer. Indeed he is lucky if he doesn’t dis- cover eventually that he has been working for his lawyers rather than himself. Our last murder case proved to be en- tirely too interesting. Newspaper reporters trailed after us and managed somehow, without directly actionable statements, to let the public know just about what kind of law firm this was. We never recovered from the subtle exposure. Our client was a crazy man, no doubt about that. He had even been in an asylum; eventually, however, he had obtained a dis- charge and promptly celebrated the occa- sion by kidnaping a little boy, eight years of age, and demanding ransom for his re- turn. The ransom not being delivered at the time and place specified, he murdered the child and was about to escape into Mexico when arrested. His parents were wealthy and agreed to pay a minimum fee of $25,000 if his life were saved. Neither they nor I entertained hope of winning his freedom, but the minimum fee, as Katzen- jammer pointed out, was worth trying for. On trial of the case, the proof showed clearly: First, that he was crazy; second, that he had plotted the kidnaping w *h such meticulous care that no reasonable human could doubt his knowledge that he was com- mitting a crime; third, that he committed the murder in cold blood because the child's parents did not deliver the ransom to the place specified at the time he had indicated. No doubt about any of these points. All of the alienists testified that he had been crazy beyond dispute for five years preced- ing. If I understand the law on this point I understand it to say that a man is legally insane when he cannot determine right from wrong. For example, if he suddenly decides that he is Julius Cesar, protecting himself from the murderous assault of Brutus and stabs his mother, sister, brother or father, he is insane within the meaning of the law. He had no motive, except that provided by his insane delusions. But this man had a criminal motive that a sane per- son could comprehend. He had demanded 16! ransom, and he had carefully planned the kidnaping. But the American public seems to remain naively unaware of the legal definition of insanity. They have been be- fuddled by the fact that the paychiatrist finds it difficult to mark the line between ordinary sanity and insanity. I was aware of that fact and took advantage of it. The trial ended on Christmas Eve. | numbered among my acquaintances an evangelist who had previously been a lawyer, originally admitted to the bar in New York State. I summoned him by tele- graph and asked him to make a speech in this case. He knew almost nothing about it but that made no difference. He had the organ-toned voice that drowns reason in emotion. As a matter of fact he, himself, was a sentimentalist almost devoid of rea- son. I let him close the argument with a speech lasting one hour—and he could just as easily have spoken for three. He was a geyser. There was no use of our arguing legal points in this case, for we really had none. We simply wound that fellow up and let him tell the jury for one hour that this was Christmas Eve, that mother and father and home awaited this unfortunate de- fendant who had once been a beautiful little baby. Tomorrow would be Christmas, a day of glad reunion throughout the Chris- tian world. Would they send this lovely little boy back to his dear mamma to inake her Christmas the gladdest day of her life’ Or would they make it the saddest? Well, they made it the gladdest. Blinded with tears, they decided that he wes guilty but insane. Some day i think we will understand more about the effect of such a voice. It is, I believe, largely mechanical Some notes on the harp or organ seem to be sad and others cheerful, no matter whether they occur as part of a melody or are sim- ply struck at random. We may never in- sulate our emotions against these upsetting tones, but we could require that an address to the jury have some bearing upon the case. Orations on the essential tragedy of human life rarely throw light upon the pending issues, no matter how delightful they may be as a purge cf pent-up emotions. Having recounted so many of my own exploits, | must tell of one of Casey's bright- est strokes. Another of his lame-duck polit- ical friends, who held a minor position in the cashier's department of a large contracting firm, began to play the stock market with the firm’s money. At first he made con siderable profits, but instead of taking them and replacing the borrowed capital, which he could easily have done and thereafter invested only his winnings, he found suc- cess a temptation to borrow more. This had been going on for a year before he dis- covered that he was under suspicion and the books were about to be checked. | never have been able to understand how such operations can be so easily covered up for long periods of time, but apparently it is quite possible. Knowing that he was about to be found out, he went to Casey for ad- vice. His problem, as he explained it, was that it would now be harder to restore the money without detection than it had been to steal it in the first place. That I can understand in a measure He had nearly all of the stolen money, but the market had sagged and he wanted very much to hold on as long as possible. Two weeks, he thought, would restore about ten thousand dollars to the market value of his holdings. He didn't see how he could pos- sibly escape detection once the books were checked; moreover, he believed the firm would prosecute him to the limit. His brokerage accounts were carried under aliases, therefore the firm wouldn't be able to find and impound his stecks at once. If he held on for a little while he hoped to be able to make full restitution and that might prevent prosecution. It would also, if his market advice proved correct, leave him with a few thousands of dollars’ profit. He (Continued on Page 164

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162 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14, 1929 im & Sure the watch PO you give ls, above alla TIME PIECE!

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 163 RESENT, on Christmas morning, the gift that bespeaks the very spirit of Yuletide greetings—a Bulova Watch! For there is no gift so precious, so endearing as a de- pendable timepiece — none that lives so long in daily, useful service ...The Bulova you choose as your gift, regardless of the price you pay, will be true to its trust: to tell time on time throughout the years —as faithful, as enduring, as the friendship that inspired its giving. This Christmas, your jeweler is showing a selection of Bulova watches more varied, more beautiful than ever before . . . priced from $25 to $2500 . . .and each, above all, a dependable timepiece! BULOVA WATCH COMPANY FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK In Canada: Sterling Tower, Toroato “Listen In” Nightly for Bulova Radio Time Announcements WI£ntrreD: 15-jewel; 14 te doe mga 4¢ alds or sapphires*; Diana: 15-jewel; 14 kt; 2 diamonds; 4 sa or emeralds*; ~_ enue hipengeeed ss 8873 CorinTHIA: 15-jewel movement; neatly en- gtaved; flexible bracelee . . . . $29.75 a Le ee Miss Lipgaty: 15-jewel; = rae em flexible bracelet. 2... 1. +s $37.50 Couette: 15-jewel movement; enamel inlay; flexible bracelet to match . . . . $37.50 Miss AMERICA: 15-jewel movement; enamel inlay; cadium dial: coiored leather strap . $37.50 * Simulated itt pal Senible brocelat

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104 THE EXCELLENCE OF HIS GIFT GOES FAR THE SATURDAY BEYOND ITS SENSIBLE WY ias SF i= Ss To hear and know the Sentinel is to reeog- nite at once its superior performance, its beauty and dependability. To select it as a gift reveals the good taste of the giver, for its common-sense price sets a new stand- ard in radio value-—e value which reflects sensiole buying. Only expert radio engineers, working in @ plant of most modern facilities, could produce this ultra-modern radio. Every im- portant part is made under one roof, under closest supervision...and so’ You're Safe with a Sentinel’’—-the set of quality, of beauty, a gift of rare distinction. Model 646-C fern red ata orice ¥ Day for 4 redo $149.50 (less tubes) 9708 Cottege Grove Avenue Sent THE ULTRA MODERN Famous Quam Dynamic Speaker vpere Sentinel offers your choice of ; three attractive models —all » equipped withthe famous Quam Dynamic Speaker, assuring full- est volume end wonderful tone. So simple to operate—one dial tunes in stations that are near or far away. Instant, clear, per- fect reception! Every home may now know the joy of finer radio! SENTINEL MFG. COMPANY PRICE = ~ 14) (LESS TUBES) || MODERN SCREEN GRID RADIO The Price is Right Sentinel Radio is priced sensibly low, filling @ long-felt want for quality product at a popular figure. Just compare these models with any radio—at any price—you'll quickly recognize the astonishing values we are offering. Like the armed sentinel of old, who was ever ready to serve with precision and power, so the Sentinel Radio today can be depended upon for the finest performance. Better dealers everywhere will tell you how to get quick delivery. If you want a Senti- nel in time for Christ- mas—act today! LisT PRICE yi ‘LESS TUBES) Prices slightly higher Screen est 7 Colorado and es Model 666 A splendid 9-tube set, using 4 screen grid tubes wy the new 227 tubes and two 245 tubes in push-pull... hand- some five-ply wal- nut cabinet with two-tone maple overlay...and equipped with the famous Quam Dynamic Speaker. (Division of United Air Cleaner Co.) Chicago, Illinois WW) RADIO | crime. EVENING POST (Continued from Page 161) was for taking a chance and holding on. Casey knew a good deal about accounting and, after interrogating him carefully, reached the conclusion that he could not possibly avoid conviction if brought to trial. Holding on would be dangerous; better sell out and skip while he could. Still the fellow refused. “All right, then,” Casey said, “there's only one safe bet for you and that is to go back to your office tomorrow and steal everything you can get your hands on. How much can you get away with in one day?” He thought he could get fifty thousand dollars. His total thefts up to that time amounted to about forty thousand dollars. But if he took the fifty thousand he would be discovered and arrested at once. “That's all right,’ Casey assured him. “You get the money. And bring it to me. Then don’t wait to be arrested. Telephone the firm what you've done. And tell them to see me.” He did that. Shortly after two o'clock the contracting firm’s lawyers were in our office. “My client,” Casey told them, “has made a clean breast. I know exactly how much he has stolen and I am trying to re- cover all that he hasn’t lost. I think I can get about sixty-five thousand dollars and I want to restore it to you. So does he. He is an unfortunate fellow addicted to gam- bling and finally he went crazy and grabbed everything he could get. But he’s sorry and wants to do the best he can. If you will accept sixty-five thousand dollars and drop the matter it can be arranged. If you don’t, he’s going to the penitentiary, and he might as well have the profits of his Suit yourselves.” They conferred with their clients. Sixty- five thousand dollars would save the firm. Loss of it meant bankruptcy. Therefore there was not much room for argument. The agreement was drawn up. And Casey saved his man. Not only saved him but a considerable part of his pilferings. The law- yers nearly boiled over when they learned that Casey had the stolen fifty thousand in his possession, but there was nothing they could do about it then. However, this was pretty rough work, and dangerous. We were becoming more and more reckless in our gluttony, but we failed to realize it because we never at- tempted to bribe jurors, as some of our competitors did, and never involved our- selves in the intimidation of witnesses to force silence or their disappearance. The latter method of defense was becoming fairly common, and still is. Katzenjammer permitted himself to be involved more and more with certain poli- | ticians who profited enormously from bank- ruptcy cases. The details of these trans- actions would be too intricate to explain, but I assume that nearly everyone knows how | little the creditors usually receive from the liquidation of a bankrupt business. One would judge from the laws governing such matters that it was not intended that the creditors should receive much protection, anyway. At every turn there are generous provisions for fees, and when a receiver has the will to multiply these the law certainly grants him ample opportunity to do so. Again and again I warned Katzenjammer | that the explosion must certainly come some day, but he thought otherwise. December 14,1929 When the explosion finally came it caught Katzenjammer in a bad position. He had been the clearing house for a considerable portion of the loot. The method had been to appoint him attorney to serve the re- ceiver, or anyone else connected with the proceedings who happened to be entitled to an attorney, and then trump up rea- sons for paying him large fees. Often the persons he was supposed te serve as at- torney were themselves attorneys. Scarcely any of these fees were earned and some- times the very proceedings to which they related were fictitious. That was why he liked this form of graft. It came in from nowhere for nothing, and he simply took his cut while going about his other business uninterrupted. But when confronted by the facts he couldn’t stand interrogation without admitting that he barely knew the names of companies and individuals that the records showed he had served through long and arduous battles. Moreover, the records would also show, in many of these instances, that he had served them very unsuccessfully. It was natural that the investigators should turn to him, first, because every ad- mission he made would disclose and in- volve his accomplices. Their thefts had become so much like plain highway robbery that legal defenses were out of the question Katzenjammer had to go at once and under cover to Europe. Even there he was not safe, except by moving constantly, still under cover, and finally disappearing. The expense incident to all of this maneuvering was enormous. His réle now became identi- cal with that of some of our unfortunate clients. No one would believe that his purse had a bottom; he floated to safety on a stream of gold; and with no more coming in. Before three months had elapsed Casey and I were financing him and his heart- broken family, and not expecting to get back any of the money. To make matters worse his absence was a sore loss te our firm, for in spite of the fact that he chose not to be, he was really a great lawyer. Blinded by the lure of easy money he simply would not work; nevertheless, just to have him present in a conference so spurred my wits that I went deeper into my cases. And the same was true of his effect upon Casey. We had scarcely adjusted ourselves to this loss when Goggle Eye bungled one of his made-to-order damage suits fortu- nately in another state-—-with the result that both he and his lawyer found them- selves behind the bars. Ignorant of the fact that our situation was already desper- ate, Goggle Eye began to bombard Casey with telegrams first demanding and then imploring him to come to the rescue. Casey didn’t dare to go, but was afraid to refuse; indeed, he was afraid even to answer. Thus while the sensational story of Goggle Eye’s operations crackled across front pages, these terrible telegrams poured in, day after day, until finally rumors circulated and Casey was called for interrogation. If the exposure of Goggle Eye had oc- curred in our own state I doubt that Casey could have saved himself, but the old rascal had kindly staged his final blow-up a thou- sand miles away. Casey wriggled and squirmed and pleaded dumb, unsuspecting innocence that would have shamed a child in kindergarten; he brought political influ- enceto bear and he made apologies, promises, and entangling alliances profitable to others (Continued on Page 166)

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(Continued from Page 164) and burdensome tc himself. Again the ex- pense mounted beyond belief. Just to cite one example, we sent a political friend of Casey’s on a secret mission to the scene of Goggle Eye's disaster. He agreed to make the trip for five hundred dollars and ex- penses. Eight days later when he returned poor Casey confronted an expense account, not itemized, for eight hundred and fifty dollars. The messenger had been successf\.}, however, and there was no escaping the bill, for he could undo his work with a ten-word telegram. Moreover, we might need him again. This was the quality of friendship upor which we had to depend. And there was a certain brutal justice in it too, for this was the kind of friendship we had always given others. Horrible thought! We were capable of something better than that in human relations. Between ourselves we had managed te be fair, generous and warm-hearted. But the rest of the world had simply been a nut to be cracked, an oyster to be swallowed. What we had ex- tended was now coming back to us—and in remarkably even measure. No better and no worse. Casey's small savings melted like the snow of a belated storm in May. And those who stripped him expected with all confidence to have his lifelong apprecia- tion as well as his last dollar. Finally he got off, but the ordeal broke his spirit. There was no more intrepidity in him. The slightest risk now chilled him to the marrow—and we had no cases that did not involve at least some risk. We hadn’t been in the market for the other sort. Up to the time of Katzenjammer’s crash there had always been a few cases that any law firm might have handled, but now the character of our clients changed definitely and sharply. To be more specific on this point, there had been a time when clients came to us pleading desperately for help but with no ideas of their own on the subject of strategy. Now they came in to tell us bluntly what they were going to do and what they ex- pected us to de— sinister persons with coldly sinister plans. I looked at their hard eyes, of those under him. Will the morale stand up? Then, abruptly, as it seems to him, the inexorable flow of the hours has taken even that possibility downstream. The hope of a bumper season has dissipated. Remainsstill the chance of small profit. Thatis gone. But forty thousand cases will break him even. Another day, another, and still the run de- lays. It is no longer a question of success, but of the possibility of disaster. And then, a scant ten days before the closing date, the tenders and the seiners begin to bring in fish— some, a few, nothing near capacity, but enough to show that salmon are in the country This is the breaking point of the long crescendo. Can you wonder that by now, in the harassed mind of this man, but one intense emotion is hammering? All other ideas and considerations have been swept aside. Get the fish, and do not inquire whence they came or how they were got. Fish-—fish on the sorting floor—that is all that counts! And harden your heart, if you can, against this man’s bitterness when, after such an experience, the run begins just as the season closes! While he is cutting away the gear that has brought him in so little, he looks down through the clear water on the thousands upon thousands of fish that have come in just too late! No wonder if he cries aloud that the laws are all wrong, that the seasons are all wrong! No wonder if he lobbies frantically for more privilege! If he is merely manager for a big company that can stand the lean season, it is bad enough; for he has his reputation to think of, and his job, and his future in the business. But when, as is often the case, he is himself the THE SATURDAY peeping warily from the covert of narrowed lids, and knew that we were coming nearer and nearer to the end of our adventures. I would have turned down nearly all of these applicants, but that was not possible now. We needed the money; too many of the less dangerous clients were going else- where. Casey was unable to carry his half of the burden of work. I no longer wanted him as a partner, and yet prudence argued even more strongly than sympathy against aban- doning him. He wouldn't have black- mailed me, but if he fell in the ditch no one could tell what the results might eventually be. Already he sought forgetfulness in drink. The time might come when drink and talk would go together. He knew too much for me to risk that. More and more plainly I could see that the firm was wrecked, yet it was better to hang on. I hoped that time would bring smoother waters for my retreat, but I realized that if I remained too long on the edge of so much damaging publicity the spotlight might shift some day —just a tiny little shift would be enough —and I should find myself in the center of it. The time had come to end this farce. But how to end it? Under the pounding of adversity Casey’s fortune and Katzenjammer’s had lasted not even six months. How could I hope that mine would fare better? I re- solved to collect our loans as rapidly as possible and make no more, although for some time now they had been an important source of our revenue. This change of policy brought new difficulties. The mo- ment I ceased to make loans, all reason for payment of those outstanding disappeared. Collection could not be forced. The only reason for repayment had been expectation of future accommodations, and legal pro- tection in case of trouble. We were no longer the gay legal pirates we had been, and if we were retiring from the lending business our borrowers had best conserve their capital. In short, I found collections worse than slow. On top of this came bad news from the ranches in which I had invested. The sea- son was dry; cattle ought to be shipped; EVENING POST new wells should be sunk; ranches else- where leased for a year. Absentee owner- ship of properties of this kind had long been a sink hole for much of my money. I knew the business so well, and nearly everything I wanted done would have been for me so easy to do, that I could never realize the probability of my orders being bungled by others. However, my managers, younger brothers, and agents all thought of me as a man of great wealth. They viewed the en- terprises under their care as a rich man’s hobbies. And while they wasted, or at least failed to economize, I was scraping together my last available liquid assets to meet the emergency. During this trying time I read in my newspaper one morning that a certain borrower-client of ours had been assassi- nated while sitting in his automobile in front of his home talking to a friend. The event interested me only casually; to be more specific it interested me exactly five thousand dollars’ worth. That was the amount he had borrowed, and now it would never be repaid. The newspaper said that the police suspected gang warfare. On the following day an arrest was made, and the newspapers reported that this had been a gorilla killing. Gorillas do their murders for hire. They are attached to gamblers and various sorts of crooks who must accept one another's word of honor for brief periods. When a promise is broken the gorilla goes into ac- tion. I read this disclosure with casual in- terest. But on the third day it developed that the gorilla in question had been em- ployed for a long period of time by Katzen- jammer. And along with this came the news that the murdered man had owed us five thousand dollars. How they found that out I don’t know. These loans were never recorded anywhere. Before the day ended I had been summoned before the grand jury and everybody in our world knew it. I had never seen the gorilla in question; I had never known that Katzenjammer em- ployed him. I had asked the borrower for my money and he had answered with vague promises, the meaning of which I well under- stood. But that was no time for me to KIDDING OURSELVES ALONG (Continued from Page 17) owner, and is running the show on borrowed capital, his state of mind is near that of the fanatic. A bad season means bust, and, as a matter of fact, the year after a bad season you will find a lot of banks in the fish business. I have sketched thus briefly the sequence of asalmon season, with no thought of show- ing a complete picture, but to indicate how a state of mind comes about. It is a state of mind with which we can sympathize heart- ily, but whose judgments we cannot accept as final. How could they possibly be final? By the very nature of the case, by the very pressure of the present task, they are con- cerned with immediate results: Get the fish, so that the quota may be filled. This season is the important one. Only by an effort of which few are capable is such a man able te contemplate giving up any- thing this season for the sake of seasons to follow. He is, perhaps, able to admit that something may have to be done to prevent depletion—but not this July and August, while the pack is shy of fish! In other words, he is in an ideal frame of mind to kid himself along. Until very re- cently he has done so by the simple ex- pedient of denying that there was any depletion. I have talked with dozens who advanced this argument vehemently. There are just as many fish as there ever were; this year’s short run is due to the fact that the weather is too stormy or too calm, the streams too high or too low; the season too dry or too wet. The main run has turned south; it has turned north. They say, here in the Ketchikan district, that there is a tremendous run at Icy Strait and the can- neries are swamped. At the same time Icy Strait men will tell you that to be sure they are not taking the customary numbers, but down in the Ketchikan district ——- The fish still exist in the pristine numbers, but they are always somewhere else. And as a clinching proof, they show sta- tistics of the pack for Alaska. It is as big this year as it has ever been——bigger! We put up six million cases. And that is some hundreds of thousands above the annual average for the past twenty years. The fact of serious depletion is by now fairly established, but even today I hear that argu- ment from the ultra-bullheaded. Depletion! Why, in the short period of my own personal experience I have seen the fish drop off with breath-taking ra- pidity. Each year I have been accustomed to tie up for a period at a certain float near a certain narrows for the sake of rod fishing kingsalmon. The place is peculiarly adapted for laboratory observation, for it is a sort of funnel through which is forced to pass the entire run for a whole back country of spawning streams. Furthermore, the tides run so swiftly through that five-mile funnel that traps, seine boats, and even power- driven trolling boats are quite impossible. The only fishing must be done by hook and line, from rowboats, in the back eddies and slacks, in coves or behind points, or at the brief turn of the tide. Nevertheless, it was a famous place for just that kind of fishing. Dozens of professionals dragged heavily weighed hand lines. Sportsmen trolled their lighter rigs. Of an evening the chuck was covered with small craft, and the eve- ning was joyous with banter and shoutings and busy excitement. When dark closed the twilight and the boats slowly drew in December 14,1929 resort to gorillas. I had trouble enough. Cynical men who knew me only too well listened to these explanations, smiled, and said nothing. Nevertheless they were fair enough to proceed with the investigation and finally they found out who really had hired that gorilla and why. But that came too late to save our tottering firm. I who had been a great pirate, a legal wizard, an abetter of real criminals, not petty pilferers, must finally topple into the ditch because of a few questions, prompted by a vague suspicion that I might possibly have had something to do with a transaction that I could not have known much less about if it had eccurred in Siberia. The ways of fate in dealing with dishon- esty are strange beyond belief. How many, many times I and my piratical partners might have gone down in stormy seas while in noisy pursuit of treasure! But we passed unscathed through all of those dangers. . . . Gay old Katzenjammer, who loved battle, had scuttled away wearing a wig. The gallant and picturesque Casey had edged out sidewise with the grace of a wounded crab. And now it was my turn to find that I had been knocked down and fatally injured by the mere gossip of blundering, misinformed police detectives whom I had ignominiously trampled in the dust times without num- ber —and some of those times I had been as guilty as my clients too. Well, the game was over anyway; the saga ended. Casey took to his bottle and I took the long, long road back to the drought-burned plains to see if I could save some of my cattle. Except for bitter regret because of the awful losses during our period of adversity, and the appalling ex- travagance during all other periods, I found the journey pleasant. Soon I should be where I belonged. I never was a lawyer anyway. Neither was Casey nor Katzen- jammer. We knew the law—but only as pirates may excel in navigation. That in- nate sense of ethics essential to the profes- sional man in any field had never been in us. We came to the only end possible for us. (THE END) from the dusk, the floats were literally cov- ered with the silvery fish. The weight of the average king salmon was somewhere near twenty-five pounds, and the monsters of from forty to sixty were not at all un- usual. Of an afternoon, from a scow an- chored at the overfall where the flood tide boils by a point in deep whirlpools, it was not at all unusual to take 200 silvers on three hand lines. I have myself landed as many as fourteen at a tide, fishing with a nine-ounce rod—all large fish, none under twenty pounds. And the fish caught were nothing, nothing at all, in comparison to the numbers that went through. Some- times at dusk on a still evening the entire surface of a cove would spray like a foun- tain with the herring breaking from the rush of the monsters beneath. Year by year I have seen this abundance fall off; at first slowly, lately with startling rapidity. Now “high boat”’ is delighted to bring in eight, six, even two or three at a tide. Twenty or thirty is a good catch at the overfalls. That is during the more and more infrequent good days. And between the good days are long periods when nobody catches anything, when twenty boats will bring in a scant dozen among them. And year by year I have sat in at fisher- men’s discussions and have listened to as fine a line of kidding oneself along as one would wish to hear. The run is always late—it is just about to come in. It has changed its route and is now going north or south of the islands. Nobody will bring himself to believe that the incredible abun- dance of only a few short years ago can possibly have given place to the present (Continued on Page 170)

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ILL’S BEST TOBACCO makes a gift that touches a respon- sive chord in any man who enjoys a pipe. Is he finicky? He will appreciate the painstaking care that has been lav- ished on Dill’s Best at every step of its progress from the tobacco fields to his pipe. He will respect the 81 years of experience that has taught Dill’s how to prepare this rich, fra- grant, natural-tasting tobacco which makes so many smokers say, “Dill’s Best is America’s Best.” Is he an outdoor man? Gratefully, and even gleefully, he will accept a big tin of Dill’s Best. Since 1848, out- door men have been especially re- sponsive to the superior smoking qualities of Dill’s Best—America’s oldest brand of smoking tobacco. Does he smoke at home? Men who smoke Dill’s Best often hear their wives actually ask them to light a pipe—the smoke is so fragrant desk or table. In the ¥ lb. and 1 lb. sizes, Dill’s Best is attractively packed in mahogany-color humidor cans. A very convenient “‘dip-in” package, handsome on any THE SATURDAY EVENING POST he pleasure of th whom you mums tells the story: Dills Best is America’s Best and wholesome. Wives who discover the solid satisfaction that their spouses find in this fine old brand of tobacco gratefully add their voices to the verdict: “Dill’s Best is America’s Best.” Pipe smokers champion Dill’s Best for its honest, unadulterated, natural-tobacco taste. They enjoy the delicate fragrance and coolness that come from using only the ten- der blades of the tobacco leaf (no stems, disguised or otherwise, in- cluded) in Dill’s. Many who smoke Dill’s Best claim that no other to- bacco, regardless of price, can give such comfortable, continuous satis- faction as is found in this clean, dust-free tobacco, that doesn’t “bite” —or clog the pipe. Dill’s Best—in the regular 15c tin, and in handsome half-pound and full-pound humidor cans—is sold by almost all dealers. J. G. Dill Company, Richmond, Va. ose to CD wet Discriminating pipe smokers will welcome a gift of Dill’s Best the 15c¢ tins, or in the 2 lb. or six or a dozen of 15; AND A PIPEFUL LASTS LONGER AMERICAS OLDEST BRAND Established 1848 Dill’s Best TOBACCO = Er “a

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168 THE

. SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14,1929 rizing makes safest Christmas >> rf r >» > Sr

>>> P. asteurizing protects Dromedary Dates and you! For Dromedary is only another word for pure when you buy your Christmas dates! HERE is one Christmas delicacy so pure and harmless that a mother can give it to her children with every confidence. And it is so tempting that excited little fingers will reach for it in preference to less wholesome sweets. It is the date~the Dromedary date! Guarded by pasteurization, Dromedary Dates are the safest sugar plums that ever made little eves go “‘pop,” and they have the added advantage of building young bodies as they please young palates. Children eat dates gladly just as nature made them, or stuffed in nourishing and delectable ways. Let them feast on this healthful, sun-baked fruit. Tuck a package PEP PSS > > SPS D> A Treat Box Makes A Thoughtful Gift You could have a thousand kinds of “boughten” sweets around the house of Christmas. But one basket of dates that you stuff yourself (the way you like them) gives a home-made, uncommercial touch to the family and still miss the spirit into their stockings. Treat the whole family to this suave and sunny taste. For Dromedary dates belong to Christmas! Be Sure Your Dates Are Pasteurized Dromedary Dates have always had a repu- tation for purity. From the minute they leave the high branches of the palm tree until they reach your table they are kept clean as you would have them. But today we go even further to guard their cleanliness! We pasteurize Dromedary dates! We put them through the same famous process that insures the cleanliness of milk from the finest dairies. Pasteurization makes

party You have created a touch of Christmas not with vour money, but with your hand and heart Given here are just a few delectable fillings— there are dozens more— fillings of fudge, chopped apricots, prunes, ginger, colored fondants. And a pound of these festive dates with their fillings . NUT GLACES } 1 1 c ' will come to less than 50¢€! R P ; Stuff the pitted date with a whole nut meat or bit of kor vour container, a tin box or basket 1s pineapple. Cook 1 cup of sugar with | cup of light attractive and inexpensive. [ se oiled paper asa corn syrup and cup of water until syrup begins to between each laver of the dates. SS SSS SS > > > > ‘here is no substitute for

discolor (310° F.). Dip each date in syrup, let drip, place on heavy, waxed paper Dromedary Dates one of the cleanest foods it is possible to buy, for they are pasteurized after the dates have been sealed in the package. Christmas pies and puddings, cakes and cookies, muffins and hot breads—all are more exciting and special when dates lend their diverting flavor. This season of surprises is the time to slice dates into the juvenile cereal and to introduce their persuasive taste into the necessary salads. For your convenience, Dromedary Dates now come pitted as well as plain. The pitted date--plump and firm with all its sunny meat intact-—is easier to use for recipes that call for slicing. DATES PIQUANTE To white uncooked fondant (confectioner's sugar beaten into white of egg), add chopped raisins, chopped nuts and bits of candied cherries. Bits of cherry and citron give a festive finish. May be rolled in sugar with a little cocoa and cinnamon. a he ~) > een Us ed, *

WHITE MONKEYS Cut marshmallows into quarters and press them securely into pitted dates with the soft sides up. Dip into shredded cocoanut. Peanut butter moistened with lemon juice and coated with toasted cocoanut is another toothsome variation. >P Fr PPP) Pr ew em PP em ee Dromedary purity! —

———————— —— ee >

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 169 | Deromepary Dares | sweet jor your Children **The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visicns of sugar plums danced in their heads.’

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170 Six months in the Great Outdoors for 1-22 HE fragrance of a friendly camp fire in the crisp autumn air the crack of a rifle reverberating through the timber the comradeship of hunters and famous Man, what a kick there is in just things! But why Why not Jive the ? outdoors: real guides thinking about merely think about them? real thrill of the great FOREST & STREAM Magazine brings you the spirit of the uplands, marsh and stream. Its stories on hunting, fishing and camping are told in such picturesque, yet authentic, fashion that you can’t help but feel that you are right there yourself. these In the January issue, for example, there is “Hunting the Tall Ridges,”’ by Kenneth Fuller Lee—a stirring hunt for an enormous stag in the Maine woods. Full of the thrill of big-game hunting. Also the second install- ment of Martin Johnson's “Jnto the African Blue’ —the remarkable experiences in the life of the great scientific explorer And for the sportsman who seeks accurate information on all things pertaining to out- door life, FOREST & STREAM, the oldest outdoor magazine in America, maintains these and other reguiar departments: ‘The Dog, in Training, Kennel and Field, conducted bie Dt, Wm. A. Bruette, founder of the All American Field ' 'Club. Dr. Bruette’s books on dogs, guns and game birds are authoritative throughout the wor Arms, Ammunitionand Game Trails. under the dire« tien of Capt. Edward Crossman -former lS Army ex pert om ballletic and experimental work; firearms expert » Angeles County Dietrict Attorney's offf Jirector Nationa] Rifle Association of America me of the best in formed firearms experts in America, and a big-game hunter Where to Goa department by publisher of Ackerman's Guide, and hehed and hunted all over the Ameri Prom the Anglers Angie. by lDbonald Stillman Every variety of tack nd hing by one who is equally at home with either a fly rod, bait casting tod of surf casting rod--a man who ia alwa id gathering ecientific data on ngling Special Offer, if You Act Now 6 months’ subscription for $100 and copy of “Log Cabins and Cottages” Morrie Ackerman i sportsman who has can Continent n the field Ry acting now a his famous outdoor magazine a op al reduced price and wit t charge, while the ted edi | fther popular book ewer non Loe Cabine an age explanations on ny suild and furniah, w netures and plans. Shows ! chimn firepla rustic stairways, ete. 1 bn 134 page joo trations Pin a mere dollar to the coupon below, and enjoy “ «ix month ft ateat outdoor But do it now to take wi vantag of vw special fler Subscription may etart with the December issue, containing first installment of Martin Johneon’s thrilling «tory ' ‘ ca —o | 7. Wem) 10 ie dl ) \ ps SS a) SPECIAL OFFER COUPO i" fasnet @ Giscemn, Ine S.P.3 7 80 Lafayette St... New York REST & STREAM. It is understood THE SATURDAY (Continued from Page 166) incredible scarcity. Why? Because an acknowledgment of the situation would mean drastic regulation of the fishing and then if the always-expected, hoped-for run did come in, where would they be? So they prefer to kid themselves along. ‘I can tell you where the fish are,” prof- fered one of the calmer-minded —‘‘in the can!” And he was excitedly browbeaten into silence In the old days, as is well known, the spawning streams were so filled that one could almost literally walk across them on the backs of the fish. A good run is still a wonderful sight, but the difference is ap- parent to the naked eye. Still, the pack did keep up, did increase. Nobody can deny that. The gentle art of kidding oneself along points to the fact as conclusive. It also enables the protagonist to shut his eyes to the simple fact that the reason the pack was as large as ever is that year by year the area fished was increased, and especially that the gear was multiplied both in quantity and effectiveness. More and bigger traps were installed, boats were built larger and more numerous, mechani- cal devices were improved. To put up pack as recently as 1914, for example, 275 traps and 200 trollers were used. I have at hand no statistics for other gear, but it was in- dubitably in proportion. In 1928, the industry used 730 traps, nearly 8000 boats, nearly 700 purse seiners, almost 4000 gill nets, 234 wheel traps, and the tremendous total of 7806 trolling lines. Another significant fact gracefully ig- nored is that whereas in the old days only the sockeye, or red salmon, was considered important, now any old salmon is gathered into the fold. Back in the first years of the century even the Bureau of Fisheries was scornful of the lowly pink, stating that its numbers and its low commercial value made protective measures superfluous. It sold at $3.60 a case, mainly to Southern negroes. Now they advertise Alaska Pinks in large type as a highly desirable specialty. As re- cently as 1902 there was practically no pack but reds. In 1906, out of 2,500,000 cases, 1,600,000 were reds. In 1926, out of 6,500,000 cases, only a little more than 2,000,000 were sockeyes. Even this per- centage was largely upheld by certain undeveloped fishing grounds. In Southeast- ern Alaska, reds were less than 6 per cent of the pack. The erstwhile despised and neg- lected pinks made up the rest. Big Returns on the Investment The whole argument is a reductio ad ab- surdum. Carried to its logical conclusion, it would follow mathematically that if one were wealthy enough and foolish enough to increase the gear sufficiently one could catch practically all the salmon in all the places, and put up 20,000,000 cases; and that, of course, would, by the same line of argument, prove that the salmon are five times as abundant as they used to be. What kind of talk is that? Only men blinded by the immediate present necessity—like our harassed cannery manager whose disastrous summer we followed, or men intent on get- ting while the getting is good and with no thought of the fature — could seriously prof- fer it. There are such men. I do not know whether they are in the majority or not. I know they exist, for I have heard them talk. Some are brutally frank, and make no bones about it. Others are remarkably ingenious in covering their real attitude under spe- cious reasoning. There is a big killing to be made as long as the thing lasts—a much bigger killing than is possible by making the thing last longer. When it is played out, then scrap the investment and do something else. For if we abandon the individual case and take a broad view of the industry as a whole, we cannot ignore the fact that even in these later leaner years the total invest- ment is only about $60,000,000. That in- cludes permanent plant, and also the annual EVENING PGST cost, including wages, materials and sup- plies. I have no segregated statistics, but, naturally, most of this is in canneries, boats and gear and supplies whose usefulness ex- tends over a term of years. The value of the salmon fishing for 1926 was something more than $48,000,000. A total of more than $700,000,000 has been taken from this in- dustry. Big stuff! Assuming a collective mind for the whole thing, one can under- stand an unscrupulous willingness to throw the whole investment on the junk pile when the thing is played out. That is not, except in extreme cases, the conscious attitude. With many of the far- sighted big men in the industry, it is not the attitude at all. If it were, it would be ex- ceedingly poor business sense to go on build- ing expensive plants and more boats and gear, merely to mop up the remains. Nev- ertheless, the attitude, conscious or uncon- scious, is there and must be reckoned with. It exists because of our expertness in kidding ourselves along. The Government Takes a Hand But about 1924 it began to be borne in on more and more people that something would have to be done about it. The realization existed at first in the minds of a few con- servationists, but the impression spread among the public at large and was increas- ingly entertained by the more enlightened cannery men. A great many of the smaller outfits were passing into bank control and ownership—-in other words, into the hands of business men, dwelling at a distance. These men knew little of the intimate hand- to-hand struggle that made “get the fish now, this season,” the most important thing in the world. They were detached enough to be able to see the moon beyond the six- pence. Their financial training enabled them to visualize beyond the present sea- son; to think seriously, not of this summer’s profit and loss, but of whether ten years from now there would be anything to take a profit on. The combination of this senti- ment with other happy circumstances enabled Mr. Hoover, then Secretary of Com- merce, to get through Congress a law plac- ing in the Bureau of Fisheries powers of control and regulation. A serious effort was immediately made not only to check the overfishing but to gain an understanding of how best to han- dle the whole situation. It was realized that blanket regulations could not fit all waters, so Alaska was divided into eight districts, each of which was to be treated separately. Then tentative ordinances were drawn up for each district. These had to do with closed seasons; extending the periods each week during open seasons wherein fishing was forbidden; fixing the size of the mesh to be used, thus obviating the destruction of the smaller fish; limiting the length of the nets; fixing the minimum distance be- tween traps; and closing fishing around mouths of streams, where, naturally, the salmon concentrate before going up to spawn, and where a seine boat can, with a minimum of trouble, make an awful killing. All these regulations had to do with reduc- ing the number of fish taken, in order that a normal spawning run might reach the streams. It was a serious effort to save the industry from an inevitable early extinc- tion, preceded by heavy losses on the part of those who happened to be holding the bag at the finish. Its sole aim was to aid the canners. Furthermore, so tender was the bureau of too abruptly disturbing an es- tablished industry, that the first regulations were so very mild as to be acknowledgedly inadequate in the long run. They would help, but something more would have to be accepted before there could be any perma- nent improvement. From time to time, warnings were issued that if matters should continue as they were going on, more dras- tic measures would be necessary and would be taken. To anyone not closely involved, the affair seemed to be one of plain common sense. The salmon were being fished out beyond the rate of their natural increase. Each December 14,1929 year we drew out more and more of our cap- ital. From that reduced capital, naturally, there was a correspondingly reduced in- crease. Therefore, to keep up our quota, we must next time use more capital. It was a vicious circle. The obvious and only thing to do, if, as an industry, we were not to go broke, was to retrench, become thrifty, quit blowing ourselves. But this obvious syllogism a great many otherwise shrewd men seemed unable tu make. Mr. Hoover was denounced as an enemy of Alaska, seeking her economic downfall. Men have told me that—many men—with much vehemence of gesture and loudness of voice. “TI tell you that man Hoover is the worst calamity that has ever happened to Alaska!’’ one otherwise sane individual shouted in my face. ‘He is out to ruin the country and to deprive every honest man in it of a chance to make a living!” I suppose there were men in the cannery industry who saw the point and upheld Mr. Hoover's policy; perhaps there were a great many of them. I know some of them in- dorsed him in theory, but balked at method, especially when method hit them individually. But those favorable were not noisy, and I personally did not happen to talk to any of them. Certainly there was strong opposition and much lobbying and political pressure. And, either in reliance on the effect of this political pressure or in the disregard of a willful blindness, the re- peated warnings of the bureau seemed to have no effect. The industry went blithely on building more boats and more traps and generally preparing to eat further into its fast diminishing capital. In 1926 three new canneries opened; there were by now near 700 traps and other gear to correspond. The pack leaped to the impressive total of more than 6,500,000 cases— more than 96,- 000,000 of fish! In 1927 the converging lines met. That was a year of greatest ex- pansion, and at the same time a tremendous falling off in the average catch per unit of gear. Mr. Henry O’Malley, of the Bureau of Fisheries, promptly countered this sit- uation by what he himself describes as “a drastic curtailment in fishing.” Regulations That Work This took courage, but Mr. O’Malley proved then, and has proved since, that he possesses that trait. [t worked many in- dividual hardships, but individual hard- ships are inevitable to any readjustment. It aroused to political activity powerful forces, but as long as the present Administration lasts these forces will not prevail. However, it did one other thing: It either enlightened or brought into the open a growing coépera- tive spirit among many of the canners them- selves. Prior to 1927, if asked of the future, I should have replied pessimistically. Now things are changing. Mind you, I do not say they have changed permanently. As long as Mr. O'Malley is in charge we shall progress. He is singularly well adapted to the job. He is, both personally and through subordinates, constantly seek- ing new knowledge on the spot. He con- scientiously tries to give the canners all the best of it, as far as is consistent with his main objective of establishing the fish in constant numbers. He is open-minded and flexible, changing his regulations instantly when new information convinces him that the change is for the better. Given time and a free hand, I am convinced he will eventually work out a system that will au- tomatically keep up the crop. What many of the very people who will benefit do not seem to understand is that this is a pretty big subject, on which there has been little but academic or partisan knowledge. Per- fect regulations must be reached by the cut-and-try method. If the thing does not work, modify or discard it. The system of raising an accusing how! against the whole effort in a fracas of fury against a partial mis- take is good demagoguery, but poor sense. That is one form the opposition takes. Another is the small-boy attitu’e that rules (Continued on Page 173)

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST r.. Health.. or Comfort.. jor Long Wear... for Durene makes men’s hose sturdier, more comfortable, longer wearing. Men like its soft lustre, too. isk for men’s hose ff Durene at your dealers. Say to your dealer, “stockings with Du- rene tops and feet, please.” — For Du- rene offe-s moisture- absorption, long wear and elasticity. For romping young- sters who think not at ell of stockings during playtime, the shops are offering hose of long-wear- ing Durene. Remem- ber. stoc kings for little feet should absorb moisture. Soft, delicate of lus- tre, elastic, moisture- absorbing, long- wearing — what other qualities could he desired in un- derwear for men? Xmas / underwear and hosiery of DU _.. youcome to the names of people on your Christmas list who are to get personal, practical gifts, remember them with attrac- tive Durene underwear and hosiery ... Its comfort and healthfulness, its long-wearing quality and endur- ing good looks will please them. Durene is the name of a yarn and of a wide variety of fabrics into which the yarn is knit or woven. It is specially-processed cotton, so exceptionally fine that only one bale out of every twenty-five grown can measure up to the standard established for Durene. Although light in weight, Durene has wonderful strength and elas- REG.U.S. PATENT OFF. ‘ T ‘ RENE s € 4 ticity. It is more absorbent — therefore more healthful and more comfortable. It outwears ordinary undergarments and hosiery, many times over. Repeated launderings do not affect either the soft lustre or the wearing qualities of Durene. You will find Durene under- wear for men, women dnd chil- dren now in the stores. They are also showing sturdy Durene hosiers for men and children, and women’s stockings with tops and feet of soft, long-wearing Durene. Uf vour dealer cannot supply you, please write us mentioning his name. The DLURENE ASSOCTATION of AMERICA 1110 ©) Street. Northwest, Washington, 1). ¢ This is the label that identi > “ fies undergarments and ho siery of lustrous, moisture ‘ : absorbing, long-wearing Durene. Look for the Du rene label on garments and hosiery vou bus | 4 \ Polo shirts and shorts, pull ; . over shirts and longs or : t 7 comfortable “union suits — Durene is offered in stvles J = ee ss to suit every whim or fanes ac ms mead A Aeved very ef / te oi outer garments, Durene aunderthe for women have all the / “ Protection to healthy little bodies is the prime requisite of children’s under- wear. In the Durene styles offered in the stores now, there’s also a new smart- ness that most mothers will like. texture all the bheants a the stvi that a weman wants plus the prac- tical underwear qualities that D ers Quality Begins with the Yarn

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14, 1929 his is now quite the Vogue Another delightful European custom —the cheese tray —is rapidly gaining favor in America, in fact it is quite the vogue—the smart accessory of the dinner. But over there the ever-present cheese tray, with its assortment of selected favorites, is considered indispensable. For there cheese is eaten as a food, not as a mere tidbit or dessert. One never fully appreciates the diversified deliciousness of cheese until one has become familiar with the many appetizing varieties. Now that Kraft Cheese has taken the uncertainty out of cheese buying and made it possible to purchase in fresh economical portions, this healthful food is taking its rightful place in the American diet. And when you buy selections for your cheese tray you may be sure that each type will have a flavor true to that particular variety, if you say “Kraft” before you say cheese. The Kraft Cheese Tray The assortment we here Suggest for your tray ts: Kraft American Kraft Swiss Kraft Imported Roquefort Castle Brand Camembert “Philadelphia” Cream Cheese, candied fruits, stuffed dates— served on galax leaves. The wide range for choosing from among the many other varieties of Kraft Cheese, permits of any number of different combinations to suit the individual taste. Jams, jellies or preserves may be used in place of candied fruits. L U S T R A T i: D R » @&= 2s © @ B O O ; a F O N a oa ee ae

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— a == (Continued from Page 170) theoretically accepted are made to be evaded if possible. This attitude is more characteristic of the man on the spot than of the owner at a distance. As we have shown, “get the fish” is the burning issue with the man on thespot. I have seen every regulation on the list flagrantly and repeat- edly violated. Seine boats fish the mouths of the streams whenever they get a chance. This is obviated to a certain extent by the recent installation of stream watchers. But sometimes one man must look after several widely separated streams, and a lively seine-boat skipper is quick to seize the ab- sence. And, though most watchmen are honest, there are some willing to wink the other eye, either through friendship or be- cause they sympathize with the poor devil who has had a lean season, or, quite sim- ply, because they are bribed. Fishing the packed schools at the stream mouths is terribly destructive. It is the easiest way in the world to make a thousand dollars in a few minutes. An alert trap watcher is ex- pert at throwing open his spiller and rais- ing his heart at short notice, when a patrol boat heaves in sight on a closed day —and to close it again when the menace is past. Who can prove whether the fish in the pot have not been there since Friday, awaiting their legal brailing of a Monday? That, of course, is the weakness of that particular regulation. If it were required that the trap be empty on closed days, inspection for il- legal fish would be very easy. And so on, with all the rest of the laws made for the ultimate benefit of the industry itself. No one who has not seen it can realize the in- tensity of the scramble for fish in the fever of the brief season. Probably few respon- sible men actually instigate a deliberately illegal campaign, but they may not always inquire too particularly; and those bringing in the salmon are quite aware of the fact that any salmon are more than welcome. There is a fine, flourishing industry up in that country known as fish pirating. Of a dark night a low, rakish craft without lights sidles up to a trap, holds up the watch- man-—if necessary—and brails out the fish, which next day it proceeds to sell to some cannery. So prevalent is this joyous practice that the Government maintains patrol boats whose job it is to sleep day- times and snoop about nights as a deter- rent. They rarely catch a pirate, but they do manage at times to scare some off. Opposition through failure to realize wherein lies one’s real interest is annoying, but it will gradually decrease. This will be because of several things. The can- nery men will awake to the realization that in conformity lies their best policy; the re- sults will convince them of that. The polic- ing facilities will be improved, both in numbers and in knowledge of effective methods. Regulations Worse Than Useless But, principally, regulations will be bet- ter enforced, because they will be of a sort that can be enforced. Pending a millennial change in human nature or the taking over of the whole industry by great and noble citizens, a regulation is rather worse than useless unless it can be made to stick. And that statement goes, no matter how com- pletely desirable in itself the said regulation may be. It is worse than useless otherwise; because if one man gets away with its in- fringement, an aggrieved sense of injustice urges the other man to get his share, under the excuse that everybody is doing it. This is true of human beings in general, as may be observed on any bright summer’s day, or dark winter’s night, almost anywhere and about almost anything. It is especially true of the intense individualists who carry on pioneer industries in pioneer countries. It is, in my estimation, much better to leave a matter temporarily unregulated than to slap on a rule at which everybody is going to thumb his nose. As an example of what I mean, I am going to quote the closed-days regulation. I doso in no spirit of criticism, nor with a desire to THE SATURDAY furnish anyone with even dust-shot ammu- nition against the bureau. This is an ex- perimental regulation. If it continues not to work, it will undoubtedly be modified, or substituted for, or abandoned. Under this regulation there is supposed to be no fish- ing, by trap or boat, from Friday night to Monday morning of each week. The idea is that this allows at least two days for the sal- mon torun freely to their spawning grounds. Seine boats cannot have much luck in breaking this rule, for their operations are much too public. A few may sneak a haul in some secluded cove or inlet when the lookouts report the chuck clear of patrols, but that is merely petty larceny. There is nothing, however, to prevent a trap watch- man from doing as he pleases. Perched aloft in his little hut, he has a good view in all directions, so he is in no danger of sur- prise. He stops the trap from fishing by lifting a portion of the passage into the heart and opening the spiller, or blocking off the tunnel into the pot. It is a simple maneuver, quickly performed. If it hap- pens that there are fish in the pot on Friday evening, he is privileged to leave them there until Monday morning, when they can le- gally be brailed. I would hesitate to guess how many trap watchmen surreptitiously fish on the closed days. If the regulation required all fish to be brailed or turned loose on Friday evening, and the trap shown to be empty on the closed days, it would help. But, personally, I think the closed-day idea more or less futile. It is so easily evaded that it is a temptation. And I believe it saves comparatively few fish. Salmon are not fast travelers. They gambol and leap and mill around and generally prolong their enjoyment of their culmination of life on the way to the spawning grounds. In one day or two days closed to fishing any in- dividual school does not progress very far up the coast. A school from the sea may pass by half a dozen opened traps on Mon- day, but it will not pass them all. What avail to escape six traps if one is caught by the seventh? Back to the Streams to Die The idea in this, as, indeed, in all other regulations, is to permit an escapement to reach the streams sufficient to plant a full crop. I believe that 50 per cent is now sup- posed to be about right. I suppose it is fairly well known that practically all the commercial species of salmon return to the stream from salt water after a very few years of life, there to spawn and to die. Not long ago I would have been justified by authority in stating that they return to the stream in which they were born, and at the exact age of four years. But since the scientists have begun to tag fish, and check up on the tags, they are not so dogmatic. The fact remains, however, that of all the beautiful, silvery, leaping multitudes that follow the blind urge of life, few or none live to return to the sea. It is practically a complete new generation that takes its place. I have stood by the Alaskan rivers observing the indomitable creatures fight- ing their way to certain death; I have watched them gasping in shallows, stranded on flats; resting, torn and battered almost beyond recognition as salmon, in the pools, gathering their waning strength for another spurt against the rocks and falls and rapids; I have seen them expending the last of their poor forces to guard the precious nest against marauders; and then, finally, I have contemplated their pitiful end, when, quite done, without even the energy to guide themselves downstream to the haven of the sea, they have died by their tens of thousands, so that the water and the air and the very spirit of the hills have become noisome with what cannot but seem waste- ful and useless death. And I cannot avoid the thought that here is one of those colos- sal experiments of blind nature feeling to- ward perfection — an experiment in methods of procreation that has gone wrong and been abandoned in the groping toward evolution, but which by the laws of impetus must continue. EVENING POST However that may be, the situation can- not be disputed. All these salmon are doomed to die. They may just as well be canned, and so be of benefit to us humans, as to rot in the shallows and on the sand and gravel bars of the rivers. Provided that sufficient of them fulfill their function to assure against depletion. Which brings me to an idea of my own, It may be a poor idea; it may be that there are reasons against it which my lack of training does not permit me to see. But I have not yet met a fish man who offered any fundamental objections. It is based on the further fact that the number of salmon that run to any given stream is greatly in excess of the number necessary fully to plant that stream. Fur- thermore, where the fish have not been unduly diminished, it is more than can get into the stream. The surplus simply fails to fulfill its function. Why not establish watchers who are competent to report when the streams have been fully stocked? Until that report is complete for any district, keep the canneries closed. After the report is made, say to them in effect: “Gentlemen, we the people have all the fish we need for our purpose, which is the continuance of the supply. Go to it! Take all the rest.”” Why not? They are going to die anyway. Salmon in New Zealand There are thus no closed days, no illegal fishing. If there are no canneries operating, there is no sense in anybody's fishing at all, for there is no market for the fish. This scheme makes a bit uncertain the date of opening, but it obviates the greater un- certainty of a forced closing just as a be- lated run is beginning. The idea may involve more districts to take care of local conditions, and considerable experiment, but I do not believe the obstacles insur- mountable. That is merely a thought as to methods. Whether the eventual solution is along some such line or another does not matter. As things are going now, the solution will un- doubtedly be found. If things continue to go on as they are going now. There is al- ways the danger of political pressure by the greedy and shortsighted. They are perennially with us, keen to seize any chance. Mr. O'Malley is on the right track. His hands should be upheld. That is one reason I have written this article in order to contribute a little understanding to the public opinion that, in the long run, prevails. I firmly believe that if we can continue long enough as we are going, the wisdom of our course will become so apparent that unanimously we shall cease kidding our- selves along. The Columbia River was at one time completely fished out, but wise measures have brought it back to nearly its old-time capacity. New Zealand had no salmon at all; they were not indigenous to these waters. Judicious planting and protection have so well established them that I understand New Zealand can already supply its fresh-fish market. Even were some political upset to permit the Alaska fisheries to be cleaned out, they could stil! be restored; though such a _ procedure would involve enormous hardships, losses and expense in money and in time. That in the long run the industry will pass away is out of the question. Even the likelihood that we shall have to start all over again from the beginning is receding. But in another way we are still kidding ourselves along. The danger is that before we cease to do so, we shall, in our effort to dodg« responsibility, destroy the things that we cannot replace. Acknowledging at last that there has been depletion, we still deny that the depletion is due to ourselves; we still cast about for scapegoats, for other reasons why salmon diminish. I will leave that aspect for another article. It constitutes a real and pressing danger. Editor's Note—This is the first of two articles by Mr. White issue The second will appear in an car 4 EURNITORE Va | and the a | TOOTSIETOY /~; DOLL HOUSE . . - a Girl is a YX. —_ “Home Girl” SO | Dolly's little home, “~NSgateca with its Tootsiet ¥ ay Furniture isthe one thing : | that comes “first the play hours Toot: ie Villa, with its six r ’ n- | pletely equipped wit! Tootsietoy all-metal furniture, will thrill every girl fortunate enough to get one for Christmas. Tootsietoy Doll House Furniture duplicates i sture the appointments of a Jern home. . harmina interior in be ¢ lang and the room settings chanaed & meet the taste of the Little Home Maker. Living Room 7 pieces 1.00 Dining Room 8 pieces 1.00 TOOTSIETOY DOLL HOUSE 6 rooms $3.00 | t dome f Tootsietoy | $ x | ; t } uw t can de pur 3 rately at | | $1 Da tT toy r Doll H sells for $3.00. It has 2 ODeagrooms | ep arr : oF Kitchen Set Ws eee | 7 pieces i | om 7 $1.00 - Leading store: round. it your dealer hasn't t what have Tootsietoys the year you want request i DowsT MFG.Co. 4537 FULTON STREET, CHICAGO, ILL.

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14, 1929 The Day of “Just Window Glass” Is Gone C 1” CAAA INSISTS a ee Se ee ie Se a ee ) 4 People everywhere are awakening to a new interest in glass for windows, and to a new appreciation of quality in glass and what Back of this change in it means to window and room beauty. attitude is, of course, a marked improvement in window glass —an improvement which dates from the development of the exclusive Libbey-Owens flat-drawn process of manufacture. Libbey- ieee 2? ee me A s & aah f Owens “A” quality glass is a definitely superior product. It is ex- ceptionally clear, has a rich sparkling lustre of unusual brilliance, and each individual light bears the familiar L/O label—a mark of Ask for identification and a symbol of unvarying high quality. Libbey-Owens glass by name, specify “A” quality, and look for the L/O label. Libbey-Owens Glass Company, Toledo, Ohio. BN a! 4 ee . _ IR % p “ ya, 3 may & yi a »_Y FLAT DRAWN ane SHEET GLASS

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mt - —— -_--- — =} a ~ — Ey SF ee >. et, a Even under capitalism, soldiers and officials are poorly paid. The prestige of the uniform and the privileges of their position compensate them for their inadequate finan- cial reward. Soldiers on the economic and cultural front, like members of the Red Army, receive clothes and food at reduced prices and are assured of a roof over their heads. The higher agents of Bolshevism may not draw more than 225 rubles monthly, but the state supplies them with ample funds for travel, entertainment, sec- retaries, motor cars and dress clothes. Alli the big Soviet leaders live in the Kremlin, content, it is true, with two or three rooms, in the large complex of buildings that once housed the Czar and his official family. It is difficult to get inte the Kremlin and it is equally difficult to get out. Strangers must be accompanied by guides or supplied with credentials. At every gate, armed guards. Thusentrenched, the Bolshevist hierarchy carries on the government. The Political Bureau of the Communist Party, composed of nine men, is all-powerful. Visitors may see the rooms once occupied by Lenin, but no one tells where Stalin, chairman of the committee and secretary of the Communist Party, spends his time. Fooled by one in- terviewer, he now avoids all. Even am- bassadors of foreign nations vainly ask to see him. “I am,” he modestly remarks, “not an official person; I am only the secretary of the Communist Party.” The Political Bureau is appointed by the Central Committee of the Communist Party. Theoretically, the Central Com- mittee decides the general policies of the government and determines the policies of the Third International, in which Russia predominates. Actually, the Committee of Nine rules Russia without attempting to wear a velvet glove over the iron hand. The Russian § dcialist Federated Soviet Repub- lice dominates the various republics and autonomous territories composing the U. S. S. R., although an attempt is made to give each, even the smallest nationality, equal representation with the Russians themselves in one of the governing bodies. A Bell That Doesn't Ring The indifference of the Russian voter, the absence of the secret ballot and the absolute control of every important political com- mittee from the top to the bottom by the Communist Party, assures its complete domination. Even if the masses were able to express their will, I doubt if they would avail themselves of the opportunity. Somewhere in the Kremlin I saw a huge bell weighing 200 tons, sixty-six feet in circumference and twenty-six feet high. Idle for centuries, first in the foundry where it was fashioned, then on the ground where it lies as if it had been dropped there carelessly by the hand of a Titan, no sound issues from its enormous throat. As if bit- ten off by some prehistoric monster, a large chunk of metal has fallen from the main body. That mutilated bell is a symbol of the Russian people. Their soul is a bell, cracked and flung from the belfry by some unim- aginable disaster. Only an earthquake can move it, only a miracle can make it ring. The Bolshevists have not disturbed this bell. Neither have they removed the eagles from the Kremlin. When Lenin first took possession of the old residence of the Czars, he wanted to replace the imperial eagles with the emblem of the Russian republic. Lunacharsky, one of the few Bolshevist leaders with an esthetic conscience, ob- jected. “If,” he said humorously, “the Czar should come back, he may have some use for them. As for us, we do not fear them.” Lunacharsky saved many other monu- ments and churches from destruction. Probably the Chapel of the Iberian Ma- donna, the holiest shrine in all Russia, would THE SATURDAY EVENING POST PRISONERS OF UTOPIA Continued from Page 23 have been saved from Bolshevist iconoclasts if Lunacharsky had been in Moscow. The Bolshevists permit many old landmarks to remain, but they turn every monument to their own uses. Soviet Russia keeps alive memorials of the old régime in the same spirit in which the Christian world would preserve the palace of Pilate or the bowl wherein the Roman governor washed his hands. The Winter Palace is exactly as it was left by the Czar. If Nicholas could re- turn from his grave he would find the very chairs standing as they did on the night of his exile. A caretaker who worked under the Czar and still retains his job under the Soviets, tells how Nicholas II walked in- cessantly up and down all night before he was taken away. The Czarina, clutching her children, wept, until finally all fell asleep on a bench. The bench, too, has not been moved by the revolution that turned everything else topsy-turvy. The Iron Scarecrow The late Emperor had a passion for ama- teur photography. The Winter Palace holds thousands, or rather tens of thousands of snapshots of the imperial family taken by the Czar himself. The walls are littered with them. Several still lie on the desk. These were taken a day or two before the Emperor’s departure. He did not have time to put them up on the wall. The play- things of the Czarevitch, mute and melan- choly memorials, lie where his hands dropped them. The Soviets interpret this museum, serving the purpose of both his- tory and propaganda, to the new generation in terms of the revolution. Possessed of a lively historical sense and a lively sense of their own importance, the Bolshevists permit a monument of Alexander III to scowl over Moscow. How- ever, they have changed the inscription, which now reads: “‘My son and my father were executed. I reap the harvest of eter- nal infamy. Here I stand, an iron scarecrow in a land which has forever thrown off the yoke of tyranny.” Not far from this monu- ment, on the north side of Red Square, out- side the Kremlin, is the wooden shed which until recently housed the body of Lenin. If the equestrian statue of Alexander III stands for the old, the shrine of Lenin sym- bolizes the new despotism. The Kremlin and the Red Square are the heart of Bolshevist Russia. The Square was not baptized “Red” because it is bathed in the blood of the revolution. It was called Red Square even under the Romanoffs. ‘ Red” to the Russian signifies beautiful. It is interesting to note in this connection that Lenin's hair and beard, contrary to the general impression, were red with an admixture of gray. To Soviet Russia the red-bearded herald of Bolshevism is a god. Lenin’s mausoleum is a squat cube on the north side of the Red Square. Military guards of honor are posted at the entrance. The mausoleum is closed at present. The Bolshevists are planning to substitute for the temporary wooden structure a temple of marble, where their hero will lie en- shrined with the splendor of an Asiatic conqueror. When the tomb is open to the public, a continuous stream of people—notably chil- dren and soldiers— pay their respects to the dead body of the Red leader in his glass coffin. Above it waves the Red flag. Under that flag rests Lenin in a khaki uniform. No Pharaoh could be bedded more care- fully. Colored lights play upon him to give a lifelike impression. With the aid of the lights his colors seem natural. One can al- most see him breathe. It would not surprise one to see him rise from his bed. The casual observer overlooks the slight violet hue of the finger tips. The picture is so remote from the ordinary conception of death that many people declare that it is not Lenin himself but a wax image. However, I am assured by a scientific friend who was af- forded the opportunity of examining the body that it is genuine. This friend, a distinguished German phy- sician, had an extraordinary encounter in the tomb of the dead leader. “T was making my way toward the sar- cophagus, wedged in by many people, when I suddenly noticed that the waves of the crowd parted to make room for a woman. Her intellectual face, across which suffering had cut many lines, suggested something vaguely familiar. It seemed to me that I had seen her picture somewhere before. Plainly, almost poorly dressed, she moved without ostentation. With a scarcely per- ceptible nod, she acknowledged the tribute of the crowd. ““*Who is the little mother?’ I asked. “*Sh-h-h!’ came the answer. ‘It is Krupskaya, the widow of Lenin.’” The Widow of Lenin I envy my friend's experience. It is not often that one sees the widow of a god ap- proaching her husband’s tomb. I wonder what the feelings of Madame Lenin must be when she gazes upon the figure in the glass coffin? N. K. Krupskaya recently celebrated her sixtieth birthday. She devotes herself PHOTO. BY UNDERWOOD AND UNDERWOOD In the Larger Factories Groups of Girls are Organized and Taught to Shoot by an Expert 175 primarily to the task of implanting the philosophy of her dead husband in the next generation. She is the author of man) pamphlets on education for women and children. Though the widow of a god, Madame Lenin is not one of the nine oligarchs in the Kremlin. It is whispered that Krupskaya frequently disagrees with the policy of her husband's successors. It is possible that the future evolution of the Soviets may be along lines entirely different from the plans of their founder. Nevertheless, Soviet Russia continues to pay homage to his dead body. It would not be the first time in the history of a movement or of a religion that those who profess to worship its founder discarded his original doctrine. The worship of Lenin proves that no na- tion can live without a religion. The French revolutionists dethroned God, but in his place they were compelled to put a god- dess—-the Goddess of Reason. Similarly, communism substitutes Kar! Marx for the Bible and proclaims Lenin its Messiah. Lenin's Image Everywher2 The apotheosis of Lenin is based on a shrewd knowledge of Russian psychology. Though assailing the Orthodox Church, Bolshevism ingeniously adopts some of its methods. To the Russian peasant no saint appears genuine unless his body resists the processes of decomposition. If his earthly remains begin to crumble, grave doubt is thrown upon the efficiency of his intercession in heaven. Anxious to impress the masses with the earthly immortality of Lenin's body, the Soviets availed themselves of the discovery of a Russian scientist which makes it possible to retain the similitude of life afterdeath. The secret formula is concealed in a vault and is known only to its inventor, who, if I am rightly informed, is anxious to sell it to an American millionaire. The drawback of his invention seems to be the necessity of frequent injections of the em- balming fluid. I was told that the scientific guardians of Lenin's body have considerable trouble, in spite of the fluid, to maintain its lifelike appearance. The delicate task of guarding the body of the patron saint of the Red dispensation has been intrusted to Pro- fessor Sbarsky. Lifelike though it may seem, the body before which thousands bow in reverence daily is only a shell. A German scientist who, it appears, considered its convolutions extraordinary, received Lenin’s brain. All the internal organs were removed before the body was embalmed according to the secret formula. The post-mortem disclosed an advanced stage of arterioscierosis. The Lenin cult in Russia is more fervid than the French worship of Napoleon. No Roman Cesar had so many statues raised in his honor. Lenin's image is in every rail- road depot. It dominates every office. It gazes at the passer-by from every shop window. No Nepman dares to conduct his business without a bust or a framed photograph of the apostle of Bolshevism. Formerly, any Russian entering a dwelling bowed auto- matically and crossed himself, to show his respect for the icon on the family alter. Now, nine times out of ten, there is some- where in the house an effigy of the founder of Seviet Russia. Every factory has a Lenin corner, a shrine of communism, where his bust, draped in red, is displayed. The Lenin Museum in Moscow completes his apotheosis. The colossal bust of the Red dictator at the en- trance of the museum, by a trick of lighting, conveys an impression of the supernatural. No pagan priest could con- trive a more ingenious effect to overwhelm the humble worshiper. The furniture of the room in which Lenin died has been transferred to the museum His desk appears exactly as it looked on the (Continued on Page !77)

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176 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14.1929 Hreeze-ups BANISHED/ by an act as simple as buying gas! There’s Protection to Match a Sudden Drop in Temperature Wherever You See the DENATURED ALCOHOL Sign - « - — cold weather is due. Sudden raw winds growing out of a below-freezing morning. There’s the feel of snow in the air the threat of a blizzard. Naturally you th Is it fully ready for zer Does it need attention to make it ready for the long cold winter yet to come? ink of your car! ) temperatures 7? It's better, yes, to check over spark plugs and tires system between the end of the summer driving season and the worst of winter . and oiling But for your cooling system, no inconvenience is Denatured Alcohol is absolutely harmless. Even full strength, it won’t corrode metal or rot rubber. It can’t Yes, cold weather is here. seep past pump packings. It’s high time to give a thought to your car, if you have not already put necessary! Wherever you are . . . whenever you need it... you can get anti-freeze protection as simply and easily as you buy gas! For that’s one of the advantages of Denatured Alcohol, the original anti-freeze. You buy it as you need it! You pay only for what you use... you get it wherever you buy gas... in 96 it in shape for the cold weather yet to come. But be sensible about it. and green sign that says Denatured Alcohol. you get complete protection. Institute, Inc., Graybar Building, New York City. Just look for the orange There The Industrial Alcohol seconds you're fully protected .. . and you know you have full protection just as you know you have enough oil . . . because your service man checks it for you! More than that . . . you run no risk of motor damage. GET f! Emer- gencies will happen times when 1 want protection in a hurry Just drive to the nearest garage or filling station that shows the Your ser vice man consults a chart, finds out how much Denatured Alcohol your particular make of car needs. After that, the Alco-Tester shows him é the strength of your protective solution. Then in 96 seconds way you go! Fully protected ANYWHERE. range and green sign Save time and money with ee SIX in the case... An entire seasen’s supply of De- natured Alcohol usually costs less than half as much as one filling of some preparations. 2 Denatured Alcohol is harmless to radiators, engines and electrical a systems. It will not corrode metal 8 ee parts and does not cause leaks. 3 No special servicing is required to make your car ready for winter. Just put Denatured Alcohol in your radiator as it is. WHAT HAPPENED? He hasn’t found out yet... thought he was protected. But here he is, frozen up! When he gets thawed out, he’s going to refill, this time with Denatured Alcohol. YOU KNOW YOU'RE PROTECTED! Just keep your radiator properly filled. Your service man will check your solution for you without charge when you stop to buy gas. INDISPUTABLE FACTS You've heard a lot about anti-freezes. Here are the real facts the indisputable reasons why more motorists use Denatured Alcohol than all other anti-freezes combined. Every car manufacturer approves Denatured Alcohol, and the firm that made your radiator is also emphatic in its endorsement. 5 If your protective solution is lost through accident or carelessness, the cost of replacement with De- natured Alcohol is usually one- sixth that of replacement with some preparations. 6 You can get Denatured Alcohol anywhere, anytime. Buy it when you need it, wherever you are. DENATURED ALCOHOL

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—=—=a— (Continued from Page 175) day of his demise. In his library I noticed sectional bookcases of a famous American make. The passports, forged and other- wise, with which he escaped from prison, are accorded a place of honor. The wreaths which adorned his coffin are reverently preserved. The shabby clothes of the dead dictator, including a suit showing the bullet hole made by the assassin who struck at him some time before his death, plead for sympathy, like the rent cloak of Cesar. Soviet artists vied with one another to present Lenin with curious gifts. Of these, the most original is a huge game of chess, in which the black king, a brutal figure sym- bolizing Capitalism, is opposed by the white king, Labor, in the blouse of a Russian workman. The figures aiding the workman bear the features of Lenin, Trotzky and other Bolshevist leaders. The black pieces personify the Cossack, the jailer, the kulak and the Nepman. The museum dedicated to the memory of Lenin is no less impressive than his sepul- cher on the Red Square. This square is not merely sacred to the Russian Revolution, it also marks the international associations of communism. Banners of the Communist International and the battle flag of the Paris Commune of 1871, presented to the Russian Communist Party by its French satellites, entwine here in the shadow of Lenin’s tomb and the golden turrets of the Kremlin. And near the resting place of the 500 revolutionists who were slain in the bat- tle of the October Revolution, a block of granite marks the grave of John Reed, the American interpreter of the Russian revolu- tion, who died in Russia more than nine years ago. From the Red Square we pass through the Iberian Gate to the Place of the Rev- olution. The little Chapel of the Iberian Madonna, from which the gate received its name, is, or rather was, a blue dome studded with golden stars. No picture in all Russia was more sacred than that of the wonder- working virgin in its diminutive shrine. Occasionally the image of the Madonna’re- paired from her shrine in state to some sick bed in a carriage drawn by six horses. That was in pre-Bolshevist days. But even the proximity of Lenin’s tomb and the scowl of the Bolshevist oligarchs in the Kremlin could not intimidate the faithful. When I was in Moscow the chapel was crowded with worshipers by day and by night. The chanting of the priests before the altar of the Madonna never subsided. Day and night, candles were lit in her honor. Her worshipers ignored the ironical inscription “Religion is the opiate of the people,” placed upon a building opposite the chapel by order of the Bolshevist oligarchy. This epigram, it seems, was cribbed by Marx from some French writer and lifted from Marx by Lenin. Remaking Ideals The little chapel, hardly larger than a good-sized room, seemed to nestle against the gate like a swallow’s nest. To me, it seemed an indication of a certain mag- nanimity on the part of the Bolshevists that they permitted the shrine to remain unmolested. Its very existence implied con- scious strength on the part of the govern- ment. Only the strong can afford to be tolerant. The little chapel appealed to my imagination. It still smiled upon me, a splash of blue and gold, on the Tuesday morning when I left my hotel to drive to the flying field. Little did I dream that it would be destroyed that very night by the Bolshevists. The wanton destruction of the Chapel of the Iberian Madonna indicates that Bolshevism is growing hysterical and that the present government, in spite of its protestations to the contrary, is ani- mated by antireligious fanaticism. No member of the Communist Party may adhere to any religious faith. Religious worship is contrary to the constitution. But the Bolshevists are shrewd enough not to enforce this provision. Parents may teach religion to their children, but no one, not THE SATURDAY even a priest, is permitted to impart re- ligious instruction to the children of oth- ers. A Sunday school in Soviet Russia has less standing in the eyes of the law than a speak-easy in the United States. Many church buildings have been taken over by the state for other uses. Some were turned into museums. Probably there are, even today, still more churches than schools in Russia. But religion exists solely by suf- ferance. It is possible that the destruction of the Iberian shrine presages a more militant attitude on the part of the Bol- shevist oligarchy against religion. Unable to uproot religion from the hearts of 80 per cent of the population, Soviet Russia deliberately inculcates in the young contempt for the faith of their elders. Chil- dren brought up on the doctrines of com- munism despise the emblems of the simple faith of their parents. ‘‘ My child,” a Rus- sian mother confided to me, “always closes the door to my room when his friends from school come to see him, to hide the icon over my bed.” Molding the Infant Mind The relations between parents and chil- dren have undergone a profound revolu- tion. Parental discipline has ceased to exist. Parents are forbidden to inflict cor- poral punishment. The people’s court im- prisoned a mother for boxing the ears of an eight-year-old child. The education of chil- dren is looked upon as the joint affair of both parents. Neither may take a step without the consent of the other. If the parents disagree, the courts decide. This still further reduces the respect of the child for the authority of the parents. It visibly places the state above the family. The economic ties of parents and children are loosened deliberately. Children have no right to the property of the parents. Sim- ilarly, parents have no claim upon the property of the children. The amount in property or money left to a child may not exceed the sum of 10,000 rubles. Real estate cannot be transmitted to the indi- vidual heir. It remains the leasehold of the family. Each member of the family, with- out respect to age or sex, receives an equal share in the acreage. Modern psychology confirms the doc- trine that he who shapes a nation’s child- hood determines its destiny. With this object in view, the Soviet oligarchs bend every effort to infuse every child in Russia with Bolshevism. Communism fosters in the infantile mind a reverence for its flag and its prophet. The worship of the Red flag is no less devout than the respect paid to the national emblem in other coun- tries. In fact it is more emotional. Here religion and patriotism merge into one. Communism takes the place of the Ten Commandments. At regular intervals pupils are conducted to revolutionary museums. Pictures of revolutionists and revolutionary documents furnish texts for Bolshevist sermons. Cop- ies of illegal newspapers, printed under the régime of the Czar, are invested with the sanctity of relics. Fetters, whips, the model of a cell in the famous fortress of Schliissel- berg where the Czars immured political prisoners, arouse their youthful indigna- tion. There are models of infernal ma- chines, bombs of various descriptions, and other weapons used by the Bolshevists and their revolutionary predecessors in their battle against the government. A vast amount of scholarship and patient effort is devoted to establishing the revolu- tionary traditions. The Marx-Engels In- stitute traces the growth of revolutionary thought from Sir Thomas More, Lord Chancellor of England, the author of Uto- pia, to Bellamy’s Looking Backward. Its library, ‘unique in the world, contains 280,000 volumes of revolutionary litera- ture. The Bolshevists spare no expense to make their revolutionary records complete. Every phase of revolutionary activity is preserved for posterity. Mural exhibits trace the growth of the beginnings of the term “ Bolshevist.” EVENING POST The Soviet Government does not en- courage anarchy. Nevertheless, the Marx- Engels Institute devotes a wing to anarch- ism. The works of John Henry Mackay, author of The Anarchist, are faithfully pre- served by Professor Rjazanov, the head of the institute. The Soviet Government buys up the correspondence and the libraries of great radical leaders with the same rever- ence with which the Vatican collects the battered relics of the sa’ats. Rjazanov spends more than 500,000 rubles annually for the book and manuscript department. When Prudhomme’s library was sold in Paris, it was immediately gathered up by his agents. Prudhomme is the author of the phrase: “Property is theft.” With all its respect for the dead, Bol- shevism treats living anarchists with scant courtesy. Cheated out of the hopes of see- ing their own Utopia realized in Russia, the anarchists complained to Lenin: “It is terrible that we, who are also pioneers, should be treated so badly by you.”” Lenin replied: “I sympathize with you because you are revolutionists, but I must persecute you because you are more dangerous to us than the monarchists or the bourgeois.” Hence the exodus of disenchanted an- archists like Emma Goldman from Soviet Russia! The gulf between the Communism of Lenin and anarchy is wider than the gulf between the Old Russia and the New. The anarchist believes in no government at all. The Communist espouses a government regulating minutely every aspect of life. Krapotkin, Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, even Gorky, are too fanatic, too unbending in their individualism, to fit into the Com- munist scheme. The Eternal Triangle The Bolshevists continue to open almost daily new institutes of culture for grown- ups. The object of such expenditures is to impress the minds of the new generation with the virtues of Bolshevism. Realizing that their future depends upon the verdict of youth, the Bolshevist oligarchs multiply by every conceivable means the construc- tion of schools. Educational facilities being limited, in spite of their efforts, the Soviet schools deliberately favor the children of industrial toilers and peasants at the ex- pense of the bourgeoisie. A young man applied for admission to an advanced institute. ‘‘Who,” he was asked, “‘were your parents?” Eager to prove his proletarian antecedents, the flustered stu- dent replied: “‘Two workers and a peasant woman.” The chief object of education is to anchor the interests of the child rather in the state than in the family. Every factory has a children’s room. Mothers attending lec- tures in Lenin corners and workmen's clubs can leave their children in the care of trained pedagogues — trained, that is to say, in communist doctrine. The teachers are assisted by members of the Young Com- munists’ League. No opportunity is neg- lected to infuse the little ones with the orthodox communist faith. The ideal of the Soviet philosophy is the bee or the ant state. “In what way,” I asked a Bolshevist commissar, “does the Soviet State differ from the communities established by ter- mites or bees?” “We differ from the bees,”’ he said smil- ingly, “in that we have no queens and no drones. We differ from the ants in that we have no caste. The ants have soldiers and workers, each with separatefunctions. With us every worker is a soldier and every soldier a worker.” Nevertheless, the Soviet ideal of educa- tion leaves no room for individuality. It represents the sort of civilization which would prevail on earth today if the insects had superseded the primates. No detail escapes the zeal of Bolshevist reformers. To discourage the naming of children after the saints, an enthusiastic Bolshevist compiled a long list of names derived from mechanical processes and 177 Give CANARIES forXmar and every day \\ WA Yor > Eres a gift of beauty and thrilling H song a Henry Bartels’ Canary symbolic of light, life and sunshine. An aristocrat among Canaries... agift to love ..and companionship to enjoy for years to come ... What are mere “ things” compared to this? Insist on a Henry Bartels’ Canary, For he sings with a trained voice; and the beauty of his song is inherited from generations of famous singing ancestors, Vhe legally binding Double Guarantee of Satisfaction and the Shield “ B™ trade mark under the wing identity Henry Bartels’ Canaric s. Send 4c for interesting Canary Booklet. and name of Henry Bartels’ Canary dealer in your locality. Address Desk 24, 206-208 Fulton Street, New York, N.Y. he Will-to-Serve, the warm friendliness, the per>———~ , sonal effort to make you comfortable . that's what you will first appreciate at Hotel Knickerbocker. Then... larger, handsome rooms... and the most luxuriously comfort- able beds that money can buy. With all that comes lower rates that show our spirit of fairness to the public . .. our wish to merit public recognition as a great institution, not merely a “mere” hotel. 3 minutes to the city-center . . . it's quiet, restful, ana acces- sible here . . . When are you coming to Chicago? At your service| 1. McDONELL, Mascger Wondertul Rooms with bath $3.00 W rite for illustrated literature Walton Pl., A The more Lincoln Logs a child has the more things he can make LINCOLN LOGS give Boys and Girls new ideas for play. The early life of Lincoln, the days of Daniel Boone and the struggles of the Pilgrim Fathers become real, vivid events to youngstets who make Log Cabins, Forts, Churches, and other buildings of America’s early days Geod Toy Dealers sell them $1, $2, $3, $4 and $5 tie set Lincoln Logs, 232 E. Erie St., Chicago

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After holding container under cold water an in- stant, remove cover and press on with thumbs. } THE SATURDAY EVENING POST Marxian ideology. One of the names sug- gested was ‘‘ Rem,”’ formed from the initials of the Russian words for revolution, elec- tricity and peace. ‘“‘ Dynamo” was another atrocity which the author proposed to inflict upon helpless young Communists. ““extilian,”’ after the Textile Trust, repre- sents the supreme effort of his fertile imagination. This was too much, even for the limited humor of the Bolshevists, and the idea was, at least temporarily, dropped. Bolshevist educators look askance upon fairy stories. My wife vainly searched for a book of Russian fairy tales in all Moscow. The Bolshevists, to quote their own phrase, “‘oppose animism, anthropomorphism, al- legory and the stale traditions of the romantic school which divorce a child from reality and paralyze his investigatory fune- tions.”” This rules out Little Red Riding Hood and Gulliver’s Travels. The Soviets | also object to books “overloaded with in- | cident.” This rules out action stories. Bolshevism stresses the development of the body at the expense of the emotions. It | makes strenuous efforts to introduce Amer- SEALRIGHT Liguid-Tight Paper Containers ican methods of physical culture in Russia. Almost every day I saw boys and girls on the street, parading in scant costumes to the tune of revolutionary songs. Boys stripped to the waist, and barelegged girls, marched under Red flags to athletic meets. These children, who represent, necessarily, only a fraction of Russian childhood, were weil- built and well-nourished. On a visit to the Institute of Physical Culture in Moscow I met a small group of German children who had just arrived from Berlin as guests of Soviet Russia. They carried a Red flag with the inscription: A Flaming Salute From the Proletarian Chil- dren of Germany tothe Proletarian @hiidren of the Entire World. Marriage in Russia It is the custom of the Soviets to send small groups of Russian children abroad as guests of local communist parties. It is part of the Children’s Exchange. However, some Soviet leaders are beginning to doubt the wisdom of this method, because the children come back from neighboring coun- tries with too much enthusiasm. “‘We didn’t know,” remarked a little boy return- ing from a visit to Germany, “that life could be so beautiful and that there was so much to eat.”” The Soviets do the best they ean for their children. But their best is not good enough, compared with European and American standards. There is no doubt that the new genera- tion, lacking the contacts of its elders, will be suckled upon Marx and Lenin. I hesi- tate to prophesy about the intellectual attitude of a nation fed exclusively on such a diet. The new generation has nothing in common with its progenitors. This, as I have pointed out before, is in accordance with Bolshevist plans. It is part of the Bolshevist campaign for the dissolution of natural ties. The Bolshevists display great ingenuity in waging their battle against the family. I have already referred in a previous article to the shortage in housing which destroys privacy. The Bolshevists make every effort to build new houses, but the new houses are built in such manner as to afford the least possible degree of pri- vacy. Community kitchens, community laundries, community living rooms in the model apartments aim to make living col- lective. In pursuance of its campaign to destroy the family, Bolshevism assails the institu- tion of matrimony from every possible angle. No previous revolution in history encouraged so fundamental a change in human relationships. There is no truth in the absurd stories disseminated by anti- Bolshevist propaganda, that women are common property in Soviet Russia. Mar- riage, as such, still exists. The laxity governing divorce is less unrestrained than it was in the beginning. Fearful of com- plete social chaos, the Bolshevists, deferring temporarily to the most deep-rooted in- stincts of humanity, consent to register December 14,1929 marriage. But they make no distinction between registered or unregistered, wedded or unwedded mothers. Every alliance hav- ing the character of a marriage confers the same rights and imposes the same duties as matrimony. If a man has both wife and paramour, both women have the same claims upon his support. Bigamy is not a crime. It carries, however, certain economic penalties, since the polygamous male is compelled to give to any wife without as- sured economic status a certain percentage of his earnings. The obligation of spouses to support each other in case of need is mutual. The woman, too, must pay alimony under certain conditions. Two Swords of Bolshevism A divorce, both sides consenting, may be had for the asking. If one party objects, the matter is thrashed out in court. A divorce is never denied, but certain economic stipu- lations are made with regard to the chil- dren. The court defines the obligations of both parties toward their progeny. The obligation to support a child exists until the eighteenth year. When I was in the Zags— the Registry of Social Acts—a man with five children asked for a divorce. One of his children was under age. “You can have a divorce,” he was told, “but you must pay for your child’s support until he attains his majority.” The man shrugged his shoulders. “Very well. Then I’ll wait until he is eighteen.” If a man or a woman is unwilling to take the trouble to appear before the Zags in person, a few words scribbled on a piece of paper suffice. I myself saw such a case. A woman presented her demands for a divorce with a letter from her obliging spouse. The clerk scrutinized the woman’s papers. Five minutes later she left the bureau a divorcee. Church weddings are not forbidden, but they have no validity without registration. Two out of every five marriages in the capital end in divorce. In view of the ease with which relations are sundered, one would expect a higher ratio. The compara- tive restraint shown by 60 per cent of wedded couples who refuse to flutter from the matrimonial cage, in spite of the fact that the doors are wide open, indicates that, regardless of Bolshevism, the instinct of monogamy still persists. The Bolshevist reign is so firmly in- trenched that, for the time being, the Rus- sian people are incapable of resistance. No matter how fantastic the notions of the So- viet rulers may be, they are in the position to enforce every whim. So complete is their domination that opposition simply invokes economic annihilation. Passive resistance may be possible. Physical force is out of the question. Bolshevism, in spite of its peace propaganda, carries not a dove but a sword. In fact, it carries two swords, one in each hand. The name of the first sword is the G. P. U.—the Secret Service. The sec- ond sword is the Red Army. Shortly before my trip, I met a couple who had been for six months in Russia. They related their experiences to me in a delightful Vienna restaurant, but although no orchestra interrupted our discussion, I was only able to catch a word now and then. I thought at first that there was something the matter with my hearing, until the young wife, noting my discomfiture, offered an ex- planation: ‘‘ We have lived so long in hotels where we knew that every room had a mi- crophone, that we got into the habit of never talking, even to each other, except in whispers.” Justified or not, the attitude of the young couple reveals the psychological state of mind which prevails in Russia. The fear of the police and the secret service is always present. It is obvious that a small minority, con- sisting of less than one-half of 1 per cent of the population, cannot thwart uprisings and conspiracies against itsdomination withouta highly developed intelligence system. Every day someone mysteriously disappears, to (Continued on Page 181)

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rh 4 '

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 179 5 Vale eer et een ' Pn ee 7 S vipid ips) hy - 4 = G ERE are four of the beautiful new subjects in the 1931 series, and a special calendar produced for anationally knownconcern. Among them are faithful reproductions of original paintings by nationally famous artists— Norman Rockwell, whose brilliant covers are familiar to every reader of this publication— Harvey Dunn, outstanding portrayer of military scenes and characters— Jeff Lemmpoels, the well-known Belgian landscape art- ist—Edward M. Eggleston, popular painter of mMagasine covers, and many more,

< PETRY ATION HARVESTER C1 PAN) Because each calendar is a poster on the customer’s office m wall—a permanent advertisement always before the eyes of O08 CE gm Ree) OE me er é 4 3030) «JANUARY 1930 the prospective purchaser. Because with these calendars they oe make absolutely certain that their names and their services

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180 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14, 1929 Wy, Yn li MITY LEATHER GIFTS “LITTLE BILL” OR FIND-EX » NEW-STYLE WALLETS FOR THE NEW- SIZE MONEY 1. This is she Key Kaddy which matches FIND-EX. Six styles and leathers— #82, ina gif box. Many other styles, some hand-laced, some plain, some hand- tooled embossed, 50c to $5. 2. Amity ladies’ handbag of rich im- ported steerhide, hand-colored and tool embossed, with attractively laced edges. Fitted with mirror and purse, $16.50. Other ladies’ bags of many designs from $5 to $25. 3. This is FIND-EX, the greatest improve- ment in men's pocketbooks in years. FIND-EX keeps cards, auto-licenses, etc., clean and orderly in a self-indexing, visible file. It has a separate compart- ment for the new small-sise currency. In six different leathers and designs, $5. 4. FIND-EX and Key Kaddy come in beautiful matched sets, some plain, some hand-tooled embossed, and some hand- laced. Six different leathers and designs to choose from. $7, in a handsome gift box. 5. The Amity “Little Bill” Fold is the latest creation-—made especially for the new-size currency. Featherweight, and trim, it is one of the thinnest, most compact wallets made. Automatic expanding bill compartment prevents bulging. In a wide variety of leathers, some plain, some hand-tooled embossed, some hand-laced, $1 & $15. 6. A matched set of “Little Bill” with cigarette case makes a splendid gift. Many leathers in handsome finishes, some in, others hand-laced, and some heau- tifully hand-tooled embossed. In gift boxes, $2 to 825 for the set. Mien Love the look and feel of finely fashioned leather with its suggestion of holsters and gauntlets and saddie-bags, of romance and action in the open. They enjoy the long-lasting usefulness of a gift of _ licenses or passes. The automatic expanding You can choose FIND-EX or “Little Bill,” leather, particularly if it is made with money compartment prevents bulging. singly or in matched gift sets, richly hand- \mity’s splendid craftsmanship. And this Another ideal gift for busy men is tooled embossed, plain er hand-laced, in a Christmas every man wants an Amity wallet FIND-EX, the famous Amity wallet that variety of soft, luxurious leathers. You'll in the new style, to carry the new, smaller conveniently files many cards, find them at your druggist’s, money. tickets and memoranda in neat, jeweler’s, stationer’s, depart- Little Bill” is a beautiful singlefold wallet, transparent envelopes, visible ment store, luggage or men’s fur- small, slim and flexible, made especially for and removable. FIND-EX also nishing store. Amity Leather the new-size money. Transparent, remov- provides a special compartment Products Company, West Bend, able envelopes hold standard-size cards, auto- for carrying the new money. Only genuine Amity leather Wisconsin. ¢ - products are plainly stamped with the name Amity. Look for it—it is a guarantee of quality.

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(Continued from Page 178) be secretly tried by the G. P. U. Frequently his fate is not known even to his nearest relatives. Not a whisper appears in the newspapers. Occasionally, months later, some item or other referring to a secret and summary trial gives a clew to the where- abouts of the unfortunate victim. Some- times there is no trial at all. The Russian penal code does not provide the death pen- alty except for offenses against the state. The Bolshevist oligarchs are the sole judges as to what constitutes such an offense. Siberia and banishment from the six lead- ing cities loom among the minor penalties. Lawyers are usually too intimidated to attempt more than a feeble defense in any trial for an offense of this type. More than 80 per cent of the judges are members of the Communist Party. Bol- shevism makes no concealment of the fact that in Soviet Russia justice is class con- scious. The courts are instruments of the class struggle. It is a matter for ghastly jokes that the death-dealing headquarters of the G. P. U., or secret police, is a building formerly oc- cupied by a life-insurance company. The G. P. U. relies neither on the regular army nor on the police, but on its own trained guard. The exact strength of this private army is not known. But it is said to con- sist of 130,000 picked members of the Communist Party. Other estimates which probably include the Border Control, a body of trusted men, selected to seal up all Russia, place the total number of the special army at the disposal of the G. P. U. at 250,000. The troops of this special army are well paid, well clothed, well shod and well fed. They live on the fat of the land, such as it is, and take their orders solely from the Bolshevist oligarchs. Even the people’s commissars, as the various minis- ters are called, tremble at the mention of the G. P. U. Communism in the Army Next to the G. P. U., the chief reliance of the Bolshevist oligarchy is the Red Army. In 1919, Lenin said: ‘“‘We need an army of three million.” Immediately an army of 3,000,000 was there. It did not spring from the soil overnight; it was forcibly drafted. The overlords of Bolshevism were alarmed. Such an army, including as it did many former officers of the Czar, might conceivably turn against the government itself. Trotzky, scenting the menace of dis- loyalty, issued a decree in 1920 that every tenth soldier must be a member of the Communist Party. In less than half a year 300,000 communists were enrolled in the army. They were the spies of the oligarchy. Their eyes were the eyes, their ears were the ears, of Lenin. No one, officer or private, escaped their scrutiny. They established lecture courses and schools. Every armory, every detachment, was provided with a communist cell to promote agitation and propaganda. Bolshevists claim that illit- eracy in the army was reduced from 27.1 per cent in 1913 to 3.92 per cent in 1926. llliterates were taught to write. But with the alphabet they absorbed the doctrines of communism. After the civil war, the Soviets demobil- ized three-quarters of their army. The present standing army, omitting the fleet and the air forces, has a personnel of 563,- 000 officially. German experts figure out that the peace strength of the Russian army actually equals twice the official figure. The Soviets claim that they spend less per head of the population, on their army and navy than any civilized power except Germany. Then, according to Bol- shevist figures, Great Britain, Finland, the United States and France follow. Japan and Poland stand at the top of the list. About 77 per cent of the Bolshevist army are recruited from peasants. About 15 per cent of the recruits are workers. The re- maining contingent is drawn from other professions. The aristocracy, the bour- geoisie and the kulaks are rigidly excluded. Of the common soldiers, 13.6 per cent are THE SATURDAY members of the Communist Party or candi- dates for admission. Another 16.3 per cent are members or candidates for admission to the Young Communists’ League. In the higher ranks the communists dominate. Almost 50 per cent of the officers are mem- bers of the Communist Party. Nearly 4 per cent more are members of the Young Com- munists’ League. Russian Amazons Soldiers are encouraged to correspond with Soviet officials and to contribute to the so-called wall newspapers. Every bar- rack has its bulletin board, which takes the place of a newspaper. Poster newspapers of this type play an important part not only in the army but in civil life, in factories and in schools. Soldiers participate in politics and are eligible for office. All Russia must go in rags and stint itself to clothe and feed the Red Army. Soldiers serve two years in the army and three years in the air forces. They are members of the reserve until their fortieth year. After they return from the army they become leaders and spokesmen of communism in their villages. The Soviets have succeeded in inspiring the army with confidence in itself and with pride in its profession. When I was led with a small group through the Kremlin, a soi- dier was detailed to follow us. He was a strapping, well-favored young fellow who would have done credit to any army. Un- able to communicate freely, we smiled at each other and conveyed our thoughts to each other by gestures. I wanted to show my appreciation for his friendliness by giv- ing him discreetly a substantial tip when our visit was finished. He smiled very po- litely but, pointing proudly to his uniform, refused to accept any gratification. It is hard to believe the official statement that the Soviet Army has really been reduced to approximately 600,000. Soldiers are in evidence everywhere. Well drilled and well equipped, the Red Army constitutes a for- midable instrument of Bolshevist rule. The Bolshevists could easily increase their forces, because everywhere workmen and children are imbued with the instinct of military training. Every factory is a Plattsburg. No country was ever more completely mili- tarized. If Lenin could raise an army of 3,000,000 in 1919, Stalin today could raise, and perhaps equip, an army of 12,000,000. Military service is not confined to males. It is in Russia that militarism, for the first time in modern history, rallies women as well as men to its standards. Russia mili- tarizes the fair sex. It points with pride to regiments composed of women. The women soldiers look as fit to me as their male comrades. In the next war, Russia can, if she so desires, muster an army of Amazons. She may even raise an army of children. Every child, irrespective of sex, is taught to shoot. Military formations and military drill pervade the play of the children. They are also taught the use of a gas mask. Shooting as a sport is encouraged. Every- where in popular amusement places one can see men, women and children engaged in target practice. The spirit thus engendered makes Russia the most militaristic nation in the world. The Bolshevists conjure up the devil of capitalist interference to justify their ex- travagant military expenditures. The fear of foreign capitalism instilled by the Bol- shevists, together with the physical forces at their command, explains their strangle- hold upon Russia. The Bolshevist leaders EVENING POST ingeniously avail themselves of every ad- vantage. They are not unintelligent and they are not dishonest. Fervently believing in their economic creed and in their mis- sion, they are fanatical, doctrinaires, lack- ing the milk of human kindness and the saving grace of common sense. Lenin, being a man of genius, knew when to take a step backward. Stalin does not or dares not. “The man who is consistent with the past may be a traitor of the pres- ent,” Lenin once said. Like Walt Whit- man, he was not afraid to contradict himself. Stalin’s mind is less mobile. As a result, fanaticism reigns unrestrained in Soviet Russia. Bolshevist rule is an autoc- racy not tempered even by assassination. Always logical, never human, Soviet Russia illustrates the horrors of any government dominated completely by the intelligentzia It is difficult for anyone nurtured in Anglo-Saxon traditions to comprehend the supineness with which the Russian people endure the incubus of Bolshevism. It is only possible to understand what happened to Russia if we put ourselves in her place. Let us assume a catastrophe catapulting the Communist Party into power in the United States. I. W. W.’s and Bolshevists are in complete control of the capital and of the country. The President himself is only a tool in the hands of the Secretary of the Communist National Committee. Editors of radical, foreign-language publications with unpronounceable names run the Gov- ernment. They are aided by various intel- lectuals—editors of pink periodicals, parlor Bolshevists from the universities, rich men’s sons who atone for their own inability to create wealth by preaching radicalism. Suppose, if you can, both Houses of Con- gress completely dominated by the Com- munist Party; the Army, the Navy, the Secret Service, under the control of com- munist officers; a majority of the members of the Supreme Court nominated by the communist president from members of his own party. Let us assume that the com- munists have saddled upon us innumerable autonomous republics, creating separate German, Pennsylvania Dutch, Lrish, Swed- ish, Canadian, Yiddish, Polish, American Indian, and Ethiopian commonwealths, each with its own language, to destroy our national unity and to forestall a counter- revolution by confusing our hearts and our tongues. The Work of Propaganda The Government has seized every rail- road, every harbor, every shipyard, every bridge, every telephone wire, every radio, every school, every church, every factory, every hotel, every business, every bank, every newspaper and every printing press. Its agents persuade the country that we are encompassed on everyside by hostile nations threatening to destroy our independence. Many honest men are convinced that our only chance to resist foreign aggression is to support the communist government. Its propagandists— clever young intellectuals fresh from the collegesand from the editorial sanctums of radical journalism —bewilder and confuse our minds. We may assume that such a clique would maintain itself in power unrestrained by a bourgeois con- science. The most Machiavellian attitude politi- cally is not incompatible with personal integrity. In the case of the men at the top, the very fervor of their devotion to an abstract ideal would only accentuate their destructive force. Even the good-natured scoundrel, even the arrant fool, is preferable to the intellectual zealot, more interested in his formula than in human life. You can reason with ascoundrel or you canbribehim; you can twist a fool around your finger, but doctrinaires, imbued with perverted logic, are impervious to human persuasion. Such is the government of Soviet Russia in the hands of highbrows bereft alike of hu- manity and of humor. Such is the govern- ment that holds in thrall prisoners of Utopia, spiritually, intellectually, econom- ically and physically, 150,000,000 people! 18! Have you failed to find the answer hen fry "GLOVER’S a medicine that does what ordinary lotions won’t do! LOVER'S is a perfect scien- tific treatment endorsed by foremost hair and scalp specialists. Its penetrating oils cleanse the scalp and start hair cells to action. Scalp circulation is improved, dandruff is cleared away...Then always sham- poo with Glover’s Medicated Soap. It is specially compounded to work with the Mange Medicine and increase its benefits—and leaves your hair soft, sweet and gleaming. This new Glover’s System is being ac- claimed everywhere. Men and women who had given up hope of a head of thick, healthy hair now write in highest praise. Barber shops and beauty parlors also say it sur- passes everything known before. Ar all drug stores — Glover's Mange Medicine 75cents, Glover's Medicated Soap W cents. 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THE SATURDAY 182 FINE GIFTS iim! a NOTE the strap attached at uumerals 4-5 and 10-11 rather than atGand 12. This keeps the dial straight with the eye and makestelling time easier. Just one of the exclusive features in this watch of many rePuements at Sep. B52. dial $4.00

TIP-TOP. the only moderately priced wrist-watch with Krack-proof Krystal and silver dial 1. «4 « Leads in Sales because it leads in value ot* Strap-at- keeps dial straight with the eve for quick time-telling. <—-°“~— Artistic _. an-angle |(—) VL hands; clean-cut numerals: dust-proof — octagon case ; sturdy: dependable. A beauty °° of a watch for business or sports 4 « ~ amazingly low-priced at $3.50 THE NEW HAVEN CLOCK CO... NEW HAVEN, CONN. Makers of good clocks and watches for more than five generations. Prices slightly higher in Cauada. (Right) Tip-Top Quintet with silver face. full chromium-plated case, raised numerals and Krack-proof Krystal i« the handsomest pocket watch at anywhere near its price; $2.00. Radium dial $2.50,

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(Left) Tip-Top Pocket W a octagon design. with «ilver dial, Krack - proof Krystal and all its other refinements, costs only fifty cents more than the ordinary dollar watch; $1.50. Radium dial $2.25. Lic EVENING POST December 14, 1929 FIFTH AVENUE=ONCE REMOVED (Continued from Page 44) There was also the prominent debutante who telephoned me at eight in the evening | to borrow money to elope on at nine. And there were the burning love letters in the old suit of an indiscreet married man—let- ters he was very glad to get back. I’ve had my share of strange experiences, you may be sure of that—even in the way of lodgers. One of these was a Russian, and a nice boy. The first I heard of him was when he was living in a kind of society boarding house. The proprietress came to me one day in May, and said, ‘What am I going to do with the prince? I’m closing up and moving to the country, and he hasn’t a cent.” He’d sold all his wonderful jewels, and even his clothes. I took him in and gave him a front hall bedroom over my shop. A butler lived in the hall back. On the block then there was nothing much but a piano factory, a cigar store, a blacksmith shop and a barber shop. Oh, and a saloon on the corner! Everybody—the prince, the butler, the piano tuner, the barber and my husband, the plumber—used to gather in the back of our shop and toss to see who would go bring beer from around the corner. The prince nearly always lost, poor thing! He lived there, getting letters addressed to our plumbing shop, until one day he was picked up in the street and sent to Bellevue, raving in delirium. My husband and I buried him in a plot we bought in White Plains. Only three people—my husband and I, and a rich lady who pitied the dead boy—stood by the grave. Later, we put | up a stone with his name on it. A Jill-of-Alul:Trades Then his uncle came from Russia and | paid up everything anybody had spent for the poor fellow. My next titled boarder was a bankrupt English lord. He stayed with me eight months, mostly without paying. Then he got a summons to go home and inherit an estate. I'll give a few examples of. the different kinds of jobs people give me to do. One was getting a permit to bring in a client’s supply of prewar liquor from Roslyn to her town house in New York. I sat on the truck beside the driver all the way myself, and held the permit ready in my hand, I can tell you. The news got about that Annie had a liquor-transportation permit, and that night I was offered $1000 by a bootlegger to rent myself and permit to him for one of his trucks. I guess I could have cleaned up a considerable fortune if I'd been minded, but I sent the permit back as soon as I got to town. When one family built a house I looked after a little inspection job for them, and | by the time it was finished they had all gone to the country, so I had a seal put on the | house so that the furniture, silver, and so on, would be safe. Well, the family came | back without letting me know, and the next thing was that I got a frantic telephone call. Mrs. Blank, her children and several serv- ants were standing out in the rain and couldn’t get into their own house until | Annie came to get it unsealed for them. I got rid of some furniture for another Social Register family when they sold the | contents of the house, and after the wife went away for the summer I put some other things in a warehouse for her. When she came back to town I got another hurry call. The warehouse wouldn't let her take out her own things without my signature. Oh, I’ve had a lot of jobs in my time. Once I boarded four dogs belonging to the Four Hundred. The creatures used to run around and have great fun pretending the shop was a wood and the pipes were trees and stumps. One day one dog got his head fastened in a lead pipe, and in the excite- ment somebody called out the fire depart- ment to help get him loose. The variety’s not all in the jobs. There’s plenty in the articles sent in to sell too. A skeleton was in one consignment. A motion- picture studio bought that, and the thing was delivered in state in the car of one of the grandest ladies in New York. She hap- pened to be in the shop, and in great glee offered to let her chauffeur deliver the skeleton for me. Believe It or Not Sometimes people send in more than they mean to. Once an old black sweater got into a bundle, and pinned onto it was a wonderful diamond swan sitting on a great big pearl. It was worth thousands. An- other time, a diamond circlet worth $3000 was found on a dress just as it was about to be sold for ten dollars. The greatest hunch I ever got was about an old trunk included in some things from a stage star. She said the trunk was filled with worthless odds and ends. A junkman wanted to buy it for fifteen dollars just as it stood, but I had a kind of a feeling that I oughtn’t to let it go. And when I rummaged through it I found a diamond-set gold bag which alone would bring $450. When people are as rich as some of my clients, they may forget things you’d never think they could. A woman once brought in a diamond crown and said she’d come again in a few days to set a price for me to ask forit. But three years went by and she never came back. Then one day in she walked, and was quite pleased to find where the crown had been all that time. It sold for $2500. I’ve seen dresses change from hoopskirts to hoopla skirts. There are three genera- tions of some of my clients—grandmother, daughter and granddaughter. I’m friendly with them all—especially the young ones. I like modern times, people and clothes. Dresses are nothing in the way of yardage nowadays, but very comfortable and sen- sible. What’s the good of a woman drag- ging yards of material around with her and adding lumpy bustles to herself when she can look so much better and be so much more comfortable in a one-piece that’s short and snappy? I’m satisfied with things the way they are. And now I'll tell one more story, and that'll be all: A long time ago a man came into our plumbing shop and ordered three filters, Size No. 3. “T don’t want these sent C. O. D.,” he said. “I don’t like C. O. D.’s. Can’t you just send these to me and then send me the bill later?”’ I said, “Well, that’s according to who you are.” I could see, outside, that a very nice car- riage was waiting for him, but that doesn’t always prove anything. “Do you think you could pay for them in thirty days?’’ I asked. Helooked atmeandsmiledalittle. “‘Why, yes, I think so,” he said. So I promised I would send a bill to be paid in thirty days, and then asked for his name. “John Jacob Astor,” he told me.

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— ———— kn naoee - ~ — THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 183 You Read. .. while the "TOASTMASTER Toasts

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Automatic even down to discharging the toast and turning off current when through. Which cannot be said of any other toaster made. All you do is put in a piece of bread, set a lever at the ind of toast you want, and for- get it. In a minute there’s a Pop!—toast is automatically discharged from the machine and current turned off. Both sides have been toasted at once—a revelation in speedy toast- ing. So you get toast moist and tender inside, crunchy and crisp outside—with all the flavor sealed in! In the last two years, the automatic Toastmaster has supplanted all other less modern toasters in thousands of homes. Buy no toaster without seeing the Toastmaster work; thus save future regret. Demonstrated and displayed by all stores in the United States and Canada. WATERS-GENTER COMPANY 219 N. Second St., Minneapolis, Minn 4 Division of the McGraw Elects mpar THE COMMERCIAL TOASTMASTER Proved to be a big profit 3 R maker for Hotels, Res 2 taurants, Hos} que a \ Cateteris Cofic and ere ( c 4 my : Sandwich Shops. Over “ : < . ‘ _ \ 30,000 now in daily use ——___e- : i TT Lae Oe | <* MadeunderfamousStrite ’ patents, in three sizes 3-slice, 4-slice and 8- to 12-slice. A postcard will 1 bring full details with “< «4 ; ‘ab \ ss out obligation

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184 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST > @ ot “ iL) > o< (a ie 4 Oe aN it Wie AS Khe v ft NR ) —— : A , ' 3 7 j i , CANADI THE LARGEST

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N

i Prenton p LARG EST RAILWAY io is ever expanding 4 1 railroad ts never finished. It must be self-competitive, hotels, vacation resorts, hunting and fishing fighting for neu life, new business, neu progress, meu ; camps, steamships on two oceans, a telegraph knowledge and viston + 7 system, radio stations, and express service. It Str Henry W. THorRNToN has more than 100,000 employees. CHAIRMAN AND PRESIDENT, CANADIAN Nationa Rarmways For five years passengers on Canadian National ~ || -HE largest railway system on this continent crack trains have enjoyed radio service. To is Canadian National Railways. It is the ™orrow they may have telephone connection . on moving trains with home and office; already very nerve and blood and sinew of a great Do it has been accomplished. minion. It is never finished because it is always growing. It is alive with enterprise and pur- Tomorrow the shining steel pose, pushing forward always to new achieve- the Canadian National network will give new life and find ment, like the country of which it is a part new wealth across far country which today seems only a wilderness. Its 23,000 miles of tracks extend from great ** ss cities of the United States to everywhere in| Maximum of luxury and efficiency are the stand- Canada, join Atlantic to Pacific and reach to ard throughout the Canadian National system the shores of Hudson Bay. Tomorrow these maximums will be superseded ; by new achievements—finer, better, greater. Canadian National is not only the largest rail- ’ . way in America—it.serves every phase of travel Truly it is said—America’s largest railway and communication. It operates magnificent system is ever expanding. AN NATIONAL SYSTEM AMERICA PITTSBURGH PORTLAND, ORE ST. PAUL SEATTLE $05 Fifth Ave 355 Fifth Ave 302 Yamhill St 83 East Fifth Street 1329 Fourth Avenue PHILADELPHIA PORTLAND, MEI ST. LOUIS SAN FRANCISCO WASHINGTON, D Grand Trunk Ry. Sta 314 No. Broadway 689 Marker St 901-—-15th St., N. W So. Grand Ave

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST THE EUROPEAN EDUCATION OF SENATOR BROOKHART Soviet régime is a revolutionary govern- ment. Do you expect us to condone revo- lution?”’ “Well,” drawled the senator, “I like their government all the better for that reason. We have no prejudice against revo- lutions. We called on the Mexican revolu- tionists to overthrow Maximilian, one of the breed of potentates sent over by Europe to rule the poor Mexicans. Later we sup- ported the revolutionists in Cuba. Again, our President Wilson called on the German people to rise and overthrow their monarch- ical government. And, Mr. Secretary, though you may not be aware of it, today is the fourth day of July, or the anniversary of the greatest revolutionary doctrine ever promulgated. I meen the throwing off the yoke of ycur King George III.”” There was nothing more to be said. Senator Brookhart, though not a deep student of ancient and medieval history, displayed a positive genius for setting the British officials to rights on matters of mod- ern historic import. What Poincare Missed When in Copenhagen, the American Minister, Mr. Prince, most ceremonious of manner and all a-flutter in top hat and frock coat and light-colored spats, escorted the senator over to meet a British savant cited by Mr. Prince as an authority on all things Danish. The gentleman in question, as every British schoolboy knows, springs from a long line of blue-blooded ancestors, with a country estate which may be iden- tified for present purposes as Wormwood Coppice, Outgrowlers Heath, Bury St. Omans, Hants. Senator Brookhart took the whole affair as an informal gathering of farmers at a meeting of the state Grange, and immediately began a eulogy of the per- fections of the Danish agricultural codpera- tives. The British encyclopedist broke in by exclaiming: “Well, really, we don't have coéperative organizations in England, you know.” “Is it possible,” inquired the senator, “that you have never heard of the Roch- dale coéperatives? In my opinion, the big- gest thing that is going on in England today is, the codperative movement, and you are one man who doesn’t know anything about it!” We proceeded from London to Edinburgh to attend a convention of British coépera- tives. 1] contrived to have an invitation conveyed to the senator to address the gathering. His theme was the human parasites which suck the blood out of the hard-working producers. He developed his subject without heat, without gesticulation, pressing forward to his peroration with all the inexorable logic of the cosmic process: “Take our American railroads; at least seven billion dollars of their capitalization is pure water, but our roads are run in the interest of Wall Street, and Wall Street must have dividends on this watered stock. That means that the American farmer must pay heavy toll to Wall Street every time he ships a bushel of wheat or a yearling calf to market. Of course the answer to this is to organize our buying and selling coépera- tively, and to cut our transportation charges in half by running the railroads in the in- terest of the general public rather than of Wall Street.” The senator’s speech went over big. He got a tremendous hand. Perhaps this was the most felicific episode of the entire trip, unless it was the experience of being piped on board an American destroyer lying in the Black Sea off the harbor of Odessa and served at dinner with a chicken pie ‘‘a la Iowa.” We crossed from Newcastle, England, to Bergen, Norway, and in pursuit of infor- mation attained Finse on the lofty Nor- wegian plateau. With the ground covered (Continued from Page !1) by six feet of snow in July, what I most needed was not information but an over- coat. We fetched a compass round by Stockholm to Denmark and there inspected coéperative packing houses, codperative dairies, and the last word of excellence in Danish hog pens. The Danish agricultural coéps furnished the senator intellectual pasturage as rich as the lush meadows of clover and alfalfa upon which thousands of thoroughbred Danish cattle were grazing. We got off to a good start in Berlin. I had covered the ground in Germany and Poland a short time before with Mr. Wil- liam Butterworth, later president of the United States Chamber of Commerce, whose hunger for information was almost as unappeasable as Mr. Brookhart’s. Dur- ing the first day in Berlin we interviewed the chief of the Social Democratic Labor Party, a director of the Reichsbank, a Geheimrat in the Raiffeisen Bank for credit to farmers, a commissar in the Russian Soviet Purchasing Office, a Herr Doktor in the Potash Syndicate, with a peep at the Reichstag in session and a formal call upon Chancellor Cuno. Here again we were up against outworn conventions of the Old World, with a doorman demanding the senator’s card for presentation to the chan- cellor. A piece of paper had to be found on which the senator inscribed, without calli- graphic recreations, his name. The trans- mittal of this scrap of paper to the German Chancellor obviously recalled the associa- tion of scraps of paper with German Chancellors. On the whole, we did better in Berlin than in Paris, where the senator missed his date with Poincaré while at the battlefield of Chateau-Thierry. Mr. Brook- hart, however, displayed an amiable philos- ophy about this contretemps. “Well,” he remarked, ‘‘I guess Poncarey has missed just as much in not getting my views as I have missed in not receiving his.” Mr. Brookhart much enjoyed an ex- change of views with a hochwohlgeboren marksman of a local Schiitzen Verein. Be it known that Senator Brookhart rose from a humble start in a log cabin to become one of the world’s best rifle trainers and rendered great service during the war in- structing our young soldiers in the art of straight shooting. Pointing to a tree about thirty meters tall, standing in the park, the German marksman put this question: “*From the extreme summit of that tree so lofty could your Excellenz with a rifle a small squirrel shoot aus?” ““Yes,”” replied the senator modestly, “I could easily shoot the animal through the head at that distance.” Reaping a Harvest in Poland We reaped a harvest in Poland, doing the country in the grand manner, assisted by the indefatigable Kotnowski, secretary of the Polish-American Chamber of Com- merce. Stores of information amassed had to do with: Agricultural syndicates, codp- erative trading associations, parcellation of the great landed estates, the constitution and activity of the State Agrarian Bank, the index of wholesale prices in zloties, the great lumber resources of the Miedzyrzecze Forest, the Polish budget figures, balance sheet of the Polski Bank, the match monop- oly, plans for the construction of the Polish port of Gdynia, reports on the beet-sugar crop, export and import statistics, reports of the Minister of Finance and the Minister of Commerce, laws dealing with factory inspection, unemployment, labor unions, national health-insurance schemes, the housing situation, reconstruction of devas- tated areas. We looked into the work of a prominent codperator, Dr. Franciszek Stef- ezyk, who founded the first Polish Bank on the German Raiffeisen principle, and ex- amined with approval the flourishing con- dition of the Polish coéperative societies at Lwéw. (This Polish name for the metrop- olis of Galicia is effectually pronounced by barking it, just as the city of Tezew may be vocalized by sneezing it and the famed city of Przemysl best handled by gargling it along with an infusion of slippery-elm bark. Thus we gathered up our material as a wandering woolly sheep collects cockle- burs. Our printed stores, whether in Ger- man, Polish, Danish or French—none of these languages being understood by the senator—were bundled into diplomatic pouches and dispatched to the Senate Office Building in Washington, where they repose undisturbed. Art is long and time is fleet- ing. The pressure of the current hour displaces the great matters of the past, post- poned for consideration to a future date which never comes. A busy life with little time left to count the stars, the birds, the fishes, or to admire Italian Renaissance paintings or to taste the savor of the polished periods of Walter Pater and Edmund Burke. One day the senator is bent on get- ting better salaries for government clerks, another time it’s cleaning up patronage jobbery in the South, then again it’s more pay for disabled veterans or a larger ap- propriation for the Farm Board. So much time to be spent in harassing the regular Republicans, resenting his classification as a “‘ pseudo-Republican ” —will the time ever come for digesting all that European stuff? As a result of many interruptions, the senator’s purpose to tell the whole story has been frustrated, and he can only say, with the prophet: “As thy servant was busy here and there, he was gone.” Privileges for Everybody The senator crossed the Russian frontier with emotions of deep and sympathetic in- terest for the Russian people and their new experiment in government and economics. Thesenator’s admiration forthe Soviet Gov- ernment is understandable, since he shares | the Russian infatuation that government can do anything and care for everybody. A man of rude, half-starved beginnings who had become newly enfranchised and charged with the complex responsibilities of admin- istration would, of course, bé drawn toward millions of unenfranchised peasants who had now come into their own. maintains that government exists for the purpose of taking money out of one man's pocket and putting it into another man’s pocket. Some ground for Voltaire’s theory existed in the days of the old French mon- archy, with a politico-economic system based on privilege. Senator Brookhart’s po- litical theory is more constructive. On the negative side he would prevent government from taking money out of any man’s pocket for the benefit of another. On the positive side he would have government put money intoeverybody’s pocket. ‘‘ Special privileges fornone,”’ thundered Colonel Bryan. ‘‘Gen- eral privileges for everybody,” demands Senator Brookhart. He would double the appropriation for the control of the Mis- sissippi; he would triple the half billion Farm Board appropriation; he would set rediscount rates by statute and abolish pov- erty by government edict. His program would be something like laying out a rail- road in a rough country where the hills are scraped down to level up the valleys. Ac- cording to the senator, his Iowa farmer friends had suffered with the Russian peas- ants in kind if not in degree through the arrogant exactions of overlords. Here is a story of social injustice which he narrates: In the summer of 1920 two Wall Street magnates were strolling up Broadway. One turned to the other and remarkec, guess it’s about time we deflate the farmer.” | So they turned the thumbscrews of credit on the unfortunate farmer and in the gen- | eral deflatio: hundreds of thousands were driven into bankruptcy, with the market Voltaire | “Well, I | Holds the Heat in Steam Radiators fel radiators equipped with these new remarkable Dole Vacuum Valves No.2-B, stay hot long after the fire is banked. Instantaneous and automatic in operation, they help radiators heat quickly and main- tain a comfortable temperature for many hours after the boiler is checked. That means fewer firings, more heat from fess fuel, greater warmth all winter, positive fuel savings year after year. These valves are noiseless—no pounding, leaking or spitting—no “radiator static.’ New Application of Principles The new Dole Valves are entirely differ- ent—have new triple-action construction unique design, attractively finished in mod- ern, non-tarnishable chromium plate. 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ISG Dhe GREATEST MOMENT THE SATURDAY “ fe “>. ; P Je. } ~ -e. > ? 2 A a - { t i in radio history Dr. Ler De Forest, ‘‘ the father of radio,’’ inventor of the first radio tube and his latest achievement, ‘‘Screen Grid Audion 424,’ the outstanding screen grid tube of the year. 1906-1929 ho Forstruvions DE FOREST RADIO COMPANY, = have been many great moments in radio history, all closely identified with Dr. Lee De Forest, who in 1906 invented the first radio tube. He discovered that De Forest Audions could make the sound of a falling leaf roar like thun- der. That made broadcasting possible. He installed radio on the ships of fighting Bob Evans. He broadcast the magic voice of Caruso from the stage of the Metropolitan. He made pos- sible transcontinental telepho- ny. He eliminated hum and buzz from radio. Every radic tube, no matter what its name, is made by license agreement under De Forest tube patents. But the greatest moment in radio history for you is the day you install these perfected tubes in your own set. Note the difference right from the start, purer tones, greater volume, longer life. There is a De Forest Audion for every radio set. A set of De Forest Audions is a perfect Christmas gift. You will never know radio at its best until every socket of your set is equipped with a De Forest Audion—the radio tube that, for 23 years, has set the world’s standard. JERSEY CITY, NEW JERSEY EVENING POST | value of Iowa farms cut in half and mort- gages plastered over the land—all due toa | sudden whim that had occurred to one of the financial magnates of Wall Street. He will talk to you by the hour of the consumers’ strike, the wholesale cancella- tion of orders, the almost instantaneous vertical drop in staple farm products. By fatal chance, a vertical increase in freight rates coincided almost to a day with the ver- tical drop in the price of farm products. The increase in freight rates is laid by him at the door of the Esch-Cummings Transportation Act. It looked like discrimination against the farmer. In times of adversity primitive men of simple faiths people the universe with malevolent agents who have to be prayed to and propitiated. The disap- pointed, defeated man, brooding over his troubles, surrenders to the hallucination that he is the victim of a conspiracy to down him. This is the familiar delusion of perse- cution. It is human nature to charge up misfortunes to someone else’s caprice, self- ishness or malevolence. A man strikes his shins against a chair in the dark and curses not himself but the chair. Thus it is that Mr. Brookhart comes dangerously near at times to making a profession out of human discontent. But why not? Without dis- content there is no progress in the world, and many professions, such as that of doctor or dentist, are built on an effort to alleviate the individual’s discontent with himself. A Passion for Instant Action If there is pain in the social tissue, Mr. Brookhart is for relieving it at once, just as a dentist would relieve a toothache by wrenching out the tooth. When evil appears “something ought to be done about it.” This means a passion for instant action. Thus it is that many good people come to believe that they will most benefit the world when they most relieve their own feelings. As Walter Bagehot points out, the literary theory of the British constitution—for ex- ample, as Blackstone describes it—is quite a different thing from the actual working of the British constitution. Soof Russia. Even by 1923 the paper communistic theory of the Soviet régime had long since lagged be- hind the actualities of administration. The doctrines of Lenin had become something to be declaimed by rather than to live by. Lenin had already begun to swing over toa coéperative movement, and that pleased the senator. Communism was accepted as we do a vague theological dogma to which we render lip service rather than actual obedience. The old manorial estates had been seized and divided among the peas- ants, with the land held in small parcels by squatters’ rights. These rights are likely to endure until the last crack of doom. The peasants having obtained what they most December 14,1929 wanted—the land—were tolerably satisfied, and this satisfaction the senator attributed to the beneficence of the Soviet régime. The Russian peasant is an apathetic clod with a fatalistic philosophy of life. His blessed word ‘‘ Nichevo” may be variously interpreted, ‘Why worry?” ‘“‘What’s the use?” Ask him what the communists are doing in Moscow. “How does that concern me?” he replies. “‘Nichevo! Nichevo! Why should I bother? We have our village and have divided among ourselves the soil of the great landowners. Why bother about what the government is doing?” As the Senator Sees Russia As the Russian peasants are tolerably sat- isfied and as they constitute 85 per cent of the population, no doubt the senator is right in his conclusion that the Russian people have profited by the revolution and are far happier than under the old Czarist régime. There are some who do not accept the util- itarian doctrine of the greatest happiness to the greatest number as a justification for inflicting wrongs upon the minority. But at any rate, Mr. Brookhart went into Russia expecting to see a regenerated Russia. He saw what he expected to see; rather, what he wanted to see. He was determined to be pleased. He even went so far as to accept an invitation from Colonel Haskell to at- tend a grand-opera performance in Moscow. The lengths to which he will go to indulge a friend is one of the secrets of the senator’s political success. At any rate, he accepted the Russian opera in the same spirit of acquiescent fortitude that his Soviet com- rades might politely have displayed at an Iowa hog-calling contest. The leveling process on the social side did not fail to carry its appeal to the senator. Mr. Brookhart is not strong on social dis- tinctions. To him they are vanity of van- ities. Washington hostesses on the lookout for rough diamonds found in the senator an appeal to their collector’s passion for the rare and unattainable. But he is indifferent to social preferment. The senator regards the social lobby as the most insidious of all the lobbies, but even the wariest bird gets caught sometimes. In December, 1926, Mr. Brookhart was invited to a big dinner at the Willard Hotel in Washington. He threw the invitation in a wastebasket, but when assured by another senator that it was from a friend of the Pro- gressive group, he went. He found himself placed at the table between Otto Kahn, of Kuhn, Loeb & Co., and E. E. Loomis, of the House of Morgan, and, as the senator tells it, was the only man there dressed like an American citizen. Mr. Kahn began to ex- postulate with the senator over his plan to (Continued on Page 189) Senator Brookhart Inspecting a Prize Danish Bull

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by electricity Stale, heavy air and unpleasant odors cost millions of dollars a year in lost sales and lowered vitality in stores, restaurants, hotels, theaters, banks, and other business institutions. See how Corozone, a simple yet scientific electrical device, com- pletely overcomes this waste . . . note what it does in homes. Bad air is bad taste in any home. OOR AIR sets up sales resistance. All scientists and efficiency-experts know that. “Shopper's headache,” dulled buying minds and drowsy business heads are money losers. No one will deny it. Also, fresh air (without draughty ventilation) prevents thousands of colds, saving weeks of working time, speeding up production and increasing profits. i Some simple scientific system other than mere ven- tilation has been sought for years. Now it comes— in Corozone, after five years of experiment and con- clusive tests—to solve the problem of stale, lifeless air as well as odors, wherever human beings live and work—for greater profits and for better health. Now it offers the housewife and hostess complete freedom from embarrassment due to cooking odors and others that no home should tolerate. How it operates This ingenious and yet marvelously simple scientific electrical device manufactures pure ozone in corona form. Corona ozone is a highly active oxygen, the same product released by lightning during a thunder- storm. You know how the outdoor air is freshened by it after a hot, humid day. It is nature’s way to revitalize stale air and rid it of putrefactive gases and THE SATURDAY EVENING POST Bad Air is bad business! Revitalize it im any business unstitutton or home Clear air is vital to clear thinking. all kinds of odors from any source, by electricity. These odors and many impurities are literally burned up by it—not covered as by disinfectants, not masked as by perfume or merely stirred as by ventilation. Corozone does all this electrically. Corozone is different from all other methods and far superior to any other that we know. Also lowest in cost both to install and operate. Find out all about it. Let us tell you about definite results that it will bring to you in connection with any wroblem related to fresh air or odors that you may es to solve. In wide usage Corozone (electrical) is used extensively by hospitals, banks, theaters, restaurants, small and large shops, small and large stores, offices, factories, on railroads (in dining cars), steamship lines, clubs, homes and other places where fresh air means good business and good health. Does all these things Makes bad air fresh, even where windows must be closed. Destroys all odors by oxidation, literally burns them up, does not “mask” them. Makes air a poor culture medium for bacteria— actively hinders contagion. A number of COROZONES in special colors for Christmas. Ask dealer, or us, about them. COROZONE Makes bad air FR ESH by electricity Increases number of red corpus les in the blood, thus increasing vitality. Dispels excess humidity giving an invigorating fresh- ness to the air. Ine rpensive to operate as economical as an electric fan. Attach to any A. C. light socket. Slight extra charge for D.C. adapter. Small in size. Only 8x‘5x4 inches. Needs no attention or service; lasts indefinitely Handsomely finished. Ine onsple uUOUS (nee dnot be seen) “Money-back” guaranty If it does not do all that we claim and meet your every test we will refund the entire purchase price. ($40 and u according to your requirements, Slightly higher ol Purchase a Corozone and use it for 30 days Pacifie Coast.) Operates in smallest rooms at small room costs orin great factory spaces equally efheiently Device ye per by Underwriters’ Leboratories National Board of Fire Underwriters. Famous physician says: (Nome on request} “Ozone increases the oxygenation of the blood and tissues, increasing oxyhemoglobin, and also increas- ing the number of red corpus les. Germs are de- stroyed by ozone; it is distinctly deodorant.” Corozone, a special need in: Salesrooms, confe rence rooms, banks. theaters, res- taurants, dining cars or wherever people spend money or decide important matters. Distributors—Dealers A few exclusive Corozone territories still open to reputable organizations. Send for further particulars. The Corozone Company, General Offices: The Hanna Building, Cleveland, Ohio; The Corozone Company of Canada, 28 Scott Street, Toronto Send direct if your dealer does not sell Corozone THE COROZONE COMPANY The Hanna Building, Cleveland, Ohio Please find ( Venclosed check ( ) money order for $40 (Pacific Coast prices slightly | for one Corozone device. | understand you will refund my mor le not absolutely satisfied within thirty days Name Address

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188 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST and for them... Chey paused before the Alamo on their way to California... And there, iz 2" instant Dad re- called the many times brave heroes and despera- does had been entertained by young Bob in the } living room back home. Then for a sword’s flash, above the shot-torn walls of that heroic shrine, Davy Crockett lived for them again. Had you dropped into a chair next to Dad in the club carthat evening, he might have confessed to quite a few things that remain unsaid outside the intimate, little-world coziness of a great train Davy Crockett lived again speeding through the night. Told you how on thi trip Bob was going to meet the spirits of many uf the old timers—clanking Conquistadore, Billy the Kid, bloody Apache Chief Geronimo . . . Con- fessed to his foolish weakness forthe chef’s South- ern touch; laughed at the way his daughter (origi- nally Elizabeth, but stamped down now to a curt “Pet’’) had made them stopover at New Orleans and the MardiGras;—orgrinnedat hisown longing to stop a week at an Arizona guest ranch. Boasted perhaps that this Go ONE WAY,RETURN ANOTHER* trip south across the country and along f the famous “Sunset Limited” udes club car with shower bath and DAT DEY; iddie soungewith ma dand imwer. the whole Pacific Coast was going to give his boy and girl the real feel of their own United States. You'll probably never meet our mythi- cal friend of the “Sunset Limited.” But surely his train is a very real tradition wherever great trains are mentioned. Color bearer of the SunseT Routes, it takes proud place among the leaders of Southern Pacifi December 14, 1929 Southern Pacific’s four great routes, “Overland Limited,” “*Golden State Limited,’ ‘Sunset Limited” and “The Cascade.” All the way from New Orleans to the Pacific Coast—San Diego, Los Angeles, San Francisco —Sunset Route passes scene and city, written deep in the epic of the South and West. Houston, San Antonio and its Alamo. El Paso, with its Mexican border spot; Apache Trail one day side- trip in Arizona; Tucson, Phoenix. >— “4 * To 00 West one route and return another is Southern £ Pacifie’s way of making the whole Pacific Coast and half the United States a part of one regular round- trip ticket. A ticket that finds and interprets the West. For Southern Pacific rails follow natural pione er path- ways ... It is close to the spirit of the Il est you are to see. Its vast network of lines explore the whole Pacifi Coast. Southern Pacific ts the only railroad offering choice of four routes. Go one way, return another. Four Great Routes Write O. P. Bartlett, 310 So. Michigan Blvd., Chicago, or H. H. Gray, 531 Fifth Ave., New York City, for book: “How Best to See the Pac ifte Coast.’’ a ee ee Dee Oe eee

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(Continued from Page 186) squeeze the water out of the railroads and to set rediscount rates by statute. Mr. Loomis followed suit. Meanwhile hip- pocket flasks had been exposed at another table to the view of the senator. Here were his three pet detestations—high society, Wall Street and booze—commingled. When the dinner was breaking up, someone in- quired: “Senator, did you feel contaminated by having Kuhn, Loeb & Co. on one side of you and the House of Morgan on the other?” “I might have been infected,” he replied dryly, “but for the fact that I had been in- oculated against the contagion.” In Southern Russia, Mr. Brookhart, who carries the Fourth of July with him, and with it an American investiture of everything foreign, found himself much at home. Here was a black-soil zone almost indistinguish- able from the rich black soil of Iowa, ex- tending from the Carpathian Mountains, as if laid on with a huge paint brush, across Bessarabia, sweeping eastward beyond the Volga River, around the southern slopes of the Urals, and then stretching away into Siberia to the Altai Mountains in Central Asia. Mr. Brookhart emerged from Russia by way of Odessa, and through the courtesy of Admiral Bristol was taken by an Amer- ican destroyer to Constantinople and later back to the Rumanian port of Constanza. On arrival at Bukharest I made shift, while Mr. Brookhart was occupied with a caller, to post over to the American Legation and apprise our minister, Peter Augustus Jay, of the senator’s advent. I had served in the Rome Embassy with my friend Jay, and made bold to suggest that he invite the senator for luncheon and not for dinner. I explained that Mr. Brookhart had come to Europe with only one suit of clothes, which served as a covering but not as an orna- ment to the body. I quoted Mr. Brook- hart’s sartorial platform as enunciated on a public occasion: “‘T never wore a swallowtail, never owned one, and never will admit the necessity for such a uniform.” I also mentioned Mr. Brookhart’s an- tipathy to wine, coffee and tobacco, and his contempt for the ceremonials which sur- round a formal dinner. “But why,” Mr. Jay asked, “‘should I at- tempt to accommodate myself to Senator Brookhart’s way of living any more than he should accommodate himself to my way of living? Please ask the senator to come around here and take dinner with us at eight o'clock.” The Commoner and the Diplomat It would be hard to imagine two men whose lives presented wider contrasts. Mr. Brookhart, with his humble beginnings and early merciless buffetings, blunt of speech, unschooled in the ways of diplomacy, all contrasting with Jay’s exquisite manners. Jay, born to the purple, standing six feet two inches in height, grandson of the great John Jay. Harvard graduate, for twenty years a member of the Diplomatic Corps, rich enough to buy up ten sections of Iowa farm lands. Mr. Brookhart’s knowledge of horses was obtained empirically in guiding a plow behind a pair of farm plugs. Jay’s knowledge was obtained didactically under the instruction of a riding master, keeping in his stables at Bukharest not less than nine saddle horses. Mr. Brookhart and Mr. Jay looked at life from different angles, just as they had looked at a horse from different angles. Be all this as it may, we punctually ap- peared at Minister Jay’s for the eight o’clock dinner. Mr. Brookhart, wearing a spotless celluloid collar and the dean of his ward- robe, a pepper-and-salt suit which had gone unpressed for six weeks, was welcomed by Mr. Jay and his two secretaries, resplendent in evening dress. Straightway a flunky appeared, bearing cocktails on a silver platter. The senator employed the characteristic straight-armed, blocking-off movement of a running half- back on a football field. THE SATURDAY “Take that away. I never touch the stuff,” he objected decisively. Mr. Brookhart is no modest violet, and seated at the right of the minister at dinner, he comfortably squared himself, hitched up his coat sleeves an inch or two and started in to tell all about the “European situa- tion.” “You peoplein high society,” he observed, “know what the aristocrats are doing, but you don’t know what’s really going on over here, because you don’t know what the common people are doing.” “Indeed,” inquired Mr. Jay politely, “and what are the common people doing?” “Well, let me tell you. First I will give you an insight into that great country, Russia, in which I spent the better part of three weeks. These Russians are up and coming. In many respects they are way ahead of us.” “In what respects?” inquired Mr. Jay. “Well, they’re long-headed financeers, for instance.” “You mean that they are long-headed about seizing the property of Americans and giving them a receipt for it, written on a worthless piece of paper? Is that what you mean by long-headed financeers?”’ “You are prejudiced,”’ countered the sen- ator, “‘because you haven’t been in there. You don’t understand the situation. You take Trotzky, for example. I had a long conference with Trotzky. I came away with the impression that he is a greater financial genius than our Paul Warburg.” Their Wrong Start in Life By this time the harassed Jay was in a position to concede the point. He reached over indulgently, patted the senator on the shoulder, and remarked: “‘T dare say, senator, your friend Trotzky is a very delightful gentleman.” I had displayed an incredible lack of judg- ment in feeling that a meeting between two men who stood so far apart in their phi- losophies of life would break up with a stiff quarrel and hard feelings on both sides. But not so; as the evening wore on our minister and our senator became actually clubby with each other, each one being interested in the other as he would be in some sport of nature. The charm of the unusual, like running across a zebra in a watermelon patch. Driving home that night in a rattletrap caléche drawn by a mangy little pony, my companion remained silent until we were approaching the hotel. My thoughts were on my friend Jay. His splendid saddle horses, his magnificent stable, his munifi- cence in presenting an admired Thorough- bred to Queen Marie. “Your friend Jay,”” remarked the senator, “has qualities about him I like, and I guess at bottom he’s a pretty good sort of a fel- low. The only trouble with him is he never got a right start in life. He would have turned out to be a good deal of a man if he had had the right kind of training.” The next day I met Jay and rather ex- pected him to burst out against the senator. His critique was condensed in about two sentences: “Of course your friend Senator Brook- | hart is absolutely ignorant about European conditions, but he’s a very decent fellow after all. The great trouble with the man is he got a wrong start in life, and never had any advantages.” But all things come to an end. Early one morning, approaching Vienna, we ob- | served the lacelike spire of the beautiful Stephanskirche rising above the mists of the Danube Valley. We were on the last lap of our journey, having done a number of coun- tries after leaving Rumania. I was in the position of an exhausted Channel swimmer, still beyond his depth, but with the shore in sight. I invoked in Vienna the assistance of an old friend, Prentiss Terry, United States | trade commissioner, who agreed to see the senator around Vienna for a day, dine with him and listen to his discourse in the eve- | ning. Terry, hardly turned thirty, was in EVENING POST 189 | a KAYWOODIE 1930 MODELS “Commander” Plain “07,” Thorn, $4 Give him a present for his health this Christmas! Take “Tobacco Yello” out of his pipe smoke. “Tobacco Yello” upsets the stomach, kills the appetite, stains the teeth.* But not ina Drinkless-k AYWOODIE. The Drinkless attachment stops 66.5% of it.* For his health’s sake, as well as for a sweeter, drier smoke, give him a Drinkless-KAYWOODIE. Insist on the Drinklessattach- ment and the clover-leaf inlay on the mouthpiece. 1930 Models are $3.50, $4, $5 and $7. See them now. , *Write to us for a physician’s booklet on Tobacco Yello. Free. KAUFMANN BROS. & BONDY, Inc. Established 1851 120 Fifth Avenue, New York In Canada —Civie Company, Ltd., Montreal, P. Q.—In England —Civic Company, Lid., Londen

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190 www eS eee THE SATURDAY EVENING POST ‘But she couldnt wait

tmas!~ She found the box - - all red and green and Christmassy - - hidden in the closet. Because such a box could only mean something to get really thrilled about, she took just a tiny peek. -- A satin sheen . . . an opal- escent shimmer . . . Then she couldn't wait - - and Fred had to put the car's new dress on right away! Christ It was Biltmore Aerocloth, the marvelous Du Pont material that water can't spot and sun can’t fade - - that keeps clothes and car upholstery clean and fresh - - that can be washed with soap and water or gasoline, right on the car! The colors are not “put on” but “put in” - - actually impregnated into the sateen base so they can't peel or crack or lose their lustre . . . an ideal gift! You may prefer Biltmore Seat Covers de luxe . . . also charmingly boxed for Christmas. These are made of fine, durable fabrics, rich with modern- istic colors and patterns and with glove fasteners of oxidized silver. Individually cut by hand and tailored like the finest made-to-measure garments, they can be dry-cleaned as easily as a suit of clothes. Quite a bit lower in price but of characteristic Biltmore quality, texture, color and fit, are the Biltmore Standards, covering all the upholstery from floor to window line, and Biltmore slip-ons, for seat and back cushions only. The slip-ons go on or off almost as easily as pillow slips and are as easily cleaned. The Biltmore line has such a range of colors, styles and prices that you are sure to find just the gift you want at the expenditure you are plan- ning. A perfect fit for every make and model of motor car, beautifully boxed for Christmas giving. You can buy them from leading automobile and accessory dealers everywhere, including all stores of THE WESTERN AUTO SUPPLY COMPANY FROM COAST TO COAST Installation service at all Western Stores Agrociotn, $15.00 up STANDARDS, $ 7.50 uP De Luxe, $11.00 up Sirp-Ons, $ 4.25 up Merchandise Orders Issued THE BILTMORE ERO MFG. COMPANY 1749 Centrat Avenue, Cincinnati Factories also at Chicago, Philadelphia, Los Angeles Bl LIMO RE ~<- §EAT COVERS PATENTS

www the prime of life, eupeptic, red-blooded, am- bitious, eager to please—in brief, a human | dynamo. Along about ten o’clock at night, | after a laborious day, he dropped in to see me at the Hotel Bristol. His dejected figure betokened a great change. He looked droopy, as if he had just risen from a sick bed. The man was obviously in the last stages of exhaustion. “Doctor,” he gasped, “I'm all in; I’m foundered. I’m only an ordinary human being; I’m not a caterpillar tractor!” The next evening I was to say farewell to the senator when his train pulled out for Paris from the West Station at ten o'clock. After a crowded day we discussed at dinner the success of the Rochdale system; and to guard against any possible failure to make the train, left the hotel at nine o’clock. Ar- riving at the station, we had more than a half hour to wait, and occupied the time discussing the marvelous strides of the Aus- trians in coéperative endeavor. My heart was rather heavy at the thought of saying good-by to the senator, but my feet were heavier still. I could barely drag myself about. I inquired hopefully of a guard passing through the train, “This train leaves in about three minutes, nicht wahr?”’ “You have plenty of time,”’ he assured me. “The service has been interrupted and the train bleibt here until after midnight.” What must it be to feel like thirty at fifty? Never to experience emotions of fatigue or | impatience? Travel does tax one’s patience. The interruptions, the delay, the officious- ness of officials, the apparent stupidities of foreigners, which, after all, are only a mirror of your stupidities in not better apprehend- ing their language and habitudes. The broad-shouldered, clear-eyed senator never suffers from fatigue, sleeplessness, head- ache, pyorrhea, the fall of dandruff or granulated eyelids. He tirelessly moves to- ward his objectives with the invincible ob- stinacy of an insect. He still has time to cultivate the esthetic faculty which is the beginning of all art. It’s an instinct which many men cultivate late in life. Our great industrialists, dedicating their lives to steel or copper, retire at a mature age with their accumulated millions to collect Rembrandis end Botticellis. Along with the quickened sense of the beauty of life, he may acquire a taste for poetry. The Senator Indulges in Poetry In leading the filibuster against the Ship Subsidy Bill, on February 22, 1923, Mr. Brookhart remarked on the floor of the Sen- ate, after speaking four hours: “This is the natal day of George Wash- ington, the Father of our country, the great- est filibusterer in history. It was George Washington who filibustered the American people clear out of the British Empire. And there were some compatriots of George Washington who did not like the looks of a tax on tea, and they filibustered that tea over into Boston Harbor. Yes, that oc- curred up in Boston dear old Boston — The home of the bean and the cod, Where the Lowells speak only to Abbotts, And the Abbotts speak only to God.” At this juncture, the scholarly Senator Calder, of New York, interrupted with the suggestion that it should go to the Cabots rather than to the Abbotts. Mr. Brookhart: “‘I accept the correction. I am not very strong on poetry anyhow.” Yes, the senator is not strong on poetry; but give him time. He has acquired a great many things which he didn’t have when he first led the struggle between those who December 14, 1929 have not and those who have. He has ac- quired a nice home, though still mortgaged, with garden and trees, in one of the suburbs of Washington; drives a sturdy though not showy motor car; his children are succeed- ing; during the present session he has offered what he considers his most radical measure—a program for the strict control of corporation profits. Some day he may becomea bank president or a railroad director and wear a top hat and light-colored spats. But this is not a work of the imagination. Suffice it to say that most of the radicals in our American political his- tory are prone to turn conservative. Cum- mings started life as a red-hot radical and later, softening into a conservative, was de- feated by Brookhart. Such men as Senator Tillman and Senator Lenroot entered public life as militant radicals and later came to be classified as moss-grown conservatives. Col- onel Bryan, who for twenty years castigated the money power, came to be rated as some- thing of a moneyed man himself and died in his sleep after a comfortable dinner follow- ing a powerful speech defending the faith of the fathers. Senator Brookhart’s ambition is to avoid turning conservative. A Campaign for Eight Cents Senator Brookhart represents the homely pioneering qualities which have made us what we are. He is the mouthpiece of in- articulate, unorganized people with griev- ances. These people ought to be heard in the national lawmaking body. If they were not heard this would not be a truly repre- sentative government. It’s refreshing to know that in thesenatorial campaign where an Eastern candidate spent half a million dollars Senator Brookhart spent only eight cents. It is pleasant to find a man, whether he be right or wrong, who is perfectly con- sistent in_his-sympathies and antipathies. Men who thus run true to form occasionally achieve the distinction of dictionary im- mortality. How many people who devour a sandwich realize that thename memorializes the British statesman, Lord Sandwich, who could adapt himself to both sides of a situa- tion without disclosing the meat of the subject lying between? The verb “to burke” memorializes the scoundrel William Burke, who murdered a dozen or more per- sons by suffocation. One may properly sug- gest the verb “‘to smoot,” meaning to pre- vail in a Senate debate through superior knowledge of the tariff, or the verb “to brookhart,” meaning to triturate Wall Street in order to titillate the farmer. Human political institutions are not struck off out of hand. Organized society is not a contraption which one may tinker on as if it were a machine. The roots of what we are run far back into the past. Mr. Brookhart’s European trip acquainted him with stabilities which rest on the experience of a thousand years, but also with the rev- olutions of the present day. As men come to know history—that is to say, the story of human experience on this planet—in brief, as they become educated they have to learn that the most successful peoples politically are not those of vain experiments who would make haste rapidly, but rather the slow- going, phlegmatic peoples, such as the British, the Dutch and the Swedes, who make haste slowly. When it comes to vio- lent and extreme changes, the radicals and fanatics are really beaten before they start. They are up against the accumulated wills and experiences of the men who have gone before. What is this thing that wrings back every violent change in the social order and tends to restore the old balance? It is the thing which we call the past!

oo -.

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192 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14, 1929 Men often wonder why women don’t think of gifts such as these If he wants rapid fire A man with a Carlton Automatic Lighter never fights for fire. Just “Snap the lever—there’s your light,” without fuss or two or three tries . . . a Carlton is sure-fire. And because a Carlton is the thinnest lighter made you're barely con- scious of carrying it. Reliable action, smart appearance, and extra slimness make Carltons popular with men and women. Priced at $5 and up. If his wrists are worried Kum-a-part Cuff Buttons make comfort- able, clean-cut cuffs. For Kum-a-parts hold the softest cuffs neatly and trimly in place. Just slip them in and—snap! When you want them open —snip! Kum-a-parts will snip-snap for a lifetime. That's a guarantee! Reasonably priced up to $25. If he’s bothered with bilis Money Klip keeps folded bills compact and orderly in the pocket. It presses the bills thin enough to prevent an uncomfortable bulge. Plain, or ornamented with a choice of colorful sporting decorations now so much in vogue. A smart article of jewelry that any man will appreciate. From $1 to $15. if he wants collar control Swank keeps collar points smartly in place (even the long unruly ones), add- ing trimness to a man’s neckwear. Just slip it on and slip it off. Swank looks like a pin, but isn’t. No points to puncture a man’s neck or make his collar unsightly with holes. Swank costs from 50 cents to $5. Kum-a-part Products Sold at jewelers’ and men’s shops BAER & WILDE CO., Attleboro, Mass. SS eee ——— ee

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RS eae eng ae THE SATURDAY THE DEATH APPLE Continued from Page 19) find out how far he drove or whether he had time to come up here. Nobody saw him around here, but there are back roads on the mountain where you don’t meet any- body in the daytime, much less at night.” “‘Let’s get back to Jameson,”’ Tope sug- gested mildly. Chief Luger nodded. “All right,” he agreed. “Jameson telephoned me from Vint Chapel’s to meet him at Two-Barns— that’s the old Frisbee place. He said to bring the keys to the house; that he’d meet me in the orchard or out in front some- where. My wife was sick in bed. We'd buried her father that day. But I left a nurse with her and drove up there—up to the farm. It’s five miles or so, but a rotten road. Took me a good half hour.” He hesitated, then went on: “‘The farm's off by itself; no one within half a mile of it. Vint Chapel’s the nearest, but he’s on the other road. I got up there, and didn’t see Jameson; so I whistled and looked around a bit. And then I saw that the kitchen door was open; so I flashed my torch in- side and saw him, lying there on the floor.” “And dead too?" Tope prompted. “Not ten minutes dead!’ Luger said furiously. ‘‘He was sprawled across the floor on his face, and his pistol there beside him. Right under his hand.” “His right hand?” “Yes. It had been fired. And a bullet had ripped through his head. We didn’t find it, nor any mark where the bullet from his own gun could have hit. And he had this apple in his left hand, with a bite out of it. An apple he’d picked in the orchard, I guess.” He hesitated. ‘The funny thing about that was—this was what started the re- porters—his mother said he didn’t like apples raw, wouldn't eat them. He liked ap- ple pies and apple sauce, but not raw apples.” Tope nodded, his eyes shining faintly; and the chief said hopelessly: “‘ Well, that’s all there was to it. I scouted around. No tracks of a car in the road, except Jame- son’s car. No sign of anybody.” “Anyone hear the shots?” “Old Vint is deaf,”’ the chief explained. “‘And there was a wind blowing the wrong way, anyway.” “And you haven’t got anything on it?” “Bob Rook’s working on it,’’ Chief Luger reminded the older man. “I’ve had him trying to find out whether anyone heard or saw a car go up that way. He’s working the whole country up there.’”’ He frowned thoughtfully. “I ought to have heard from him last night. I’m kind of worried about Bob.” He laughed apologetically. ‘‘ This thing is getting me, I suppose.” The inspector said irrelevantly: ‘That tooth of mine has started to ache. I knew it would. What did you say was this dentist’s name?” Chief Luger told him. “That's his office yonder,” he said, and crossed to the win- dow to point toward the other side of the square. “T think I'll drop over there,”’ Tope de- cided. “I can think better if I don’t have a toothache, probably. I'll be back by and by.” The chief nodded. “Do you think of anything we've overlooked?” he asked doubtfully. Tope shook his head. “I never see anything till it’s out in plain sight,” he replied. He chuckled. “I guess my teeth are on my mind,” he confessed. “‘See you later on.” It was an hour past noon when Inspector Tope and the sergeant first stepped off the interurban car at Milfield Square; it was toward three o’clock when, in Chief Luger’s car, they drew up before a trolley waiting station two miles or so below town and tumbled out to push through the little cluster of curious folk who were gathered about the spot where Bob Rook lay. They had passed the Murdock estate on the way down the valley, and Chief Luger pointed out his own home too. “This place where they found Bob is just below here,” he explained. “It’s a car stop; just a shelter beside the tracks, with a seat inside, in case it’s raining and someone’s waiting for the car. I get off there when I come down from town on the traction, some- times.” But the stop was little used, he added; it was located at the foot of a road that led up into the hills. “It’s the road you take to get to Two-Barns, the farm where Jameson was killed,” he told Tope. “‘But the folks up there, if they’re going to town, usually come down in their teams or in a car.” And he said Rook’s body was found in the bushes behind the trolley station. “‘You couldn’t see it from the car; but a boy named Milliken was waiting there to catch the car, and saw it; and he stopped the first car that came along, and they got word through to me.” They found Rook as he had promised. The body was tumbled forward on its face as though it might have been thrust into the clump of alders which here sheltered it. It was Tope who, when they presently moved the body a little, discovered the ap- ple in the dead man’s right hand; an apple from which a single bite had been taken, and no more. Chief Luger pressed back the crowd. The medical examiner was not yet come, and the chief protested when Tope touched the body. But the inspector wagged his head. “I’ve been through this before,’’ he re- minded the local man. “I know what not to do.” He was looking at the bitten ap- ple; he turned from it to stare down thoughtfully at what lay here. And then he wrapped the apple in his handkerchief and put it in his pocket. “We'll wait for the doctor,” the chief suggested; but Inspector Tope shook his head. “‘There’s nothing more to see here. You can look out for it,”” he decided. “I’m go- ing back to town.” The chief stared in surprise, but another automobile came whirling down the road; two young men alighted to besiege him with questions. Tope, alittlewithdrawn, watched them thoughtfully. Reporters, he per- ceived; and they were full of quick inquiries. An apple? Yes, Chief Luger ad- mitted. Inspector Tope had it, yonder, in his pocket. They wished to see it; and Tope showed it to them briefly, and with- out any comment at all. When they turned back to the chief, Tope spoke to Sergeant Dale. “Stay here, old man,” he said gently. “*Maybe you can help the chief. Stick with him. I'll meet you at his office by and by.” Dale looked at him curiously. ‘‘ You're pulling out?”’ “T’ll have to do some phoning,” Tope confessed. ‘‘ But I'll see you and him at his office by and by.” ““How’ll you get back to town?”’ Dale asked in an undertone. Something in the other’s eyes had hushed his protests. “There’s a car coming yonder,” the in- spector pointed out. “‘I’ll buy a ride.” There was, in fact, a trolley car approach- ing up the valley. A moment later it stopped at the inspector's signal, and curious heads peered out of the window while Tope climbed heavily aboard. Chief Luger watched him go, some misgiving in his eyes. Tope, he thought, should have stayed here for what- ever might develop when the doctor came. He pushed the increasing crowd back again, and Sergeant Dale helped him keep them clear of the spot in the alders behind the little shed. Inspector Tope settled himself placidly in his seat in the interurban car and rode into Milfield. He seemed almost asleep, nodding, drowsy; you would have thought him completely at peace with the world. Only once or twice he tapped his knee with EVENING POST 193 Merry Christmas STYLES, colors, sizes and prices to please every mem- ber of the family. The thoughtful gift that’s de- cidedly attractive and com- pletely weatherproof. For men, women, boys and girls, $5 to $25. THE ALLIGATOR COMPANY St. Louis New! ALLIGATOR STEPPERS (Pat. App. for) Protect trouser legs—keep boys’ stockings dry. 2.00 and $3.50 a pair Ask to see them KEEP DRY FROM HEAD TO FOOT ANIL THE SEASON’S GIFT FOR. ‘YEAR "ROUND WEAR URELY you'd like a job that pays in ready cash just about what you put into it, in salesmar ship and enthusiasm. 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But when they stopped at Milfield and he alighted, something happened to arouse his attention and to fix it firmly. For one of the town police force was waiting at the corner, and this officer spoke to a young man who alighted just behind the inspector from the car. The inspector turned to listen and to see, and presently he asked a ques- tion: ©” “Who is that, officer?” The policeman had seen Inspector Tope an hour before; now understood his right to ask. “This is young Frisbee, inspector,”” he explained. “The chief saw him on the car when it passed, down there, and he tele- phoned me to meet the car and grab him here.”’ Tope looked at the young man, pale and silent in the grip of the policeman. “That so, son?” he asked. ““My name’s Frisbee, yes,”’ said the boy. “You know anything about all this?” Tope inquired mildly. ““Who are you?” the youngster retorted. “Who wants to know?” The old man smiled. “Never mind,” he suggested. “Officer, you'd better keep him in the chief's office till the chief comes.” And he watched them stride away across the square. Then Tope bought some more apples, but their flavor this time appeared to displease him. He took a bite from this one and frem that, but never more than one bite. And he did not throw the bitten apples away. He put them back carefully in the paper bag. It may have been that their acidity hurt his teeth; for presently he went up the flight of stairs into Doctor Mason’s office again. Later, when he came down, he bought half a dozen more apples and took them with him across the square. He found Frisbee in the chief's office, the policeman still on guard; but Tope only nodded to the boy, and asked the officer whether he might use the telephone. When, at five o’clock that afternoon, Chief Luger came back to his office, it was to find three or four men gathered there awaiting him. The chief and Sergeant Dale came in together. Frisbee was here, sitting stolidly in a chair by the window. The officer who had captured him stood behind him, leaning against the window ledge. In- spector Tope was standing by the opposite window, talking with a fourth man. Chief Luger recognized this man at once; he said quickly: “Oh, hello, Mr. Payson. I expected to see you down the line.” “I telephoned the district attorney,” In- spector Tope said mildly. “I told him you'd be coming here.” “Oh, yes,”” Chief Luger agreed. He saw Frisbee, and his eyes hardened. “I see we've got him. One of the trolley men says he came up on a late car last night, and no one saw him go back down the line. I guess we know enough to go ahead now.” ““Yes,”’ Inspector Tope assented. “I’ve been talking with Mr. Payson. I think we can see our way clear.”” He looked toward Sergeant Dale. “Sergeant, I thought you and I might have a nice week-end in the country, but it looks as though we’d be on our way back to town tonight, after all.” The sergeant met the inspector’s eye, and after a moment he nodded. “Oh, yeah!” he agreed. Young Frisbee said huskily, “I don’t know anything about this.” But the chief cried challengingly, ‘Then why wouldn’t you tell where you were the night Murdock was killed, and the night Jameson was killed? And where were you last night, for that matter? You’re hooked, Frisbee, unless you’ve got a blasted good story to tell.” Frisbee protested, “I can straighten that | out. It wasn’t any of your business before.” December 14,1929 “It’s our business now,” Chief Luger told him harshly. But the inspector said gently: “Wait a minute, chief. Let's get this straightened out in-our own minds, first, before we start in on Frisbee here. Then we'll know where we stand. See?” And when the other made a movement of pro- test, Tope insisted: “We'll get there just as quick in the end if we do go slow.” Thedistrict attorney, surprisingly, agreed. “Let's hear what the inspector has to say, chief?” he approved The chief chuckled grimly. ‘All right,” he surrendered. “‘But my mind’s made up, Mr. Payson.” “Well,” Tope told him, “‘I guess mine is, too, chief, for that matter.”” He hesitated, turned to look out of the window, swung to tace them all again. There was a paper bag on the window ledge beside him, and he fumbled in it and drew out an apple; then seemed to change his mind. “Can't eat and talk, too,”” he decided. “Here, Mr. Payson.” The district attorney took the apple and began to eat it; and Tope began thought- fully: “Of course, I only came into this thing today. But sometimes that’s an advantage. Coming in late, you see things that the first ones on hand were too near to see—little things.” And he continued reflectively: ‘‘There’s a connection here, of course, between the three dead men. Bound to be. Chief, you've been on the job down there all after- noon, doing things; no time to think it over. But I’ve been thinking. Here is the way it looks to me.” He fumbled absent-mindedly for another apple, raised it to his lips; then seemed to remember. ‘“‘Sergeant, you take it,’’ he told Dale; and as Dale, who had been standing behind the chief at his desk, started across the room, Tope said: “No, stay where you are.” And he tossed the apple to the sergeant. Dale bit into it thought- fully. Tope went on. “Someone killed Mur- dock,”” he reminded them. “Someone, for some reason. I wondered who would profit by his death, but there wasn’t anyone. His property, of course, will go to Mrs. Luger. His will’s already been read. So there wasn’t anyone who would make anything by killing him. It looked like some per- sonal enmity or a sudden quarrel. We didn’t have much to go on. I don’t wonder you were puzzled, chief, at all.” He sighed. ‘‘ But poor Jameson got hold of something,” he remarked, “‘up at the Mur- dock farm. Mr. Murdock used to go up there sometimes, they tell me; stay a day or two; do some business there. I suppose he might have left some paper or other up there—an account book or something. He lent money, and he was a hard man at col- lecting. Take the case of young Mr. Fris- bee’s father. I thought Jameson might have run into something up there—some record of a loan. “But the man who killed Murdock found out that Jameson was up there, and he went up there and shot him.” He pressed the tips of his fingers to- gether thoughtfully. “It was someone Murdock knew who shot Murdock. It may have been someone Jameson knew who shot Jameson. Murdock was eating an apple. I wondered if perhaps the fact that he had an apple in his hand didn’t make him just a little bit slow in going for his gun; gave the other man a chance to shoot first. It might have happened that way. There was an apple by Jameson too. But Jameson didn’t like apples. He wouldn’t have been eating one by any possible chance. So the man who killed him must have given the apple to Jameson. But there waz something funny in that. I didn’t see the point of it at all.” He wagged his head sorrowfully, as though regretting his own blindness or stu- pidity. “I kept worrying about this apple busi- ness,”” he confessed. “I like apples myself, and I ate some, and they gave me a toothache, so I dropped in on Doctor (Continued on Page 197) 2S ee _—_——— eee

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ee THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 19 Tere it is, Senor. .” ‘Qh no it isn't Through high-arched windows, the blinding brilliance of Havana Harbor . . . “Have you by any chance” asked the American visitor, “a bottle of ?” (naming a famous French preparation for the hair). “But certainly, sefior,’’ the druggist assured him. “Behold!” . . . The American examined the proffered bottle closely — then burst out laughing. “This is getting good” he told his wife. “In Rio — and in Buenos Aires — and now here: Oh yes, they have it. . . and then they try to sell you a counterfeit. Judging by the number of bright boys trying to imitate it, Mr. Pinaud’s Eau de Quinine must be some tonic.” “Heavens” said she, with maddening feminine superiority, «| found that out years ago!” A rather interesting incident, this, to any man—or any woman—who has hair... or who wants to keep it. Monsieur Edouard Pinaud worked out the famous formula for his Eau de Quinine some eighty years ago. Other ‘‘tonics”’ and ‘dandruff cures’’ and “dressings” have been appear- ing—and disappearing—with almost monotonous regularity ever since. . - x é But the demand for Pinaud’s Eau de Quinine has grown faster and faster and faster ... year in, year out... all round the world. Thick, luxuriant, dandruff-free hair—a scalp tingling with healthy vitality—this unique French compound is promoting both of these today in San Francisco—and in Singapore ...1n Berlin—and in Bagdad .. . in Paris, France —and in Paris, Maine. — And probably in every one of the places mentioned you could find imitations of it on sale... imitations made without even the faintest idea of what the Pinaud formula really is . . . imitations whose makers know only that somehow the Pinaud formula does do marvellous things for the hair—and that almost any kind of concoction can be marketed (for awhile, at least) if put up ina similar bottle with a label that looks something like Pinaud’s Eau de Quinine. That is why it will pay you to look for the name Pinaud when you buy Eau de Quinine — for just as imitators cannot copy the Pinaud formula, they dare not copy the Pinaud name. (Of course, if you're dealing with your own reputable druggist, you can be sure he will not knowingly sell you anything but the genuine Pinaup’s Eau De QUININE.) a eT ee 3 v3 a : Z ue a For 150 years, the House of Pinaud has been proud to offer the world just such products as this—products perfected often after decades of effort, with a superb disregard of time, of cost. And still from the great Pinaud laboratories new and amazing discoveries issue year by . anew Cream that ts year. . . new lotions. new fragrances . cleanser, astringent, powder hase in one...a powder blended with scientific accuracy to the user's individual type of skin. . . mse parable companions now of the smart people of this world. PINAUD'S EAU DE QUININI To the right and left of this picture of Pinaud’s Eau de Quinine, you see an actual photograph of just a few of its hundreds of imitations! REE: Pinaud will send you a free trial bottle of Eau de Quinine —or of any of Fi. other famous Pinaud preparations mentioned on this coupon. Simply check the product you wish and mail with your name and address to Pinaud, Dept. S. 12, 220 E. 21st St., New York, or in Canada to 560 King St. W., Toronto, Ontario. Your Name Your Address Please send me, free, a trial of the Pinaud preparation checked herewith: O Pinaud’s Eau de Quinine 0 Pinaud’s Lilac 1) Pinaud'’s Eau de Portugal 0 Pinaud’s Shar CO Pina 0) Pinaud’s Powder. Please indicate whether your skin is OF oily 0 normal 0 dry; also underline the le of desire: WHITE - FLESH + FLESH-RACHEL - RACHEL « INDIAN TAN (light) * MOORISH TAN (aark (

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This exquisite “ Thermos” silver jug set in pure Colonial n, rare t f is mud fir with silver tray on. O , $34.0 “THERMOS IS MADE ONLY BY THE FOUNDERS OF THE INDUSTRY IN AMERICA THERMDS TRACE MARA AFG VS. PAT. OFFICE THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14,1929 Ja Gi —Sn these welcome Tifls — CHARM and USEFULNESS UNITE An incomparable Gift for a man — this extremely smart “Thermos” Silver Ice Jar for supplying ice cubes or cracked ice in the living room, library, sun porch or veranda—keeps ice for many hours. In heavy silver plate, Butler finish, with ice tongs to match, trimmed with jade green Karnite stopper-knob and legs No. 831, Half Gallon Capacity _ $50.00 Here is a handsome “ Thermos” Ice Jar similar in purpose to he one shown above, but made in attractive “* Duco” enamel finishes either apple green or mahogany with silver platec ice tongs No. 822, Gallon $30.00 No. 821, Half gallon. . $20.0 You may select gifts of “Thermos’’ with assurance that the friends and dear ones to whom you send them will appreciate their beauty and enjoy their usefulness for years to come—fresh beverages cold without ice and hot without fire — truly gifts of grateful remembrance Your Dealer has a wide variety of Gift Thermos for your selection, all the way from pint “Thermos” bottles—from $1.00 up—to jug sets with tray and glasses, nickel plated, silver plated and in lovely colors, coffee pots, food jars, luncheon kits, picnic kits, motor kits. If your dealer cannot show you what you want send your order direct to us, with remittance, giving us your dealer’s name, and we will see that prompt delivery is made. The American Thermos Bottle Company, Norwich, Connecticut. InCanada: Thermos Bottle Company, Ltd., Toronto. (Canadian prices on application.)

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(Continued from Page 194) Mason, the dentist.” He looked out of the window behind him. ‘We had some talk about the matter of the apples,” he con- fessed. ‘I see him coming across the square now. I asked him to drop in here to check up on an idea I had.” He hesitated, suddenly smiled toward young Frisbee. “ You have an apple, son,” he suggested; and he crossed the room and handed one to the boy, out of the bag. But as Frisbee took the first bite out of it, Tope said quickly: ‘No, wait a minute. That's a bad one. Here, take this one instead.” And he pressed another into Frisbee’s hand, took the bitten apple and gave it a casual glance and tossed it into the waste- basket beside the desk. As he turned back to the window ledge again, someone knocked on the door, and Chief Luger called: “Come in!” It was Doctor Mason. The chief greeted him in a friendly tone. Tope said: “I've just told them, doctor, that I asked you to come over. I want you here by and by.” And Chief Luger said jovially, “Sit down, doc. Take that chair over there.” Thedentist smiled uncertainly. ‘Thanks, chief,”” he agreed, and did sit down. In- spector Tope, after a moment, went on. “I'd just come to the killing this after- noon,” he explained. ‘Or rather the killing last night—Rook.” He was addressing Doctor Mason; he turned to the others now. “And there again, I suppose it’s reason- able to think that Rook had a line on this thing, and the killer found it out, and killed Rook on that account. Let’s assume so, anyway. But here there’s an apple again, with a bite out of it, in Rook’s hand when we found him a while ago.” He smiled faintly. ‘The chief and I saw the apple,”” he remarked. ‘“ But one thing struck me. When a man starts to eat an apple, he takes a bite and chews it up, and as soon as he has swallowed that, or some- times a little before, he takes another bite. Apple meat doesn’t swallow easily. It’s apt to stay in your mouth; your mouth will be full of the sweet flesh of it till some little time after you've finished the whole apple. Look at Frisbee there.” Frisbee, startled, stared at them, his mouth half open; and everyone chuckled. What Tope said, palpably, was true. “So I wondered what became of the bite Rook took out of that apple,” the in- spector explained. “‘ Because it wasn’t in his mouth, and it wasn’t on the ground where he fell. It wasn’t anywhere. At least, I didn’t find it anywhere.” He hesitated, seemed to wander off the beaten track. “‘You know, most criminals are vain,” he remarked. “‘They have an imaginative faculty which fattens their van- ity. When Murdock was killed, people spoke of the apples; when Jameson was killed, the newspapers talked about a ‘death apple.” That sort of thing would THE SATURDAY tickle the criminal mind. This killer, it oc- | curred to me, might begin to think of an apple as the trade-mark on his work. Maybe he thought of it before he killed Jameson; because Jameson didn’t eat ap- ples, and yet there was one planted beside him.”” He looked casually at Chief Luger. “Chief, what became of that apple, by the 9 way? “Why, I don’t know,”’ Chief Luger con- “T didn’t pay any attention to it. | Thrown away, lost in the shuffle, I sup- | fessed. pose.” “Well,” Tope admitted, “it doesn’t mat- ter. Only I think it was the murderer, not Jameson, who bit that apple.” His tone was suddenly almost indifferent, completely | matter-of-fact. “‘And I know it wasn’t Rook who bit the apple we found in his hand. Rook had a snaggle tooth in front; it would have left a mark on the appie. The mark wasn’t there.” He hesitated, and the room was sud- denly very still. The inspector smiled cheer- fully. “Doctor Mason here tells me you can identify a man by his teeth,”’ he remarked “by the outlines of them. So all we have to do is find a man whose teeth fit the marks on the apple in Rook’s hand. You see, Mr. Payson?” Payson nodded slowly. fessed. “You see, chief?” Tope asked; and looked across the room toward Chief Luger. But at once he spoke again, in a quick solicitude. ““What’s the matter, chief?" he asked. “You look sick. Tired? This has been a strain on you? I'll bet you forgot to eat lunch today.” The chief shook his right,”’ he said impatiently. all this is theory!” “You're hungry!"’ Tope insisted. “T see,” he con- head. “I'm all “No. But— And then, as though with a sudden thought, he | moved quickly across the room, the paper bag still half full of apples in his hand. He drew out one, extended it toward the other man. “Here, eat this, chief,” he urged solicitously. And the room became very still. For Chief Luger had recoiled from the apple as though it were a serpent; he thrust back his chair; he came swiftly to his feet, and he licked his lips, muttered something stranglingly. Tope spoke softly. ‘Take it, chief,’’ he said, almost whispering. ‘‘Taste it.”” And he added, in a stern slow tone: “Chief, you might as well.” There was a long, frozen moment of si- lence; then swift desperate movement. But Sergeant Dale was too quick for the doomed man. He caught Chief Luger’s hand as it flashed downward, before the chief could reach his gun. Tope nodded, smiling contentedly. It was for this he had kept the sergeant posted there, just behind the big man’s chair.

~

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST Decemder 14,1929 ORGANIZED TENNIS Turning to the rules of the United States Lawn Tennis Association, we find: A professional [tennis player] is one who is paid directly or indirectly for playing, engaging in or teaching the game of tennis or any other form of athletic exercise, or sport, or who has competed in any game or sport for a stake, or purse, or gate money. Then, taking the problem from another angle, we may ask, “ How may an amateur forfeit his amateur status?” There are eight ways that he may take to join the professional ranks. They are: 1. By entering a competition open only to professionals. 2. By playing for money prize or gate re- ceipts. 3. By playing, coaching, instructing or dem- onstrating tennis or other athletic exercise, or maintaining tennis or other athletic facilities as a means of livelihood or for any remuneration. 1. By obtaining or retaining membership in any tennis or athletic club of any kind because of any mutual understanding, expressed or im- plied, whereby such membership would be of pecuniary benefit to the member. 5. By selling, pledging, or otherwise convert- ing into money or what is commonly known as necessities, such as food, ordinary clothing, and so on, any prize won in a tennis match or tour- nament, or accepting as a prize such article. 6. By accepting money or gaining pecuniary advantage from using the goods of a manufac- turer, agent or merchant, or by permitting him- self to be advertised as the user of such goods. 7. By permitting or sanctioning the taking of tennis action motion pictures of himself and receiving remuneration in connection there- with. 8. By permitting or sanctioning his name to be advertised as the author of books or articles on tennis of which he is not actually the author, or by receiving payment or considera- tion for—commensurate—services which he does not actually render. Leeway for the Writers There are also eleven other pitfalls that the tennis player must avoid if he wishes to be allowed to compete in tournaments or matches under the auspices of the U. S. L. T. A. He will fall into disfavor: 1. By permitting or sanctioning the use of his name or initials on sporting goods, or to ad- vertise or promote the sales of such goods. 2. By being connected with the sale of tennis goods or with a firm manufacturing or selling tennis goods, except when such connection shall be of a general nature in a firm manufacturing or selling general athletic goods, and the person so connected has to do with tennis goods to no greater extent than with any other line of goods. 3. By using or sanctioning, after February, 1925, the use of his titles or statement of his reputation won on the tennis courts in connec- tion with books, newspaper, magazine or other written articles, motion pictures of himself, lec- tures or radio talks, for which he is to receive any payment or compensation. {. By writing for pay or for a consideration, current newspaper articles covering a tourna- ment or match in which he is entered as a com- petitor. 5. By playing in a team or exhibition match where gate receipts are charged, unless permis- sion to hold such match has been obtained, in advance, from the executive committee or from a subcommittee appointed by the executive committee for this purpose. 6. By failing, after reasonable notice, to sup- ply the U.S. L. T. A. with signed reports of ex- penses received or paid for him, together with such additional information in connection therewith as may be required by the executive committee or by any subcommittee appointed for this purpose. 7. By receiving or negotiating to receive ex- penses to play in tournaments, or exhibition, or team matches outside of the United States, ex- cept where such negotiations and the handling of the expense money shall be through the executive committee of the U. S. L. T. A. ora subcommittee appointed for this purpose. 8. By being engaged in the sporting goods business and failing after reasonable notice to supply the U.S. L. T. A. with signed reports of his employment as may be required by the ex- ecutive committee or by any subcommittee ap- pointed for this purpose. 9. By failing to pay tournament entrance fees, except in invitation tournaments where no fee is required and except that when officially | designated to represent his club or association in active competitions, his entrance fee may be paid by the club or association in such com- petitions. (Continued from Page 61) 10. By being guilty of unsportsmanlike con- duct. 11. By being debarred from amateur com- petition by any other amateur-sports govern- ing body. Numbers 3 and 4 concern the player- writer problem. It is Number 4 which caused William Tilden’s suspension from competition for a number of months after the Davis Cup play in Paris in 1928. To prevent the occurrence of a similar situation, the association drew up an inter- national-team rule which prohibits a tennis player’s writing during the time that he is a member of an international team. The rule which says a player forfeits his amateur status “By accepting money or gaining pecuniary advantage from using the goods of a manufacturer, agent or mer- chant, or by permitting himself to be ad- vertised as the user of such goods,” is interpreted fairly by the association. Last year a tennis player permitted himself to be advertised as the user of a certain brand of cigarette—but he received no money or pecuniary advantage, so he did not break the rule. Likewise, in regard to Rule 4, which is concerned with the player-writer problem, the player has a generous amount of lee- way. The rule which states that a player may be declared ineligible if he writes “for pay or for a consideration, current news- paper articles covering a tournament or match in which he is entered as a com- petitor,” allows the player to write while he is in a tournament, provided that he chooses some other subject than that of the particular tournament or match in which he is taking part. One can clearly see that the rules that have been drawn up by the tennis associa- tion are for the general good of tennis and that their interpretation has been always fair and just. Tennis has grown widely popular during the fifty years or so that it has been in this country, and one may rightly believe that the efficient organization of the U.S. L. T. A. has had much to do with the furthering of this interesting game. The well-run tour- naments all over the country, the national meetings, and the international play would certainlynot be possiblewithoutthe manage- ment and direction of the tennis association and the codperation of all its members. It is amusing to note the list of things that are found on the shelves under the umpire’s stand during a championship match. But it is true that any one of them might be tremendously welcome at a par- ticular moment to some player in sudden distress. There are two pails full of water— one with oatmeal water, the other with ice water. There are also two basins with sponges in them. There are towels, and sliced lemons, and three or four bottles of iced ginger ale, or anything else that the player might want for refreshment. On the ground at one side of the chair is a box of sawdust for the players to use in keeping their hands dry. There should be, as well, on one of the shelves, a hammer, scissors, penknife, talcum powder, pliers, powdered rosin, safety pins, adhesive tape, aromatic spirits of ammonia and smelling salts. Shoe laces, garters and a shoe horn might also prove useful, as all sorts of minor accidents can happen in a tournament match. The King of the Tournament The king of the tournament is the referee. He is elected by the tournament committee, and has the power to decide all the ques- tions that arise. Here are some of his many duties: He must know and apply the rules; he, or his substitute, must be present at all times when play is in progress; he has the power to appoint or remove umpires, lines- men, foot-fault judges and net umpires; he has the power to remove an umpire or lines- man upon appeal of a competitor; he may default a competitor who has not been excused and is not ready to play when called upon to doso; he may postpone a match on account of darkness or conditions of ground or weather. The decision of the referee is final unless reversed by the national execu- tive committee. The United States Lawn Tennis Associa- tion conducts annually more than twenty- odd championship tournaments for men, women, juniors and boys; indoor, outdoor, grass and dirt court. In addition to this, a large number of clubs holding membership in the association through its thirteen sec- tional associations hold tournaments, open or invitation, during the year. There are about seven hundred and fifty clubs holding membership. There is also an umpires’ association which has a membership of be- tween six and seven hundred. The association is much interested in furthering the game among younger players, and encourages tournament events yearly in all parts of the country. Several thou- sand dollars a year are spent alone for silver and bronze medals for junior meetings. These tournaments for juniors and boys qualify them for the national junior and boys’ tournaments. The association has, as well, within the past few years undertaken to encourage and develop tennis in the pub- lic parks. Where Do the Gate Receipts Go? The United States Tennis Association is a member of the International Federation of Lawn Tennis Playing Countries. The federation is responsible for the rules of the game, and it includes in its membership almost every nation in the world which has tennis organizations—the European countries, all of North America, several countries in South America, and Egypt, Africa, Japan, China, and the Philippines, and so on. What happens to the money that one pays for one’s ticket to a tennis match? Where does the gate go? At a tournament which is purely a club affair, the money is used for the develop- ment of the game and the club. When the national association holds championship tournaments, it usually receives 50 per cent of the net proceeds, the other 50 per cent being retained by the club holding the event. The national association uses the money for the maintenance of its office and for va- rious expenses in connection with the hold- ing of tournaments, annual meetings and similar business matters and details. At the annual meeting of 1927 there was distributed to the thirteen sectional associa- tions $45,000. Each sectional association used its share for the development of tennis in its territory. Special funds are set aside for the Davis Cup and Wightman Cup competitions. No officers or chairmen of any committee serving the association re- ceive any money for time or work. This is also true of the members of the Tennis Umpires’ Association. All paid employes of the association are in its office. The U.S. L. T. A. takes in large gates at its big events, especially at the Men’s and Women’s National Singles Tournaments and at the Davis Cup and Wightman Cup meetings. The interest in the Wightman Cup has increased greatly during the last few years. However, on the other hand, there is the expense of carrying on the Davis Cup competition, which is great, now that the United States has had to send a team of five or six abroad to play for several seasons. On alternate years a Wightman Cup team is sent to England. There would be no successful large tour- naments or international events without the association, and there would be no as- sociation without the players. Harmony between the two is sought at all times for the good of the game. Editor’s Note—This is the last of two articles by Miss Wills.

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 199 GIVE Him a STETSON FOR CHRISTMAS AND LET Him SELEcT IT HIMSELF | A man can never have | too many hats... . The Stetson Gift Card received on Christmas | morning gives him his own choice of the best hats made For your father, husband, brother, or friend, here is a gift to bring certain happi- ness on Christmas Day, and for many days thereafter. The Stetson Gift Card may be secured from Stetson dealers . . . that is to say, at the better stores. The hats are priced from $8.50 upward. Pay the dealer for the grade you wish to give, and the card will be sent for you. The recipient will present the card and choose his Stetson himself. Stetson hats are the first choice of those | who are most careful about their appear- ance, of those who dress primarily for ease and comfort, and of those who select each article for its excellence and wear. Stetson has been making hats since 1865 ... hats that are recognized everywhere as the finest that can be made... hats that are worn by the best-dressed men the world over. John B. Stetson Co., Philadelphia. STETSON HaTS

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST In the Midvale Steel Plant terlocked Inserted-Tooth 76 inches in diameter, cutting 135,000-pound steel forging, 12 feet in diameter, with walls 8 ir s thick. The Midvale Com- pany operates many Disston Metal Cutting Saws in its great Philadel- I 1 plant, where it is preparing to install a Disst nm Milline ‘Saw 110 ter—the larg cir- utting saw ever ale. 4.» lar m N saws made for cutting metal, Disston maintains its leadership as the world’s greatest saw makers. For Disston Steel, made in Disston’s own steel furnaces, gives stamina, toughness, and long life to Disston Saws, Tools, and Files. No other steel is like Disston Steel; no other saws cut like Disston Saws. (reat metal-working plants every- Disston Circular Metal- High-Speed Steel Ma- Hack Saw Blades, Metal-Cut- ting Band Saws, etc. They have found where use (utting Saws, —just as great lumber mills learned long ago — that Disston Steel cuts DISSTON ; STEEL faster and easier, stays sharp longer and gives greater production at a lower cost. You may never need a power metal- cutting saw, or a huge circular saw or band saw for a lumber mill. But you will need a hand saw, or a small circular saw or band saw for your home work shop, hack saw blades, other Disston files, and products. Ask your hardware merchant for Disston, “The Saw Most Carpenters Use,”’ the finest hand saw that money ean buy: and for other Disston Saws, Tools and Files made of Disston Steel. HENRY DISSTON & SONS, Ine. Philadelphia, U.S.A. Canadian Factory: Toronto oI SSTON ©Oors ELES SAWS KAIVES STEEL December 14,1929 Index of Advertisers December 14, 1929 PAGE Etna Life Insurance Company, The 92 Alligator Company, The 193 American Express Company 101 American Laundry Machinery Company, The 145 American Optical Company 126 American Thermos Bottle Company, The 196 Amity Leather Products Company 180 Armstrong Cork Company 45 Atlantic & Pacific Tea Company, The Great 165 Auburn Automobile Company 49 AutoStrop Safety Razor Co., In 147 Baer & Wilde Co 192 Bartels, Henry 177 Biltmore Ero Mfg. Company, The 190 Boott Mills 181 Brach Mfg. Corp., L. S 157 Bristol-Myers Co 202 Brown & Bigelow 179 Buick Motor Company 57 Bulova Watch Company 162, 163 Bunte Brothers 157 Bunting Brass & Bronze Co., The 96 Burgess Battery Company 123 Burroughs Adding Machine Co 121 Buxton, Inc 159 Campbell Soup Company 31 Canadian National Railways 184 Caterpillar Tractor Co 112 Celotex Company, The 83 Champion Spark Plug Co 108 Chevrolet Motor Company 42,43 Chrysler Sales Corporation $7 Cluett, Peabody & Co., Inc 204 Coca-Cola Company, The 117 Colgate-Palmolive-Peet Co 51, 76 Corozone Company, The 187 Cudahy Packing Co., The IV Cover Cycle Trades of America, The 75 De Forest Radio Co 186 Delco Products Corporation 97 Dill Company, J. G 167 Disston & Sons, Inc., Henry 200 Dole Valve Company, The 185 Dowst Mfg. Co 173 Durant Motors, Inc 129-133 Durene Association of America, The. . 171 Esterbrook & Co., R 198 Evans & Co., Victor J 185 Fire Association Fleet, The 118 Fisk Tire Company, Inc., The 90, 91 Florian, Inc 80 Ford Motor Company 68, 69 Forest & Stream, Inx 170 Forhan Company 124 Fownes Brothers & Co., In« 146 Frigidaire Corporation 93 General Electric Company 38, 60 General Motors Truck Company 88 Gillette Safety Razor Co 156 Glover Co., Inc., H. Clay 181 Goodyear Tire & Rubber Co., Inc., The 102, 103 Grand Rapids Store Equipment Corporation 107 Graybar Electric Co 203 Grigsby-Grunow Company 36 Hammermill Paper Co 143 Hankscraft Co 151 Heinz Co., H. J 95 Heywood-Waketield Company 150 Hills Brothers Company, The 168, 169 Hoover Co., The 98, 99 Hotel Knickerbocker, Chicago 177 Hupp Motor Car Corp 64, 65 PAGE Industrial Alcohol Institute, Inc., The. 176 Ingersoli Watch Co., Inc 110, 111 Johnston Company, Robert A. IIT Cover Jones Dairy Farm 197 Kaufmann Bros. & Bondy, Inc 189 KozaK, Inc 153 Kraft- Phenix Cheese Corporation 172 Lambert Pharmacal Company 62 Libbey-Owens Glass Company 174 Liggett & Myers Tobacco Company O4 Lincoln Logs 177 Littlefield Mfg. Co 185 Locktite Co., Inc., The 198 Lorillard Company, P 74 Luden’s, Inc 152 Marchant Calculating Machine Co... 125 Masonite Corporation 148 Maxwell House Products Company, Inc 67 Metalcraft Heater Corp 122 Monroe Calculating Machine Co., Inc 201 Montgomery Ward & Co 79, 81 Nash Company, The A 100 National Carbon Company, Inc 53 National Confectioners’ Association... 119 National Kei-Lac Co 198 National Lumber Manufacturers Association 135 National Vulcanized Fibre Company. 185 New Haven Clock Company, Th« 182 Nicholson File Co 109 Noma Electric Corporation 55 Overhead Door Corporation 181 Paramount Famous Lasky Corp 59 Parker Pen Company, The II Cover Peckham-Foreman, Inc. 120 Pennsylvania Railroad 73 Pepsodent Co., The 77 Philadelphia Storage Battery Co 71 Pinaud Incorporated, Ed 195 Postum Company, Inc 82 Pressure Dot Company 153 Procter & Gamble Co., The 2 Radio-victor Corporation of America Rastetter & Sons, Louis 181 Remington Rand Business Service, Inc. 40 Revere Copper & Brass Incorporated 138, 139 Russell, Burdsall & Ward Bolt & Nut 86, 87 Company 155 Sealright Co., Inc 178 Sears, Roebuck & Co 141 Sentinel Mfg. Company 164 Servel Sales, Inc S4 Simmons Co., R. F 113 Simoniz Co., The 78 Sinclair Refining Company, Inc 105 Southern Pacific 188 Sterno Corporation 116 Stetson Co., John B 199 Swift & Company 33 Switzerland Cheese Association, Inc. . 160 Tims Cap Corporation 194 Tropic-Aire, Inc 104 Union Pacific System 106 United States Lines 191 Universal Pictures 72 Vacuum Oil Company 35 Wadsworth Watch Case Company, The 136 Waters-Genter Company 183 Western Clock Company 1 Whitman & Son, Inc., Stephen F..114, 115 While every precaution is taken to insure accuracy, we cannot guarantee against the possibility of an occasional change or omission in the preparation of this index

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MONROE HIGH SPEED ADDING-CALCULATOR THE SATURDAY EVENING POST _ it’s done right, Chief. Remember what a job it’s been every year until we started with the Monroe? This year the work went along smoothly, no hitches, no checking back for a lot of mistakes. Monroe short-cuts and time savers helped us all along the line. I wonder how we ever got it done before.” You business men, who worry and sweat over figuring your annual inventory, there’s a way to get it quickly and accurately, saving hours of over- time. Call the Monroe representative in your lo- “The Machine for Even; Desk MONROE ADDING-CALCULATOR with full automatic division SERIES 3 i Name | | cality—he’ll furnish you a machine and show your own clerks how simple it is to apply Monroe short-cut methods of first time checked-as-you-go accuracy. The business figure knowledge of the Monroe organization, gained through constant contact with a thousand and one different businesses, is yours for the asking. Telephone our nearest office, or mail the coupon below. Send this Coupon eonpanee “Well, George, that’s the quickest Inventory I’ve ever seen”’ Orange, New Jersey our annual inventory without obligation. Firm t Address MONROE CALCULATING MACHINE CO., INC. We would like to try a Monroe Adding-Calculator on

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1)? THE SATURDAY A stingless shave to allmen and 7 Coox shaves free! OP - S CO. — UR Christmas present of 7 cool Ingram shaves will give you a week of the smoothest, most brac- ing shaves you've ever known. For Ingram’s is cool—cool— COOL—COOL! It’s different—it’s revolutionary! It marks a brand-new era in shav- ing ease and luxury. It makes shav- ing a bracing, stingless delight for every man who uses it. Your face will know it’s better the first time you shave with Ingram’s. Never mind your Whiskers, think about your Face! of all those burning smarts and tiny, Ingram’s deprives a razor scorching nicks that every man be- moans. And it gives your face a clear, cool sensation that lasts— long after the job is finished. With Ingram’s you need no lo- tions, for Ingrarm’s is a shaving cream, a tonic and a skin freshener all in one. Because of its three special cooling and soothing ingredi- ents, it tightens and tones the skin when and while you shave. INGRAMS SHAVING CREAM “Never mind your Whiskers, ’ think about your Face’ vest am, mol wren OOMYERS TO. » wt vr ™ y Oy ¥ “£77 he ae! + » _ ne al - ne - ™’ ee Zt ? 4 Ingram’s does these four important things and does them well: Number One: It cools and tones the skin while you shave. Number Two: It keeps your skin in better shape. Number Three: It enables you to shave closer with- out discomfort. Number Four: It gives a heavy lather that lies close and keeps wet un- derneath. Ir you'll just go to two minutes’ trouble and clip the coupon just below you'll reward yourself with a week’s start toward a life of cool and comfortable shaving. For the little Ingram sample is the greatest gatherer of friends any company has ever had. So don’t fail now to try Ingram’s. Your face will be grateful all your life. Send for the sample today. You'll never regret it! COOL SHAVES FREE BRISTOL-MYERS CO., Dept. A-129 110 Washington St., New York I'd like to try seven cool Ingram shaves. Name Address City State © B..M. Co. 1929 EVENING POST December 14,1929 Secret Envoy—An Explanation N THE story Secret Envoy, by Maude Parker (Mrs. Child), recently concluded in THE SATURDAY EVENING Post, an inci- dental reference was made in the October twenty-sixth number to a Commissioner Farrell of the Interstate Commerce Com- mission. Unfortunately this reference was allowed to pass through our copy room without the name being checked up to see whether it was real or fictitious. There was no inten- tion on the part of either the author or THE SATURDAY EVENING PosT to use a real name in this connection or to reflect in any way whatsoever on the integrity or discre- tion of Commissioner Patrick J. Farrell, as the story was in all of its details and all of its characterizations pure fiction. We wish to express our regret for this unfortunate error and to tender our apologies to Mr. Farrell. We append a letter from Mrs. Child explaining how the slip occurred. Tue SaturDAY EVENING Post: Your letter concerning my inadvertent use in the purely fiction story, Secret Envoy, of the name of an actual member of the Interstate Commerce Commission is the first knowledge I have had of this regrettable coincidence. I trust that Mr. Farrell will accept my most sin- ‘ere apologies, and realize that it was due only » the difficulty which besets an author in man- ufacturing a great number of names for a story of this kind, where it is entirely to the author's interest that none of them should be identified with actual people. In the name Farrell I thought that I had found an entirely safe one. However, in my brief mention of an imagi- nary Mr. Farrell, nothing is intended to convey to the reader, either directly or by innuendo, the impression that he is other than an honorable and entirely worthy holder of his office. I be- lieve that anyone who read carefully the two or three sentences in which he is mentioned would see that, unfortunate as was my chance use of Mr. Farrell's name, no reflection is cast upon the character whose name happens to be the same as his. Sincerely yours, MAUDE PARKER CHILD. THE SATURDAY EVENING POST (More Than Two Million Seven Hundred and Fifty Thousand Weekly) IS fully protected by copyright and nothing that appears in it may be reprinted, either wholly or in part, without special permission. The use of our articles or quotations from them for advertising promotions and stock-selling schemes is never authorized. Sizzling Sadie—Octavus Roy Cohen Organized Tennis—Helen Wills Editorials Post Scripts Cartoon and Comedy Table of Contents December 14, 1929 Cover Design by Elbert McGran Jackson SHORT STORIES The Hat and the Rabbit—Clarence Budington Kelland The Beautiful Red Wagon— William Hazlett Upson Illustrated by Tony Sarg 8 The Build-Up— Frederick Hazlitt Brennan An Evening at Leon’s—Kennett Harris The Death Apple— Ben Ames Williams A Tale of the Old Main Line—A. W. Somerville Toward the Millennium—The Railroad Builders—F. Britten Austin A Petrie to the Rescue !— Everett Rhodes Castle A Mile of Apple Trees—Oma Almona Davies ARTICLES The European Education of Senator Brookhart— Alfred Pearce Dennis Kidding Ourselves Along—Stewart Edward White Prisoners of Utopia— George Sylvester Viereck English Prisons—What They are Like—Lord Brentford—‘“‘Jix’’ Fifth Avenue—Once Removed—As Told to Mary Margaret McBride Illustrated by Henrietta McCaig Starrett Your Enemy, the Crook— The Rambler—A Reformed Convict . This Game of Authors— Robert Gordon Anderson SERIALS The Princess and the Plumber (In three parts)— Alice Duer Miller The Shaggy Legion (Third part)—Hal G. Evarts The Shyster (Conclusion)— Chester T. Crowell MISCELLANY The Little People (A Pcem)— Eugene Manlove Rhodes PAGE Illustrated by Ernest Fuhr 6 Illustrated by J. Clinton Shepherd Illustrated by R. F. James Illustrated by Albin Henning 20 24 Illustrated by Grattan Condon > Illustrated by J. J. Gould 37 46 54 Illustrated by Albin Henning Illustrated by R. M. Crosby Illustrated by Lu Kimmel 10 16 22 Photographs Photographs Photographs Illustrated by Herbert Johnson 29 41 50 61 63 Photographs Photographs Illustrated by Henry Raleigh 3 Illustrated by W. H. D. Koerner 26 Illustrated by Robert W. Stewart 32 28 70 127 137 A REQUEST FOR CHANGE OF ADDRESS must reach us at least thirty days before the date of issue with which it is to take effect. Duplicate copies cannot be sent to replace those undelivered through failure to send such advance notice. With your new address be sure also to send us the old one, inclosing if possible your address label from a recent copy. THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY Independence Square, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania Publishers also of Ladies’ Home Journal! (monthly) 10c the copy, $1.00 the year (U. S. and Canada), and The Country Gentleman (monthly) Sc the copy, 3 years for $1.00 (U. S. and Canada). Foreign prices quoted on request.

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Tay EVERYTHING MOTHER: “Usually, I’m rather at a loss to say what I want for Christmas. But not ¢his year! The thing I really want is a Graybar Sunshine Health Lamp. I've been reading alot lately about the health value of sunshine. And then I stopped in at a store downtown and saw the Graybar Lamp. It duplicates natural sunshine... It cer- tainly would be good for Mary’s &,; ot little boy these cold winter days!” Note: Grown-ups as well as children need it. ..(see coupon for details.) Only $49.50* JIM: “Seems funny for a mere man to be wanting an electric per- colator—but, boy, I do like my coffee ... And I don’t want just a percolator. Bowman percolator. It makes the coffee mother used to make. “Jane and I haven't treated our- selves to a decent cup since we set up housekeeping on our own I want a Manning- premises. And so we've got our eye on the snappiest percolator ‘job’ in town — modernistic color touches, shiny—oh, it’s swell.” Note: Manning-Bowman Per- colators, Toasters, Waffle Irons, are available at Graybar dealers, at surprisingly reasonable prices. THE SATURDAY EVENING POST Santa, please note: ‘five people “speak out” con- cerning Christmas gifts! SISTER: “There's one thing that I really do want this Christmas... (In fact, I've been hinting about it shamelessly!) It’s a Graybar Stim- ulator! You see I’ve watched the Stimulator do marvels for a friend of mine. It has fairly made over her figure. She wears size 16 again! She let me try it out one day and it certainly is a pleasanter way to keep slim than counting calories!” Note: The Stimulator is just the thing also for busy business men . in fact, for anybody who wants to keep “fit” (the coupon, at right, will tell you!) It brings the benefits of all out-door exercise . .. all the year around! Varying grada- tions of massage. Sim- $59 50” ple construction. Only 203 ‘balks ELECTRICAL Sess FATHER: “Take it from a hard- boiled radio fan, the best Christmas gift I've ever heard is a Graybar Screen Grid Radio. That circuit is a knockout! Talk about your clar- ity or distance or sensitivity—that new Screen Grid tube has ‘em all.” Note: The coupon below will bring you the whole story. Avail- Cabinet Model 550 in two-tone walnut ve- able in two models: neer with built-in electro-dynamic speaker and tapestry front conceal- ing speaker is splendid value at (less radiotrons) *130 Table Model 500, the same excel- lent circuit in compact ) 875 form, is (less radiotrons) MARRIED SISTER: “Oh, for a Cleanerette this Christmas! It's the cleverest little band vacuum . specially made to clean curtains, upholstery, and weighs cleaner you ever saw! mattresses, cars only four pounds... and costs ee ~. $13.50."" * These prices slightly higher West of the Rockie | Grayear E.ecraic Co Graybar Building, New York City Gentlemen: I'm se ynsidering you gifts for my Christmas hist. Send deta is Sumulator Screen Grid Ra Sunshine Health Percolato Lamp Cleanerette NAME =e ADDRESS Tune in on “Mr. & Mrs.", “Comic section of the air”, Graybar hour, 9 to 9:30 FE. S. 7 every Saturday night... Columbia Network

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204 «6 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST December 14, 1929 JIVE HIM THE BRAND OF SHIRTS HE KNOWS .. LIKES. .TRUSTS..WEARS > ONLY ARROW SHIRTS HAVE ARROW COLLARS Be 4 ; Waerner you like the shirts you're giving him isn’t the point ..... Dos 5 he proudly, gaily, self-respectingly, the new like them ? Will he wear them year round? Save yourself chagrin; save him embarrassment. He knows Arrow. Trusts it. The fabrics are obviously stun- ning —but what is more important, they’re styled and tailored for him . . . . There’s no surer way of going straight to a man’s heart than to “follow the Arrow.” There is a brilliant collection of fresh Arrow Shirts at every first-rate men’s outfitter’s now. th $-22 CLUETT, PEABODY & CO., INC., TROY, N. ¥. ARROW COLLARS . . SHIRTS . . HANDKERCHIEFS . . UNDERWEAR

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For Christmas 3 fois CHOCOLATES Tewy@-as« ©€¢ waeececa € @O weeietwagwuwtkteéees& —metiew’Wweeeae?@é@tt &

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Aé€an D liitce ug hout the Year To PROGRESS .. to IMPROVE... to ACCOMPLISH MORE.. That's the spirit of the New Year! And how typical it is of the character of Old Dutch Cleanser .. . because Old Dutch is the greatest advance in MODERN CLEANING EFFICIENCY. Because Old Dutch accomplishes more actual cleaning and does it better. Because Old Dutch protects the present-day beauty of the home and most important of all because Old Dutch safeguards your family with HEALTHFUL CLEANLINESS. Old Dutch makes every nook and corner SPICK and SPAN ... painted walls, woodwork, floors, tile . . . porcelain and enamel, gayly colored or snowy white . . . kitchen utensils, pantries, refriger- ators, marble, metal fixtures are all given a gleaming lustre of HEALTHFUL CLEANLINESS. Old Dutch is a wonderful time saver. There is nothing else like it—banishes the most stubborn grease, grime, tarnish and stains. It is perfectly SAFE, too. DOESN'T SCRATCH. This drawing of a highly magnified \ particle illustrates how Old Dutch cleans... a a smooth clean sweep without scratching. Old Dutch contains no sand or harsh grit... no acid or caustic. Avoid cleaners containing harsh, scratchy grit. This CD drawing of a highly magnified gritty particle shows how grit scratches, mars the surface and provides catch-alls for health-endangering impurities. The soft, flaky, flat-shaped particles of Old Dutch possess 4 natural and distinctive detergent energy which remo: 2s not only the visible dirt, but the health-men ag invisible impurities as well. Use Old Dute » every day .. . everywhere... for HEALTHI JL CLEANLINESS throughout the year. liness and good Cheer © 1929 The C. P. Co eae... taint agg ey