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ALL'S WELL
CHAPTER I. i M P
“All’s well'." 1 r
“All’s well!"
The musical cry floated down from
the two black figures that stood,
vauuely outlined through the mi3t,
high above the vessel’s deck.
It floated down In ever widening rip
ples round the great black hull, and
over the tossing waters. It was oaught
by the waves as they dashed Irom the
vessel’s prow and raced past her tall
sides and foamed and splashed and
eddied in her wake. It was oaught up
e-nd thrown back and carried on again
and swept out into the night—out Into
the night, and the shrouding mist and
the rolling wave3 of ’the Atlantic, and
there the rippled of Its sound quivered
for the last time and died away.
It floated down, already muffled by
the cara of a man who paced to
the ears of a man who paced to and
and fro In the after part of the ves
sel. It floated down and struck upon
his cars and vibrated in them like the
ringing of a bell.
And the man turned In his restless
walk and paced back again, with the
cry still echoing In his ears: Alls
we tl!"
He even repeated It to himself,
softly, slowly, like one trying to reas
sure himself of some Rood news. too
good to be ns yet believed. He mur
mured It to himself wlth hllf-closed
lips each time that he paused in Wat
monotonous pacing to and fro. "is
footseps fell upon the dem and beat
out the rhythm of the same two wo™®:
Anil each time that he murmured
them, each time that his h 3 toning
brain caught that son? 4 t&ifiiSinsrstf
1ns of the wind, or the whistling of
the ropes, or the steady trampofhts
own fodtfalle, there was a »* upon
his face that was not good tosee
His fellow-passengers on board the
Ship knew him as th e Silent£*an. No
doubt he had some ®*£ er , t
doubt the captain knew It, and the
(Shin’s books held It written down In
full; but to all the passengers
knew him he was known only as the
Ghent Man. And ’Chore we'e ^w on
^ ra not^t^d eW th?U."giufrfl5e
that strode Incessantly to and‘ro and
up and down upon the deck, few wno
hid not shrunk Insensibly from ^
hurreurd face, and the npa
mured forever to themselves, but
^eiwhbLTd not
deel^ 1 who had'^ot'speculaWd on the
.business that brought him on that oy
oge of the Amsterdam across the orotm
A <lnce more the bell sounded, and the
voltes ransr out through the darkness.
And the Silent Man still paced, with
bowed head and folded ai ™ L3 ;, r H? TT ^ 1
down, to and fro. In the
Once again the bell was almost due
*to sound—hut the cry that broke from
one 4 of the motionless figures on the
lookout bridge was not the eaane—a cry
of sudden fear, of wild alarm wain
waving arms and frantic gestures, and
hands pointing out into the darkness:
pointing ..into the darkness no lbnger
now; pointing at something vast and
shapeless, like a cloud rising from the
water; something that came swiftly,
noiselessly, loominsly out ‘of the fog,
ever nearer and nearer, or towering
hlcca albove the vessel’s masts, lit with
a strange glimmering light; something
that a moment later, with a. noise of
crackling ice, with a -horrible, rending
jar, with a blow that made the great
ship quiver like a compass needle,
cr&ihdl Into the bows of the Amster
dam.
For an instant she remained reared
up against the iceberg, held fast in the
jagged cleft thait her prow had cut—
thon ©lowly, with o rushing swirl of
water, olid back dnto 'the waves.
She was sinking in mlcl-AtlanMc!
One of the first boats that were
launched contained the Silent Man. He
had taken hl« place quietly, almjat me
chanically. He was rowing now; and
the 'beat of his oar In the rowlocks
seemed to ihim, as he gazed back at
the mloty -outline of the sinking ship, to
be sail grimly, darkly, ominously echo
ing those words: "All’s well!”
All that night they rbwed, menaced
incessantly by masses of detached. Ice,
by floating wreckage, by foam-topped
Burf tihat broke over the open boat—all
that night, and the next day, and for
many days after.
Who can tall jthe horror of those days?.
Of days when the shrouding mist
robbed thorn of all hope of rescue; when
the sun beat down through the damp-
laden atmosphere for hour after hour
on thoir uncovered heads; when no
cloud in the sky came to screen them
cor an lnatawt from Its scorching, daz
zling rays; when they drifted they
knew scarcely whither, and heard afar
off the fog signals of vessels that pasned
them unheeded In the mist; when burins
ached, and strength was failing, and
hunger and thirst were doing their fell
work, and courage and hope -together
were well nigh spent.
Of nights when the rising breeze
^ , thremgh their saturated clothes
and chilled tile very life within them,
when other boats, the companions of
their fate, were missed and lost sight
of; when the great rolling swell threat
ened in the darkness to overwhelm
them, and each giant wave as It passed
seemed only to delay the death that
the next must surely bring; when the
misery and anguish and despair were
made deeper and blacker and more In
tolerable by the darkness.
Of days and nights later on. when
tne heat and thirst and weakness had
done their work, ami men began to
rave and sing aloud, and say wild, un
meaning things; when fever and death
<ame among them; when It was no
longer a strange sight to see dead men
-ttrir bodies stripped that their cloth-
ins might afford protection to the llv-
—log—east over Into the gray waters
without a prayer, almost wlhout a
thought; when the number of the living
souls on board -that little boat shrank
awfully from day to day.
When there was at last but six alive
—but five—and then, one dim, gray
morning, only three.
The Silent Man still lived. Through
nil those days he lived—silent, un
moved. uncomplaining, working at his
oar like a tireless machine, possessed,
as U were, wich & very greed for life.
Through all those days he lived—un
touched by hunger or thirst, by best
or chill, by fatigue, or exposure, or
desotlr; through all those days—un
heeding everything around him, living
In a tort of dream.
He bad dreamt the same waking
dream that night when he paced to
nnd fro on the deck of the Amsterdam.
He had dreamt the same dream, but
not quite all of it; had seen the same
dream figures, sleeping and waking,
for twelve months past; but now—In
his weakness and the horror of his
dally life, with madness anl delirium
and death all around him—the dream-
figures gathered color snd . vividness
and substantially; they beoxme to
his disordered brain ns living com-
rad-ss. living and moving with blm in.
a djferen: world.
T.ie scene, of the vision always re
curred in the same order.
-V cottage lying aft the end of a long-
f.’ulei garden. The sun shining on
the red-tiled root, and the white muslin
curtglns In the little windows, and. the
rustic porch of trellis work, on which
a -rose tree climbs straggling!)-. The
garden, bright -wltlhr flowering lilac
and drooping arbors of laburnum, nnd
all the uncultured profusion of En
glish country flowers. The ntr around
filled with the fragrance of the blos
soms, and the spring song of countless
birds. And over all a sense of bright
ness and happiness and home.
A little 2-year-o!d child, toddling with
open arms and laughing eyes down
the gravel path.
CHAPTER II.
It was 3:50 In the afternoon when the
limping figure—his clothes torn and
grimed with dust, his face and hands
scorched and blackened by exposure-
slouched up under the shade of the
eucalyptus trees that skirted Omaha
avenue.
His right hand was hidden la his
breast. His hungry, bloodshot eyes
scanned the bouses furtively os he
passed.
•Number twenty-six.
The man faltered. His hand trembled
—even twitched once or twice con
vulsively—beneath his coat. His eyn
turned—involuntarily, as It were—to
wards, the house, and met the eyes of
a woman who was sitting In the porch.
A middle-aged woman with a pea
sant, comely face, who lay back in her
chair, fanning kernelf and rocking
gently to and fro In the Shadow of'the
veranda. As the eyes of the Silent
Man met hers, in a vacant, wild-look
ing stare, she ceased rocking and
smiled, hut not unkindly.
‘■Well, you’re a pretty figure, any
how." She said.
There was a pause. The Silent Man
still looked at her. His hand still
fumbled beneath bis coat.
“Seoms to me as you ve been doin
a bit of walking." continued the wo
man, still smiling. "And toy ’pearances
It’s been pretty rough. Are ye hun
gry?’’ she inquired auddenly with a
J °The Silent Man said nothing. The
woman recommenced .her rocking, ana
went on 'talking, in her quiet, even
V0, ‘IC so* foe, I s’poae I could give ye n
bite tand a drop of Ice water, and not
The man wetted Ills HP 3 with
tongue and spoke all at once, hoarsely,
in a curious, gabbling whisper.
“Is there a nma living here—Spen-
C< The woman looked at him keenly.
"What has that got to do with vou,
anyhow? Are ye a friend of Mr. Spen-
C ®He ? etarted and » sudden light came
into his filmy. blood.’Cnot eyes.
"Then he does live here? I am a
^iWhat** Is' that hand doing that Is
working nervously to and fro beneath
his ©oat? That seems to be clutching
something m It3 grasp, yet never
comes from his breast?
The woman does not see It. ®JP
looking across the road at a patch of
golden sunflowers that grow In_ a
hedge opposite. When she turns again
to the Silent Man the handiest 111 .
‘•Well. Mr. Spencer don t live here
now so you're just wrong,’ she an
swered with some asperity, risking herj
self a trifle more energetically. Ana
not mruch tom! either. And It you’re a
friend of Ms. I don’t envy you much.
Aroan who could go and leave his wife
2or who was a wife to him. way way.
whatever she was—with a Bl °k child ™
nary a dollar In the house. J“ vc ,f E '
and go clean oft. he a what Id call a
skunk. See there!"
The man had to moisten bis Ups be
fore he could sneak.
■And she?" he muttered.
‘She? D'ye mean Mrs. Spencer?
Well, she’s dead, poor soul."
He would have fallen but for the stem
the eucalyptus tree. He leaned
against It. Bhivertnc. His eyes gazed
dreamily at the sunshine In the road—
at the sunshine and the clump of nod
ding sunflowers, and -the white pinafore
of a little girl who was playing round
their tall stalks. He even followed with
his eyes the flight of a scarlet butterfly,
as It fluttered qulveringly from flower
to flower. It seemed a3 If Ws brain
was numbed and unable to think. Try
as ho would, he could not think.
The woman looked at him compassion
ately.
“I’m sorry If I’ve sheered you," she
sold more gently. "I Just didn’t know
as you were acoualnted with Mrs. Spen
cer. or I wouldn't have bluffed tt out
like that. But It's the truth anyway;
so It.’ud have to come out all the same,
one word or one thousand. Maybe ye'd
like a drink bf Ice water." she added
quickly as she rose from her chair.
The man motioned to her with his
hand. It 'had fallen from his grcaat
now.
"No. no.” he whispered. "Tell me—
how It was."
The thoughts were coming back to Mm
now—black, evil thoughts, that he shud
dered vaguely to remember: thoughts
of what he had oome there for: thoughts
of how It had all ended with that worn
an’s wotd—"Dead!"
"You’d best have something, for you
do look real bad.” the woman persist
ed. "But there, If you won’t, I s'pose
you won’t. Well.” she continued, set-
tllng herself once more In the chair
and! folding her ample arms, “I’ve
said this yor Mr. Spencer was a skunk,
and a skunk he was to her! And she
was frit of him, downright frit—
couldn’t abearof him, far’s I oould see,
and yet daren’t speak to him, she was
that frit. Well, er, I told you they
had a child”—she was getting loqua
cious now, In her placid, droning man
ner, and rocking herself with a
steady swing that seemed to stimu
late her conversation—"anyway, there
was a child with them, though I never
could understand exactly whose ’twas,
and he was more of a skunk to that
child than It’s In the natur’ of man to
be to his own, and the child was took
sick with the dlpthcry. That was
when he bolted. Sick as sick the child
was, poor little mortal! And then Mrs.
Spencer come opt—oome out pretty
strong, too. I hadn’t had much of a
notion of her while the man was with
her—I don't mind confeasln’—with her
dolly face and fool ways, and no more
iplrit than a chipmunk; but when She
come opt as she did come out, I kinder
changed my Ideas of.her. Yes air! The
way She nursed that child, and sat up
with her, day and night, and Sundays
and workdays, and never took no food,
ao’a she could buy medicines for the
child, and got sick herself and didn’t
care, but went on nursin’ Just the
same—well, tt was pretty strong! And
I—you’d Just os well Change your
mind and have something," the woman
Interposed earnestly, "you’re lookin’
that skeered.”
The man shook his head Irritably.
"Go on.”
’■Well, there ain't much more to
tell. She took the dtpthery then, as
I said, and took It had. And there was
no one to nurse her—'’cept what I did.
and that wasn't much—and she’d sorter
taken the grit out of herself, with all
the namin' and watcbln’ and starvin'
herself, and she couldn’t seem ter
stand out against It. And so—she
died. That’s all.
There was a long pause. The wo
man was very quiet. There was a
gleam in her eyes as she looked away
across the sunny fields, as though
team were standing there. The man
still leaned against the stem of the
eucadyptus tree, twisting In his hands
a fallen leaf that he had caught as it
fluttered down.
“And the child?” he said at last.
"Did she die?"
“No, sir?’ the woman answered, still
very quietly, “She didn't die. I puces
the nursin’ saved her. Whan she oome
round.” she continued presently, “there
was no one left to take care of her.
If you understand; so me and my hus
band, considerin’ the loneliness of the
poor little critter, kinder ’dopted her,
not having any chlldern of our own.
And she’s settled down with us Just
wonderful. It’s real good to have her.
Goldie," she cried, "come here, dearie."
The nun turned quickly, shaking
with a strange spasmodic tremor.
‘'Goldie!" she called again softly—
’Goldie!”
A lalr-halred young mother, that runs
and cinches up the little girl, and bears
her with merry laughter, held aloft m
her arms, down the path to meet the
dreaming man. A moment of exquisite
haipplness of mutual love, of Joy so
bounldless that tt seoma to All the soul,
and brim over. A time of happy rest,
of unimpaired comfort, when those two
sit in the rose-twined porch, with the
child playing at their feet, and watch
the sun as he sinks to his rest.
A shallow that falls like a knife be
tween the .dreaming man nnd his wife.
A shadow at flrst thin and gray, that
seems. for all M is so slight, to rob ’’he
sunshine suddenly of nil Its warmth
snd brightness, nnd leaves the evening
cold nnd’ cheerless. A shadow that
grows quickly broader, and blacker, and
Icier, until It blots out the llgures of
the wife and child, and darkens the lit
tle porch; that steals up swiftly, like a
cloud of deadly vapor round the red
tiles of the cottage roof, and wraps all
the picture at last in an impenetrable
shroud.
A shadow that somehow gathers It
self gradually into the form of a man's
face—coarse, 'thick-lipped—tt face that
might, for all its coarseness, be made at
tractive by 'that luring smile, yet In It
self cruel, dissolute and cvll-looklng.
Slowly ithc face emerges from behind
that shadowy curtain. Slowly the fea
tures come dimly forth, as one by one
they recur to the tortured mind of the
man In bis waking dream. Slowly the
eyes of the dream face turn and gaze
down upon him mockingly.
Then a great surge of blood-red tight
floods over the gibing face, and bides tt
from view, and there is only the gray
shadow loft.
So far. 'the vision had always been the
same: but lately, since the Silent Man
bad taken passage on board the Am
sterdam. there had been something
more wldch followed tt—another ending
to the never-ending dream.
An ending In which he sees n scrap
of paper, 'traced over with trembling
charaootrs—a 'letter dated l'our weeks
before from No. 26 Omaha avenue,
Lumbervlllp. u. S. A.
The Characters -raavge bhemeelves un-
orrlragly before hie’mind:
‘I have sinned . and God knows I
have repented. I do not ask to be for
given. T.hnt cannot be. But for our
child’s sake, for little Goldie’s sake,
came quickly. She who was once
“Your Wife."
The She n't Man's band steals into the
breast of his boat, and touches some
thing there—something hard and cold,
made of metal: something that he
touches soft and caressingly, looking at
tho flngem afterwards, to make sure
that the sea water has not reached It;
oomcthln* that In the darkness of the
ntght as he lies crouching In the bows
of the tossing boat, he takes from his
hand aT ™ examtae * and weighs In his
And he 'listens to the washtag of the
waves as they splash on the boat’s side,
and laughs softly to himself as they,
too. seem to bear the same message—
All’s welll"
t0 A “ was yet well for wWat he bad
The morning dawned af last, when
mere were but two living souls besides
himself on boardl the boat—dawnod
with n glorious uprising of the sun, to
show that tho deathly fog had p/led
away, and all was silent And clear as
fas as the horizon, that a sailing ship
was standing down towards them.
They were saved!
Who shaU say what 'those men felt?
Who shall describe the weeping nnd
laughter Intermixed, the incoherent
cries of Joy, the frantic waving of the
emaciated arms, thd wild ejaculations
of confused thanksgiving and Impreca
tion that burst from their blackened
lips? Who shall wonder that, but for
their falling In strength, they would
have oast themselves Into the waves
and struggled to gain the boat that
was lowered to rescue them; 'that In
the moment of their preservation from
a death but few hours distant their
minds beonme distraught?
All save the silent man.
Ho alone was calm. To him alone
their rescue seemed not unexpected.
To him alone it was not a miracle like
to the raising from the dead. To blm
Mono It was but the fulfillment of an
omen.
The sailing Ship that picked them up
was bound for Rio. but the Silent Man
was destined to dream that strange
dream many a time yet before land
was reached. For several weeks they
beat about upon the Atlantic. They
were delayed by headwinds, thrown
out of their course by constantly re
curring gales, becalmed for three
whole days On the equator. It was
close upon two months from that glo
rious dawn when the little boat had
been espied drifting on the waste of
tossing waiters that they flrst saw the
coast of Brazil—like a streak of bluish
cloud rising behind the sea line—open
ing out before them.
Their voyage wns nearly at an end.
The bluish cloud resolved Itself Into
dark-green masses of Vegetation grow
ing down to the wafer’s edge; the vege
tation b'eoame dotted and broken by
the white roofs of buildings; the build
ings collected themselves together, tier
beyond tier, and blocked out the vege
tation; tt great conoourse of masts sod
spars rose before the buildings, they
were entering Rio harbor.
It was long yet before 'the Silent
Otan resumed his Journey. There were
Inquiries to be nude—Inquiries where
in the object of that Journey was
sought for, but not revealed ;• the story
of the loss of the Amsterdam and of
the awful days that followed It bad
to be told and told again; n sum of
money was raised and pild to him.
•At last he was embarked for New
York.
Then followed more days of dazzling
heat, and glittering water, and the ris
ing spd falling of the ship’s deck; days
In which he lay lnaotivc, watching the
feathery clouds that floated scrum the
sky, tracing the ship’s wake as it wound
over the glassy surface of the sea:
nights In which he saw again the chill
shadow creep ud the cottage woH, and
the face fashion lluelf but of the shad
ow. and the flash of Wood that ended tt
all. And then Ms hand would seek the
thing ho carried In Ms breast, and he
would look at it stealthily In the moon
light snd laugh cxulttngly to himself.
Once more he was bn land. In the
crowded streets of New York. He want
ed to get to LumbervMe; It fa a long
distance, aim x'l halfway across tho
continent. But he had got plenty of
time to db that which he had come to
do.
His money would not suffice to carry
him the whole way. For two days he
traveled bv railroad, fancying In the
motion of the care that he was still at
sea; escooting almost ss lie looked
from the windows of the car. to see the
leaden-colored waves and the gray mist,
and the tingles of floating seaweed.
Then his money was gone, sod he must
walk.
Rough. tMsety mide roads, thick with
sand and grit Long days’ tramps un
der the broiling sun. when the little hll-
tle hillock or the stunted tree, tbit
looked so close at hand, across the un-
■broken level bf the prairie, was only
reached after halt an hour’s weary
walking, starlit nights, when he cast
himself down on dihe long, coarse gross,
to sleep the deathlike Bleep of exhaus
tion, to dream once more that never-
changing dream. Homesteads of hewn
limber, where he was made welcome in
a rough, yet klndli’, fashion, where he
was atlowe-d 'to deep, perhaps, on u bed
of straw In the empty barn, where
roundeyed children brought Mm milk
anal hunches of grcad. nnd stayed be-
hld to stare at the silent, unooirth man.
Cities bf six months’ growth, proud In
their -uprising buildings, which never
would be finished, and their mighty
streets. wMcb never would be built.
Cilia In which he was received with
cold luspiclon, as another competitor In
that itruggilng throng of hungered hu
manity. whence he was watched on his
jdepaitture with unconcealed relief.
More homestaeds. more aspiring cit
ies. more of the rolling unboundlmsness
of the prairies.
And then—Uintbervllle.
.The little girl, who was playing In the
hedge by the patch of sunflowers, rose
and turned toward them. For an In
stant she hesitated, shyly, wonderlngly;
then suddenly she stralehed out her lit
tle arms and began, to run across the
road.
“Daddy!” she cried.
The awl tinge of golden light was fad
ing from the crests of the waves. Tho
last-hunt flush of the sunset was fading
from ithe western skv. A tall, grizzled
man and a golden-haired girl, ripening
Into womanhood, were standing on the
hurricane deck of the ocean steamer,
watching the flush as It paled and died
away. . ,
He was a rich man from out went,
everybody know. Had been mayor of
Lumbervllle. some said, nnd had mado
n groat fortune In live stock and grain.
A self-made man. who had risen from
nothin*, -but deserved his uuocees by
ntralghtforwarrinaw! and hard work.
And the girl was hts daughter.
The flush faded from the .violet sum
mer sky. The stars citme out one by
one, shining brightly in the clear
depths. Tho man and girl funned from
where they stood on the vtasol’a stern,
and began to walk slowly hack—in tho
dlrectkyn where the sun, when it rose on
the morrow morn, would rise on the
rocky headlands and ruggdd cliffs that
the man had last seen from the decks
of the Anvitehdam, as they faded irilo
the bUieiiive of 'the sky, close bn four
teen years before.
And os they turned, the clear voices
rung out once more over the sllerit wa
ters:
“All’s well!"
•'All’s well!’’—All the Year Round.
HOW NATURE MAKES FOOD.
MS SOCIAL ItEQENEItATION PLANS
The Old Gentleman la In Wonderful
Health—Some of tile Work He lisa
Aeooinpllihed Among Lower
Olmeoeof People. 1
Chemists After the Secret nnd Think
They Will Master It.
While Invention has produced many sub-
iitanccs which In part replace wood and
other organic materials, tho fact remains
that man Is todny nlmost os dependent
for hla comrort und very llfo on the vege
table world as were his ancestors In more
primitive times. Th* anatomists lmvo
hud long, disputes os to man's pluco In tho
scale of food consumption, whether he Is
properly omnivorous or not. Whether car
nivorous or vegetarian, his' food derives
Its ultimate origin In the wonderful chem
ical decomposition and syntheses effected
by tho vegetable kingdom. The highest
trlumps of synthetic chemistry have
not yet succeeded 111 producing his food
from tho chemical dements. The pro-
Auction of solf-support'ng aquaria,consist
ing of tanks of water In which plant lllfe
und fish life are so exactly balanced that
there Is a miniature self-supporting world
within the four glass plates has been a
favorite scientific amusement wJtb many.
On our globe wc see s similar, thing la
the relations of the animal nnd vegeta
ble kingdoms. Unfortunately, man Is not
content with exterminating wild animals;
ho Is not satisfied with utilizing for him
self nil vegetable nature; but he extermi
nates most recklessly tho forests whose
leaves are taking care of his own vitiated
respiratory products.
Tho earth contains plant and animal llfo
each one taking care of tho products of
tho llfo of tho other kind. The animal
expires carbon dioxide gas, the product
of the combination of oxygen of tho air
with the carbon of the body. In a plant-
less globe this gas would constantly in
crease In the atmosphere, to tho eventual
deterioration of the air; but the plant llfo
disposes of this product, separates the
carbon from tho oxygen, and still more
wonderful, effects one of the most diffi
cult of syntheses, and unites tho carbon
with hydrogen, producing vegetable sub
stance of different kinds. The purlflca-
tlon of the air. by plants, owing to the
enormous volume of the atmosphere and
Its relatively slow contamination, Is at
secondary importance to the production
of plant substanco. On the productn -of
vegetation man depends for nearly every
thing, for food, raiment and heat. Not
content with reckless deforestation, he
draws upon the accumulated stores of
tho preceding geological eras, and In
burning coal, iprobably petroleum and nat
ural gas, Is drawing upon the remains of
vegetation of the carboniferous and oth-
cr ages.
Plants by the vital power effect two
specially difficult chemical actions—the
decomposition of carbon dioxide gas, und
then combine the separated carbon with
hydrogen. Absolutely no practical way
of doing these things has been as yet
found by man. It Is only by laboratory
experiment that cither of theso two reac
tions is carried out. It may bo said that
every steam engine depends for Its fuel
on decomposed carbon dioxide gas, und
every petroleum lamp represents the uti
lization of the decompozltlon and subse
quent syntheses which we have spoken
of. In the matter of food man Is still
moro dependent on the vegetable world.
Very few artlflctally produced food prod
ucts have ever been made, and these few
have been traced to some vegetable prod
uct. The glucose factories use a product
of vegetation as the base of their opera
tions. Until we succeed In bringing --Min
istry to a point ,of perfection hardly
dreamed of by the most visionary, imn
will continue to depend upon the soil fur
his very life. He may selfishly feel that
all of thla Is of interest only for subse
quent generations, but to every enlight
ened mind the reckless waste of vegeta
ble resources, among which may be In
cluded coal, petroleum and natural gas.
Is highly repugnant.—Scientific American.
A OBNEBAL INVIGOBATOB.
A. C. Clifton, Bloyi, Oa„ writes ns
follows concern!hr his mother; "Jljr
mother I* U3 years old and for a long
time has been in poor health anil under
the care of a physician. Klic has hocu
wonderfully Improved In health, how
ever, by using less than two bottles of
Ilood’a Sarsaparilla.” The same writer
says: "I know of other cures by
II'ssl’z Sarsaparilla, nnd I unhesitat
ingly recommend It ns the best blood
medicine and general Invlgorator.
Hood's Pill* curs nil liver ills.
Soeclal trains from Lumber City to
Macon and return, via Southern rail
way. bn account of Dixie Irvterstnt Fair.
Trains will run October 2? and 29. also
November 1, 2. S. 6. ( and 7, on follow
ing schedule; Going, leave Lumber City
<:S> a. m.: arrive Macon 10 a. m.; return
ing. Leave Micon Ip, a; arrive Lum
ber City 1030 p. m.
Stops made at aU Intermeriste sta
tions. Trains from hnd to Hawkinevllle
will connect at Cochran with these
trains on above mentioned days. Call
on agents for cheap rate*.
General William Booth, the founder of
the Sa-lvatfon Army, arrived from Mon
treal on Friday night, and gave a recep
tion to newspaper men in a parlor of
the Plaza hotel at 10 o’clock yesterday
morning, a-t which he outlined the plums
for a campaign which he will wage
agalna’. the devil In ueventy olt\e« in
this country und Canada between now
and the middle,of next March. So well
bus the campaign been arranged that
the general knows how he will spend
every minute of Ms time until he re
turns to England. Ho -will hold In all
670 meetings.
Time has not dealt unkindly with tho
general during the eight years since he
weu Inst ht the United States. Though
ho -looks every minute of his 65 years,
and his hair and board are gray, there
Is still plenty of lire in his voice and
energy lii his action when he gets
rouse while speaking of his life's work.
His eyebrows are still black.
consider my health wonderful,"
said lilts general. _ ”1 lulus rare of my
self. My habits ure moderate. In prin
ciple and practice I have been a veget
arian for fifteen months, but before
coming to -this country, not -wishing <o
bu unnecessarily singular, I returned
to a men! diet. I shall live In private
houses while hore.am d I know that iny
hosts will probably prepare dishes lor
tne, nnu .they will be dlsapoolnted If I
don't take them. So. you sec. 1 have
bucksllftpcd."
Gen. boo-ih was dressed In a scarlet
lersey, covered with a long military
coat, tho collar of which boro '-he heal
of the urmy und the motto “Blood mid
Five." Ho -wears a silk -hut, somewhat
like -that of a Parisian boulevunllcr. ile
Is the only officer In the army who is al
lowed to wear this dross. Ho drove up
to the Plaza hotel with his nun. Com
mander B-alllmgtun Booth; Oul. Eadle,
the latter's secretary, and the general’s
secretary, staff Captain Mulan, who,
the general wild, was an Uiilliin who
had been converted til Lqmlon whllo
studying English, They -wore all In full
regimentals.
Like his son, Gen. Booth spooks with
tho accent of an Englishman from tho
vicinity of Staffordshire or Ladcd-
shlre. It Is u, form of speech rarely
heard from tho lips of educated Eng
lishmen. Occasionally ho drops a "U"
or two. , u |
GOME ACTIVE CAMPAIGNING
Travelling us part of tlm staff of Na
poleon of Blood utul Fire Is Col, Law-
ley, an officer of seventeen years’
■Wilding in tiho English salvation
Army, who lias voyugod constantly with
the general. "He sings soIob, such ns
they'are, of his own composition and
assists me in prayer moetlngsi" said
the general, dlscrlblng him. Col. Nleh-
ol, a Scotch officer, editor of the Hug-
llidi Wur Cry, of tho Social Gazette und
of the Young Soldier, which lmvo n
combined circulation of <00,000, and
Staff C'uplain Taylor, a sorb-of official
reporter, complete tho Imported party.
Tho general's secretary read from
n book the doings of tho chlot atneo
Ills arrival on this side of tho Atlantic,
tie has spent 324 hours In Itravclllng,
of which twelve nlglils were In railroad
train* nnd ho has gone 3,(160 miles,
showing that ho didn’t go very quick
ly; ho has made nlntccn short nddrrases,
flfty-elx long ones, devoted 110 hours
to buislncss, written- fifty letters,
granted seventeen Interviews to repor
ters and addmsed 100,000 people,
Gen. Booth outlined hl» social regen
eration schemes. In Great Britain tho
army lias 220 Institutions, classified ns
follows; Slum posts, 61; rescue honves,
<8; ex-crlmlnal homes, 12; frxvl depots,
21; shelters, 33; labor bureaus, 19; labor
factories, 17; farm colonies, 6; total, 220.
Ho wys -that 70 per cent, of "lost”
girls, who are’ placed In situations by
the army are still saved, nftor three
years. Poor men who are "down,” ho
thinks, through losing their dinners or
through Illness, can be lifted up If tlicro
la only some one to lift them. It Is not
a crime to have lost nil one has, nnd
have to pawn one's clothes,
THE FARM COLONY SCHEME.
'' Thft f«*nce of my farm colony
scheme, he went on, "t* the transfer
of ’prepared’ persons from the over
crowded slums. These {(arsons are not
submerged, but are nil In such circum
stances thit thelr poverty may lead
them to 1x> submerged. Their habits
may be changed so that they may help
to form what I oontldcr the ff.nn-
any country, nn hoiu-i/i, hard working
peasantry, contented with plenty to
tUrm'oMt hQVInS a h “ PPy hallelujah
*”Do you suppose I’m such an ass.”
he ween on vehemently, “as to want to
transfer a lot of leifere, “bzndonM
women and criminals to rny colony?”
£ h 'l. n „ h .re'“ k * <5 ’ re,errln ff to the -evortf
" D o V»u «y that In this <v>un-
Jeyt There was a chorus of "Yea.”
Then the general asked that tha word
be changed to simpleton.
“ In «? farm colony In EnglooH r
have 620 strapping fellows who -work
from 6 In the morning ’to 6 In-tho even-
lng every dzy,” he slid. "They get a
llttto money and (hey save some of It,
*nd they’re oourtWi* the girls In the
Village. They are being mxde Into good
men. They are the product of our ef
forts. money, prayer awl love.
"It Is not my Intent to lend only
reformed persona to the farm colony,
nor to leave them to their fate wheel
they get there. Y/e ■hall have ore.
pared (flsces for prepared candidates,
cottages and spades end wheelbarrows
all ready for them, the ground owned
by the army and rented to them. If a
nun’s cow dies we will buy him an
other. -My scheme Is vastly superior
to -that of Baron Htrsch, and I am not
discouraged by anything that Herbert
ftpenoer may have said about such
colonies.
”1 do not contemplate founding my
cnlony in the atatea. I don’t know
where tt will be. but of ten colonies
suggested to me, representatives of
oevm have asked me to ask for Und
In their borders, flut I’m like a man
with too many sweethearts, I don’t
know which to Choose."
APPROVED BY THE QUEEN.
Then dome one ssked him what tile
queen of England thought of the flat-
vatton Army, and the general replied:
"Oh. the queen expressed herself fa
vorably on the question long ago.
There fa not a Liberal In the present
government who Is not la hearty sym
pathy with me. In fact, I don’t know
of any one of repute who Is opposed
to mo,
"As , to ’the opposition- to the army
on account of the noise it makes, that
la dying out. In religion there is the
silent party uinl the noisy party. Wo
are The noisy party. Some persons
might make as strong an objection
against the ‘silent’ as othera do
against the "noisy.’
"Religion Is a thing of the heart, not
of the intellect. The sphere of God Is
in the heart. A man may havo re
ligious knowledge and know whnt 1s
right, hut «tlU clings to the wrong. If
a man feels he will manifest his feel
ing- I have seen men stt In church
like things of terra cofta, but It Is not
for me to condemn them, nor they me.
“We are uncultured, In the art of
Repressing our feelings. When we are
happy ave laugh." .. ,
The Salvation Army will hold Urge
meetings In New York all the week.—
New York Herald.
DUGAN.3 DOLLARS.
He Buried Them Before the War. fold
Never Revealed the Hiding Place.
One of the strangest Instances that
we have heard of where burled gold
ho* Peon sought with a patient penslst-
emce tlfst Is -worthy bf succeza for
about thirty years has Just been told to
a Call reporter. It Is not only strange
from tho fact that tho man who bur
led -this Treusuro failed even on bin
death bed to confide Ha secret hiding
,place to hU wife, but also from his boon
companions, so far us cun be learned.
Yet. from -the statement of Mrs. Du*
Kan. Who (survives him. ami Is an ac
tive, splendidly preserved wouna-n of
about 05 years, -but who looks much
yiiiincter. it seems litzposolbla to doubt
Us existence.
Tl)q .facta, ns Told, are throe; George
Dugan was born In Iretand, lust -where
and -when no one remembers, It they
ovor knew, and tho time of his arrival
In America Is forgotten. lie oamo to
Grifll-n at -the time when tha Central
titllraad. which wns called the "Monroe
railroad," was belns graded and went
lb work. Soon utter ho mu-rried, nnd
Ills wife nnd two children, Mrs. J. 8.
Btaarnes and Mm. W. P. Htcnmcs. sur
vive him.
He was close., not only with his words
but -his cash, nnd very room opened up
In -the saloon business for himself, and
later on opened up another placo of
the nine kind, ono of them being on
Hill street, and the other on Broadway.
In those days when money was plen
tiful und people cared vary llttlo for tho
cost bf anything they wished for, Mr.
Dugan raipldly made money,all of which
ho would convert Into ipVld or silver,
und. not being willing to trust to a -
bank, ho carried -thl» treasure home
with him. nnd would leave It between
maftressca or under mats, seeming to
think that ftr was more secure from tho
fact -th-i-t it was carelessly handled.
In 1858. his wife, who was often left
atone with her two Children very nearly
If not all the night, became uneasy nt
having such a sum of money about tr.e
house, and Insisted than tt should be
placed In the bank- for safe-keeping,
either on Interest or without, for 0h«
was afraid that someone knowing of ttn
cxilotenco would come and attempting
to rob the house would murder her and
her defenseless babes.
In -telling the romnlndor of the Story
Mrs. Dugan fa very explicit on alt o{
tho poinds, and fa positive In her Infor
mation.
“I nsked Mr. Dugan” she said “to
take the money and place tt In tho
bank either on- Interest or wlthomt for I
wns afraid to -have It tn the house as
everybody knew ho hud It. and there
were so many robber nlggcra nround I
thought mo end my Iwo children might
bo killed. He went to bed, nnd about :l
o’clock tn tho morning he woko ine tip
nnd asked me to got tilm a sack to hold
the money, 'that ho would take tt away
where tt would he safe. I got him a sack
about the size of o pillow case, and wn
emptied the money In from smallor
sacks without counting it, nnd ithen tied
tt up. Mr. Dugan, who wns a very,
stout, strong man, tried to shoulder It,
but couldn't, so I hnd to help him lift It,
nnd then ho went out. nnd I clos'd the
door and went to bed. I never watched
him. for he wan a man that didn't want
anybody -to inquire Into his buelneas,
and ho never told anybody about 11.
Fbr -that reason, too. I never asked him
nny questions ns to what ho had done
with It when he come home again, nl-
thongh I heard ho carried It up town
anil kept It for a day and a night and
then moved tt.
"In 1863 ho died, and for a tong tlmo
I -thought the money was tn tho bank,
and tried to find out by going to some
of his old friends and cnvployeei to seo
If they knew anything about the mat
ter, -thinking Mr. Dugan had probably
dropped some hint nn to what disposi
tion he had mado of It In their presence,
but they didn’t seem to know anything
nbout it. and one of them said that I
never would gut It. I then went to old
aunt Polly, -the fortune teller, and »ho
told mo that it wns buried, and a spir
itualist told mo tho Kamo thing, and
said that tho amount wns 213,000, which
we wnulil got oome day. go I havo
been digging away under the direction
of tho fortune Teller off nnd on for
about thirty years, but haven’t found It
yet. Theqr tell me that tt fa hid, and
that I muKt dig nnd dig deep for It, and
I lielleve that pome (lay we’ll get It.”
Such fa the htatory of Mr, Dugan’s
buried (fold and the search for tt. Ev
eryone In the city known the Dugan
placo on Poplar ntroet. Just beyond the
Georglu iMIdilund -bridge. It contains
fully nn sere, nnd thore 1s hardly a foot
of ground that has not been turned
Over, and some of It neveral times, In
this hunt for tho gold. The hearth
stones In the house have been taken up
to dig. and every conceivable search
made on the premises.
That he -had money few doubt;, for
men are living today who remember to
have Been him with nocks of gold and
•liver that “nig John” Brooks, who wa«
the host powerful man In this section,
In -that day, could not lift out, whllo
some donht that he had as much as
113.000.
It would be e windfall to the widow If
the treasure cesitfl be unearthed, and all
who know her would be glad to hear of
such good flrtune for her. In the mean
time She continue* to have the place
dug over.—Gridin Call.
A HOUSEHOLD TREASURE, '
D. W. Fuller of Canajolmrlc, N. Y.,
says that ho always keeps Dr. King’s
Now Discovery hi tho house and his
family has always found tho very best
result follow Its use; that bo would
not bo without tt. If procurable. G.
A. Dykeman, druggist, Cutaklll, N. Y.,
says that Dr. King’s Now Discovery
Is undoubtedly the best cough reme
dy; that he UU used It In his family
for eight yean), and It lias never failed
to do all that fa claimed for It. Why
not try a remedy so long tried and
tested? Trial bottles free at H. J.
Lamar & Son’s drug store. Itegular
size CO cents and $L
USE HOLMES’ MOUTH WASH.
Prepared by
Era. Holmes & Maoon, Dentists,
656 Mulberry Street.
It cures bleeding gums, ulcers, sore
mouth, sore throat, cleans the teoob and
puriflea the breath. For sate by all
druggists.