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r~ 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.