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jAsk Me Another
0 A General Quist
. । The Questions
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1. What is a chuck-will’s-widow?
X When it's 11 a. m. in Omaha,
what time is it in Galveston,
Texas?
X Where are the Plains of
Abraham?
4. What does a mace symbolize
in legislative houses?
5. How does the world's record
for running and ice skating 100
yards compare?
& Who did Sir Walter Raleigh
pint to place on the British throne
'in place of James I?
■n-
The Answers
1. A bird. (So called from its'
bote.)
X 11 a. m. !
X Canada (Quebec).
. 4. Authority. A mace is a staff'
far mallet.
5. The record in both cases is
IX4— ldentical to the split second.
& Arabella Stuart.
Hr
K SETTER
vision
IHROU6H EYE
classes was
DISCOVERED Es
IW| p'armato
AROUND 1275:
HIE BETTER WAY TO TREAT ,
CONSTIPATION DUB TO LACK OF
PROPER BULK IN THE DIET. IS TO
CORRECT THE CAUSE OF THE TROUBLE
With a delicious r~-—-—.
CEREAL, KELLO66IS / &
! ^bel
Fruit of Labor
‘ It is not by saying “Honey,
ihoney,” that sweetness comes into
tte mouth.—Turkish Proverb.
npif Dust with cooling Mexican
Kl* 111 Heat Powder. Dust in shoes.
” * Relieves and eases chafe, and
UL AT sunburn. Great for heat rash.
■ OEM I Get Mexican Heat Powder.
Binding Virtues
Moderation is the silken string
running through the pearl chain
of all virtues. —Bishop Hall.
)TO CHECK KR|A
in7days
Unknown Future
A wise God shrouds the future
in obscure darkness.—Horace.
1111 ■ --ow— —' 4
"Ca|>-Bru.h" Applicator , ■
' BLACK LEAF 40^
GO much farther
MSI IN FtATHERSJX >1
SEaaSSSEffiS
Greater Hl
Don't fall in the fire to be saved;
from the smoke.
STOBES 1
sonu v B W JTSSI
BEACONS of
—SAFETY—
• Like a beacon light on
the height—the advertise
ments in newspapers direct
you to newer, better and
easier ways of providing
the things needed or
desired. It shines, this
beacon of newspaper
advertising—and it will be
to your advantage to fol
low it whenever yon
make a purchase.
““““—
Sidney Lander, mining engineer. Is en.
gaged to Barbara Trumbull, but apparently
baa fallen In love with Carol Coburn. Mata
auska school teacher. Salaria Bryson, one
St her pupils, a big out-door girl, la also in
Imo with him. Carol’s father died in Alaa-
“I can break trail for the back
Bills where a he-man’s still got
breathin’-room,” was his solemn
noted reply. “I can mush on to a val
ley that ain’t overrun with weak
lin’s and womenfolks.”
“Thanks,” I said.
"I ain’t got nothin’ against you,
girlie,” he said. “I’ve been strong
for you from the first crack out o’
the box. I savvied, from that snowy
day I spotted you on the trail, you
was good leather. And later on I
savvied you was mixed up with a
bunch o’ snakes here. That’s why
I kind o’ hate t’ mush on and leave
you sittin’ out on a limb.”
“I’ve always managed to take
care of myself,” I assured him.
“That’s what you think,” said
Sock-Eye. “But it’s time some plain
spoken hombre put a bee or two in
your bonnet. For I savvy a heap
more’n you imagine, girlie. You
think Big John TrumbuUTl give you
a square deal on your claim trial.
But he won’t. He ain’t built that
way. And there’s a glib-talkin’ ta
rantula right over in that transient
camp who’s figgerin’ on bustin’ you
up in this colony, when the chance
comes around. And he’s got Trum
bull behind him.”
“Is that Eric the Red?” I de
manded, my thoughts suddenly back
to more imminent things.
“That’s the bird,” acknowledged
Sock-Eye as a leathery old claw
stroked his six-gun holster. “And
in the good old days when us sour
doughs cleaned up a camp as she
ought to be cleaned up that wind
jammer’d have swung from a tam
arack bough afore he’d passed out
his second mess o’ pizen-talk. I
don’t like what he’s sayin’ about
you and Sid Lander. I don’t like
anything he says.”
“What’s he got against Lander?”
I asked.
“One item worth mentionin’,”
Sock-Eye said with his not unkindly
smile, “is the fact that Lander’s
Tidin’ range for you.”
“Why should he ride range, as
you put it, for me?” I inquired with
purely defensive obtuseness.
Sock-Eye took another chew be
fore deigning to answer.
“Why, that long-legged giloot’s so
crazy about you, girlie, he can’t see
straight.”
I could feel the color come up
into my face. But I managed to
keep control of my voice.
“Did he ever tell you this?” I
Bsked.
“That hombre,” asserted the
frowning Sock-Eye, “ain’t given to
talkin’ much. But when he gits set
on doin’ a thing he does it in his
own way.”
“But it would be in an honest
way,” I proudly proclaimed.
Sock-Eye’s shaggy head nodded
its dubious assent.
“He’s a straight-shooter all right.
But that’s jus’ where the hitch is.
He’s too straight. And considerin’
what he’s facin’ it ain’t gittin’ him
far.”
Sock-Eye’s gaze wavered away
and regarded the design I’d em
broidered on a gunny sack for a
floor mat.
“I ain’t nosin’ into that tie-up with
the Trumbull dame. That’s some
thing ’twixt him and his Creator.
But there’s that girl o’ Sam Bry
son’s. S’lary ain’t what you’d meb
be call civilized.”
“She has her good points,” I re
gretfully admitted.
“Mebbe she has. But when a
maverick in petticoats like that gits
an idee in her head, when she’s set
on somethin’ she ain’t no special
right to, she’s a-goin’ after it like a
wildcat after a rabbit.”
I began to discern the threatening
bush about which my old friend was
so artfully beating.
“Lander seems able to take care
of himself,” I ventured.
“Mebbe he is,” retorted Sock-Eye.
“And mebbe he ain’t. But book
learnin’ and shadow-boxin’ with the
Ten Commandments ain’t goin’ t’
help you much when you’re compet
in’ against a she-wolf.”
“I haven’t,” I ventured, “seen
signs of any conflict.”
“You wouldn’t,” acceded Sock-
Eye. “But as I told you once afore,
gold’s where you find it. And so is
a hombre’s consolation for livin’
alone. But it’s mebbe worth re
memberin’ that both the man and
the metal is usually corraled by the
forager who’s first t’ hightail it in t’
where the strike is.”
I sat, deep in thought, after he
had gone. I picked up two letters
which had to go to the post office at
Palmer and at the same time gave
me a ponderable excuse for invad
ing that forbidden territory.
As I approached the Commissary
I realized that crowd was doing
more than loiter. A few of the men
had pitchforks in their hands; a few
had pick bandies and axes. Still
others, I noticed, carried heavy
clubs of spruce wood. And a broken
cheer went up from them as Eric
the Red pushed through their ranks
and mounted the porch end.
“Are we cattle,” he demanded,
“or are we freeborn Americans? In
stead of coming to a colony of homes
you were brought like driven sheep
to • hobo city of lousy tents. You
THE STORY SO FAB
ka with an unproven claim which Trumbull
la contesting. Lander quits his employ, be
comes field manager for the Matanuska
Valley project. Sock-Eye Schlupp, an old
sourdough, calls on Carol to tell her aha
ought to be in Chakitana to fight for her
INSTALLMENT XK
were fed on tainted beef and big
promises. Your women and chil
dren waded through mud and you
were told to grub out spruce roots
or go without a crop. And when
your children fell sick they were
taken away from the homes where
they belonged and carried off to a
jerry-built pesthouse and kept pris
oners there while a couple of over
fed she-nurses sat around smoking
cigarettes and playing checkers with
an imported sawbones who lined up
your little ones and vaccinated them
whether they needed it or not. And
now it’s about time—”
That was as much as I heard. For
a wave of resentment went through
my body and rang a little bell some
where at the back of my brain. I
found myself clambering up on the
porch beside the momentarily si
lenced Ericson.
“Wait a minute,” I heard my own
voice shouting above the jeers and
the derisive laughter my over-abrupt
eruption gave birth to. “I want to
tell you the truth about this trouble
maker and what he’s doing to this
colony. For if you’re fools enough
to let him poison your minds with
his cheap lies and his half-baked
Red ideas you don’t deserve the
“You’ve a chance to conquer
this last frontier.”
chance this Project is giving you.
You’ve a chance to be nation-build
ers. You’ve a chance to be heroes.
You’ve a chance to conquer this last
frontier and make happy homes
here and—”
But the envious rabble-rouser at
my side had no intention, obviously,
of surrendering the stage to an
outsider. There was a shout of
laughter as I was unceremoniously
bumped off the porch end.
“Don’t listen to this kid-tamer,”
I could hear Ericson shouting as I
gathered myself up. “She can’t
pull that kindergarten stuff with men
like us who know our own minds.
And know, as well, that she’s the
private pastry of that imported col
lege-dude engineer who’s trying—”
And that, still again, was as far
as Eric the Red got.
His speech was cut short by a
bullet that splintered the porch post
within ten inches of his head. Be
fore he could recover from his aston
ishment at that interruption a sec
ond bullet cut through the crown of
his hat apd buried itself in the wood
work behind him.
I glanced back, at that second
shot, and caught sight of Sock-Eye
standing just beyond the outer fringe
of the crowd.
“Grab that old fool,” someone
cried. “He’s drunk.”
“Drunk, am I?” he croaked as he
advanced slowly toward the porch
end, the clustered bodies making
way for him as he so threateningly
moved forward. “Mebbe I am; but
I’m still sober enough t’ scotch a
two-legged snake.”
The only person who didn’t fall
back was Ericson. I don’t know
whether it was courage, or whether
it was hopelessness. But he re
mained there at the porch end,
white-faced and motionless, with his
narrowed eyes on the swaying old
timer.
Sock-Eye took three slow steps to
ward him.
“Now dance high, tenderfoot,” he
suddenly barked out. And with equal
abruptness the two poised pistols re
peated that bark, splintering the
porch floor at Ericson’s feet.
Ericson didn’t exactly dance. His
foot-movement, as a third bullet
nipped the toe of his foot, must have
been largely an involuntary one. But
his repeated movement, as another
bullet cut into the sole-edge of his
other boot, might have been inter
preted as a none too happy dance
step. And that was repeated until
he stood with his back against the
porch post.
When he suddenly bolstered one
of his revolvers and jerked out his
sheath knife I thought, for a dread
ful second or two, that the old fir«-
THE BULLETIN
father’s claim. He himself Is moving on
away from the new Matanuska; it has be
come too “civilized.’’
The old “bush rat’’ has nothing but con
tempt for the new project. Carol asks what
he plans.
eater was so far forgetting himself
as to disembowel a helpless enemy.
But I could see, when it was all over,
that the flashing knife blade had
merely severed Ericson’s belt and
slashed loose his trouser legs, leav
ing him standing there bare-kneed
below his ridiculous cotton shorts.
Then with incredible dexterity the
old desert-rat swung the twisted leg
cloth around the younger man’s star
tled body, knotting him there a pris
oner against the post. His move
ments were more leisurely as he tied
a third strip about Ericson's thin
neck.
I had no clear suspicion of Sock-
Eye’s intentions until I saw him
stroll down the steps and pick up an
empty salmon tin lying in the road
dust. There he eyed it with solemn
approval.
His -steps were distressingly un
steady as he returned to the porch
and placed the tin on Ericson’s
head. A laugh went up from the
crowd when Ericson shook the can
from its resting place.
Sock-Eye solemnly replaced it.
“Do that again,” he croaked, “and
I’ll sure fan the .bump o’ veneration
off’n your skull.”
He backed slowly away, the full
length of the porch.
“That gun-fanning old fool’s go
ing to pull the William Tell trick,”
cried someone at the edge of the
crowd.
“Better get an apple,” cried an
other guttural voice.
But I couldn’t see any excuse for
mirth in the situation. I could feel
my heart come up in my mouth as
I saw Sock-Eye’s long arm swing
about in an airy half-circle, with
the heavy six-gun in the tremulous
old hand.
My impulse was to stop such mad
ness. I even called out and started
forward. But I was too late.
The shot rang out before I could
reach the porch. And at the same
time the empty salmon tin went
spinning through the evening air.
Sock-Eye, ignoring the shouts of
the crowd, went solemnly after it.
His intention, apparently, was to re
peat that foolish and perilous per
formance. But it was cut short
when a military-looking car swung
in from the highway and Colonel
Hart flung out of the seat beside
his driver.
“Arrest that man,” he called to
the Anchorage marshal who stood
on the running board.
But with an altogether unexpected
nimbleness Sock-Eye rounded the
Commissary, dodged out past the
stock shed, and disappeared in the
spruce scrub, at the same time that
Katie and her Black Maria roared
closer along the highway that skirt
ed the railway siding. On the seat
beside her was Salaria, armed with
a rifle, and plainly a self-appointed
vigilante.
“Who’s hurt?” I heard Colonel
Hart call out as the ambulance shud
dered to a stop.
“Two transients caught setting a
fire,” answered Katie. “They
showed fight and had to be sub
dued.”
“And it was Sid Lander done the
subduin’,” proudly announced the
self-appointed vigilante at her side.
CHAPTER XIX
When Barbara Trumbull and ner
father came in, they came by plane.
What prompted that return was, of
course, unknown to me.
But I was more worried, at the
time, by Sock-Eye’s abrupt disap
pearance. The bullheaded old gun
fanner had possessed himself of two
pack mules, which he hid in the
hills beyond Knik Glacier and loaded
down with grub and equipment and
three cases of dynamite. Rumor had
it that S’lary Bryson had not only
been his go-between during those
preparations but had been his com
panion and trail mate on his first
day’s travel out through the hills.
And after that the silence had swal
lowed him up.
When I went to the Bryson shack,
to glean a little more light on the
matter, I found Sam alone there,
alone and singularly acid-spirited.
But when I questioned if Sock-Eye
wasn’t too old and erratic-minded
for lone-fire prospecting like that
he refused to share in my fears.
“That ol’ sourdough knows his
hills. And he knows how t’ mush
through ’em, winter or summer.”
“Where’s Salaria?” I asked as 1
made a show of producing the text
books that motivated my visit.
“Bear shootin’,” was Sam’s trucu
lent reply.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “that she’s
missing a lesson.’
That seemed to give Sam the open
ing he wanted.
“It ain’t wringin’ no tears out o’
me,” he protested. And there was
no mistaking the tremor of indigna
tion in his voice. “What’s more,”
he continued, “instead o’ all this
book-readin’ doin’ my S’lary a bit o’
good, it’s fillin’ her up with enough
loco idees t’ founder a pack horse.
And I ain’t thankin’ you or anyone
else for pizenin’ her mind and mab
in’ her about as easy t’ live with M
an underfed she-grizzly.”
fTO BE CONTINUED)
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HERE is the peasant flavored
Basque silhouette which jun
ior girls have taken to so widely
in the past few months. Barbara
Bell interprets the popular new
fashion in a one-piece frock. Typ
ically basque, with the long top
Cl
Window screens may be washed
with a hose.
• • •
When frying don’t put in the
article to be fried until the fat is
still and a faint smoke is seen
rising from the pan.
« « •
Add about a third of a cup of
cooked crisp bacon to the regu
lar muffin batter. This addition
makes a delicious muffin.
* * •
To improve the flavor of stewed
prunes, cook a slice of lemon and
a cinnamon stick with them. A
speck of salt added to any fruit
sauce helps bring out the flavor.
ffijSrlf you bake at home, use^S :
F FLEISCHMANN’S 1
f FRESH YEAST
B7 The Household IS^
Favorite of Four
SSfflht. Generations! ^j^wSwg
_ii^ ■—l
ACYCLE OF HUMAN BETTERMENT
advertising gives you new ideas,
/ \ and also makes them available
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new ideas become more accepted,
prices go down. As prices go down,
more persons enjoy new ideas. It
is a cycle of human betterment, and
it starts with the printed words
of a newspaper advertisement. ,
' I j-
*
JOIN THE CieClE Q READ THE ADS
| I* I >
/
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• * *
Pattern No. 1402-B Is designed for slzia
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Room 1324
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Enclose 15 cents in coins for
Pattern No Size
Name
Address j
Acquiring Knowledge
The acquirement of knowledge
obviously is not only potentially
the most profitable but often the
most delightful pursuit in life, and
the interchange of experience,
ideas and thought are of para
mount importance in these days of
mutability.—J. A. Lacey.
**** STAB HIT FOB
PENETROESSS.?
I
Day by Day
Let us be thankful that life
comes to us in little bits—one day
at a time with its duties. We can
at least accomplish that much.—;
Colonel de Burgh.
✓middle-age;
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Swift Growth
Report, that which no evil thing
of any kind is more swift, in
creases with travel and gains
strength by its progress.—Vergil.