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Faust Spaghetti is very nutritious—it is rich
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SPAGHETTI
contains as much nutrition as 4 lbs. of beef
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book.
At all Grocery’—Sc and 10c Package*
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Will Power Means That Determination to Spend $5 for a Gift and Not Spend -NO
NIL
Tabloid Tales
'ITT THAT. Mother Mine. !a meant by
"becoming philosophical?”
It mean*. Little One, the re-
- zatlon that we are Jogging along
very comfortably and happily with
out that to-day which yeeterday we
> *re convinced we could not live
Why Mother, do you think It la such
a good thing for every man to marry?
Because. My Chl’d. moat men
would ewe'l up and hurst with con-
• !t If they did not marry and have
«nme of the conceit taken out of
• hem
Who. Mother, la your Ideal of • j
r ?anpy Man?
The rrazy man. Daughter, with the j
State taking care of him, and unlim
ited time to talk and handle big en
terprises He la tha happy man; it
it hla aane kin whe ara tha mlaer-
sble one*
What. Mother, la the difference be
tween a woman’s conscience and a !
mane?
A woman’a conscience. Little One. !
hurta her when she telle a He- A j
man’s hurts him wlien he had a
hance to tell a lie and didn't.
Who Invented the cooking stove.
Mother Dear?
A man. My Child, and ever after
thst when he saw something good
coming out of the over* he said to
himself. "What a good cook I am’"
W^y, Mother. Is a man always
• ailed a woman’s protector?
For the reason. Little One, that It |
Is his natural Inclination to protect I
her from other men Imposing on her,
preferring to do all the Imposing
himself.
Was ever a compliment entirely i
satisfactory. Dearest Mother?
Never, never. Child, for if the word
Ing gave satisfaction there is always |
the complaint that those who pay us ,
compliments don’t talk loud enough. 1
The man who has mean things to say i
1 ways makes himself heard.
What, Mother, is a genius’
There aro many kinds. Little One.
but in one particular they are all j
alike. A genius la one who makes
life uncomfortable for all around him.
Is It true. Mother, as the men
Malm, that the Ink bottle at home la
ilways empty and the pen never to
>e found?
Not always. Child. When a man's
fool streak Is In control, and he wants
te wrlle something he shouldn’t, the
Ink pot Is never empty and the pen
s always lying beside It and In per-
The Gold Witch
The Adventures of a Golden-Haired Heiress
— - ■ , >
No. 6—Dreams of the Past and Future.
Copyright, 1®13.
International S*r»*°*.
WearmgKimono
to Breakfast
By BEATRICE FAIRFAX.
1 2 It proper to wear a kimono to
breakfast In a boarding house”
What do you mean by ‘‘proper’
— what sort of a boarding house do
you live In?
I have seen girls come down to
breakfast In a mob cap and a bou
doir Jacket, and by the wav they
crooked their little Anger and had
such a time tipping their coffee, it
was easy to see that they Imagine 1
themselves the most charming and
fascinating of creatures—but they
weren't.
They really were not—at all.
It takes the prettiest woman In the
w’orld to look pretty In a kfmono-
it Is almost as bad as a bathing *ptt
when It comes to showing up every
defect that a girt has and ought net
to have.
Besides. It really Is a bit neg!!**a
for a boarding-house table—ffon’t you
j think *o, Morsns?
It Is all very well to read about tha
Thar mere In satin peignoirs and
da.inty gold heeled allppem—that's In
a book where a girl can cry and look
pretty at the same time.
Out of a book a peignoir or a ki
mono, or a dressing Jacket, are ft for
just exactly one place In the world,
and that is in your own roera.
feet repair.
FRANCES L. GARS1DE.
The Gold Witch finds an old harp an instrument she loves, in the dimming twilight Tom
and his father steal in to listen. As the exquisite notes throb out, shadowy pictures form in
p*
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A Dramatic Story of High Society Life in New York
1
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IS Adapted from the Big Broadway Success by Owen Davis
tlie dusk. To Tom they are visions of a happy future; to his father bitter-sweet memories of the
past—of his ward’s mother, whom he loved but did not marry.
| jro r»K.
You won't fascinate the ypung book
keeper who Bits opposite with that
kknono—you’ll Just make him wish
| you would take time to dress youreelf
1 before you come to breakfast.
Don’t make any mistake, my dear.
; the one thing a man really admires
in a real girl is modesty—if he ever
gets It into his head that you are
lacking in that, nothing in the world
that you can do will make him really
respect you again.
Get yourself a couple of neat pretty
little house dresses. You can find
them In the w’ash frock department
of any of the big shops.
the wash dress.
Blue and pink and lavender and
flowered—all colors, all styles, all
prices—i have seen very neat, pretty
little blue wash dresses for sale at a
dollar and a half—get one of those,
do your hair 1n a pretty simple knot
and you'll look as sweet as a peach
and feel sure that you are doing the
right thing at the same time.
Hang the kimono up on the last
nail in your closet and never think of
wearing it outside your own room.
That’s a nice, sweet, sensible, modest
girL
AT BAY .1 Thrilling Story of Society Blackmailers
[Novelized byl
1 1-ront Owen Davis’ play now being pre
sented at the Playhouse, New York, by
William A. Brady.—Copyright, 1913, by
piternational News Service.)
TO-DAY’S INSTALLMENT
"Twenty five dollars! Why! You ain’t
<-4 bad sort! Thank you.” lie went
slowly toward the door, revolving the
whole matter in his sodden old mind.
Suddenly he stopped, took off the old
gray cap he had donned preparatory to
exit, and stood a moment twirling It
in his hands—seeking for some ade
quate expression of a strange gratitude
he felt.
"Say!” he cried a bit huskily, at last.
'You ain't a bad sort—you sure ain’t!
Go home, Kid!”
"No! No!” cried the boy from behind
his barrier of trembling hands.
“HOME'S K SWELL PLACE, BOY!
YOU'LL KNOW IT WHEN YOU GET
>LD LIKE ME, AND AIN’T GOT
>NE!”
And so good-bye to Jim! And so
good-bye to all the flotsam and jetsam
of life—the men and women w 7 ho, hav
ing no ideals, have none to give their
children—who, making no home for their
children in their youth, are given none
by their children in old age.
Kenneth sat alone, sunk In his pos
ture of helpless, hopeless weakness and
despair. The sunlight streamed in his
window—the golden sunlight of the high
meridian—-of noon and the high tide of
life and day that follows It.
At last the bo> raised Ills giav young
face from his hands. He looked curi
ously—inquiringly—at the sunlight. His
own life lay in gray shadow—in black
despair and regret—but the sun went
on shining
Deserted!
The dull curiosity and question re
mained a moment longer on Ills face.
Then he looked about him. Deserted!
How tawdry the room In which he sat
how lawdry the causes that had
brought him here. His face hardened.
What was the use of thinking about K
all?
'The moving flrger writes—and having
writ—
Moves on Nor all your piety and wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a
line —
Nor all vour tears wash out a word
of it!”
Quaintly the old quatrain from the
verse of i imar the Tentmaker sang fis
mournful cadence through his brain.
A "at was the use? he thought again.
' deadly determination came over his
” c. His eyes took on a faraway look
!ook of one .who has no concern with
jjj# sets «agA»4iejre»4-.be-
yond. And unless some one who loved
him truly and wisely and well could
banish that look—and banish that look
SOON, Kitty May’s revenge on the
house of Nelson must be so horrible that’
even she would look on It in sorrow
and terror and remorse.
At last the boy got up. On his face
the deadly determination deepened so
that the shadow’ of It must fall across
the mind of whoever beheld him. But
would any one come—In time?
He crossed over into his unkempt bed
room, and come back at last with a
writing case. He sat at the table and
began a letter. His pen trembled across
the paper for a few lines. He could
not summon the strength or the co
herent thought to go on. He crumpled
the sheet and threw it on the floor.
The Mother’s Appeal.
He walked over to the window and
looked down—eleven flights—there was
sunshine down there on the cold white
stone—he could almost see—a black
thing lying huddled there—a stream of
red oorlng, oozing—the boy shuddered
back from the window and his own hor
rible vision as if some power to Impel
him lay In the frame of the window.
Not that way!
He came back and picked up the
phone.
“1171 Plaza,” he said—the Alpine
Apartments—his father. His mind
worked on remorselessly while the op
erator was calling.
“No! No! Wait! I don’t w r ant It—
it is a mistake—I don’t want it!”
He put the phone down—and crossed
slowly toward the door—at the other
side of the corridor lay Kitty’s room-^
I perhaps that was the place—the place—
j for doing It!
| There was a knock at the door to-
! ward w hich he was advancing with slow.
I haunte* footsteps He stopped with a
frightened gasp, and stood tense and
i quiet—listening.
Tho knock was repeated. He mads
I no noise—he scarcely dared breathe.
A look of cunning crossed his face.
There was a aide door—he could go down
i the back corridor and reach—and reach
Kitty’s room. He would do it that way,
on tiptoe, noiselessly he crept toward the
door, lie reached it. turned the handle,
j took one step out into the corridor.
The other door opened—and his moth-
er stood just within his room She hes-
j itated. frozen with a nameless forebod
| ing as she saw him.
! The boy turned, looked at his moth-
, er w ith a sort of wild shrewdness, and
came back as ifenothing unusual had
j happened
“Did you knock?” lie said Idly.
“Kenneth! Mary pleaded so with me
—that 1 felt 1 must conje at once!"
| She stopped and looked around the
' disordered room fearfully. This and his
j manner! What could it mean?
1 •'.VViiiti. ia iveauaiu'; Why tlu you
look like that? Where is—the woman?”
“Gone! You—will—be—glad of that!”
Something In his voice Impelled her—
frightened her- drew her! She came
forward toward him—toward the way
ward son for whom sweet Mary Burke
had pleaded with the eloquence born of
her love, adding softness to her gentle
voice. Emily Nelson spoke tenderly
now*
"Ken! COme home!” «
The boy’s voice seemed to come back
to her from far away.
“HAVE YOU A HOME? I DON’T
THINK SO! IF YOU’D EVER HAD A
HOME—THINGS MIGHT HAVE BEEN
DIFFERENT! I’M GOING NOW-
GOOD BYE.”
“Going where?”
"Quite a Journey, mother—and I have
a lot to do—so "
Emily Nelson came closer: that name
less terror was clutching at her heart.
She wondered If it were something she
could tight
“I can’t let you go. I could not re
main away any longer. I scarcely
needed Mary to tell me to come—to come
at once. Kenneth, I am a foolish worn
an, I know, but I need you. Mary and I
will love you—love you like mother and
—sister—W’e’ll make a home for you.’
“Mary—love me! I’m not fit! And
like a sister!”
The boy laughed as one w ho sees a
vision of treasure lie may never own—
of the promised land he may never en
ter.
“I need you, Ken!"
His Determination.
“I’m sorry—but I can't help you. Sor
ry—but I can’t! I must go. I must
make si^re that Kitty has not left* any
of try letters. She was—was always
careless and I don't want anything
more In the papers to humiliate father
after- ! have gone away. HE HAS
HAD ENOUGH OF' HUMILIATION. I
UNDERSTAND ALL OP THAT NOW!'*
He turned and walked toward his bed
room -there was a sort of strength in
his weakness There way implacable de
termination in his step.
“T brought you some money, dear,’’
ventured the mother hopefully.
“Thank you, no. I have all that I
shall need," answered Kenneth quietly.
He spoke with a slow dignity. Per
haps Socrates, with his cup of hemlock
In his hand, looked like that. Perhaps
tho young martyrs tied in the arena
! wore such a look of far-away exultation
the end could only mean peace—afcd
rest.
The mother spoke anxiously.
l«et me wait here until you ate
• through - ?”
j “Why?”
'Let, me!" she pleaded.
"Very well!" <onceded the boy, al
most impatiently.
“You will come back,” she insisted.
"‘Yes."
“You promise me.” The nameless
terror seemed to fill the room with a 1
chill mist through which she could just i
see her son—but through which tlie I
warmth of her love could not penetrate
to reach him. He stood far aloof— I
wrapped in cold dignity.
“Yes—I will come back^for a moment.
Then 1 must go.”
But would he come bacK—ever?
Emily Nelson walked over to the ta
ble and looked about anxiously—there
must be some clew—some alien presence
in the room to make her feel as she did.
The Letter.
Finally she sat in the great chair
drawn to the table—she picked up Ken
neth’s pen idly enough. There was ink
on it. It marked her white glove. Fresh
ink! But no letter—no scrap of writ
ing on the table! She looked around.
On the floor lay the crumpled letter.
She stooped and picked it up. Smooth
ing It out, she read the few lines Ken
neth had traced there. As she read her
face balnched with fear—and horror.
She looked fearfully toward the Inner
room—Ken’s bedroom. She heard noth
ing. She could scarcely rise from her
chair to walk toward the room. At
last she trembled to her feet. Then she
heard Ken moving about—heard a sound
of tearing paper. A moment's respite!
He had said he would come back. She
must keep him—from that long Jour
ney—that journey that knows no re
turn—she must keep him somehow. She
stood thinking—a mother’s love—was
that strong enough? Strong! strongi
A father’s strength! For one second
only she hesitated—then she seized the
telephone.
“Plaza 1171! Quickly! Quickly!” Her
accents were agonized. Her voice was
tense and low and as she waited her
tortured nerves telegraphed for energy
to her brain which was being drained
by the steady demands on it for power
to meet this torture.
“Hello. Mr. Nelson? Mr. Charles Nel
son* Oh. are you sure? Where? Yes,
yes, thank you." *
She rang off—then at once sne cabled
again.
“Hello! The Engineers' Club! I don’t
know the number but It is so import
ant. Thank you!”
She put the phone down—then crept
across the room, with fear and trem
bling and horror marking every step
for agonized waiting and stood listen
ing for signs of life from her son’s
room. Then she went back to the phone,
waning in an agony of impatience,
sinking weakly at last into the chair as
the faint ring she must muffle from
Ken’s ears came to her own strained
hearing.
“The Engineers" Club? Mr. Charles
Nelson is lunching there. Please call
him—it is 'of great importance ”
To Be Continued Monday, —>
(Novelized by>
(From the play by George Scar
borough, now' being presented at the
Thirty-ninth Street Theater. New York.
Serial rights held and copyrighted by
International News Service.)
TO-DAY’S INSTALLMENT.
“Yes—fine fellow 7 , too, Mike—how long
you been on the force?”
“About five years—goin’ on five,” re
plied Donnell precisely.
“Like it?”
“It’s a meal ticket.” replied the po
liceman, grinning confidentially.
“Which is the best on the average—
the salary or the pickings?’’ asked
Larry.
Saved!
Donnell grinned.
“Pickings. What’s that?” in a tone
of great innocence.
“A policeman who doesn’t know what
‘pickings’ Is. Let me illustrate”—and
the air suddenly had a large chunk of
Itself removed between a rapacious
thumb and forefinger.
“Have a cigar. Donnell.”
Slowly a scarlet banded perfecto was
switched from a pocket and carried
through the air to just where Donnell
could get its full fine aroma. Then, as
the Captain tried to hand his gift to the
waiting recipient, his fingers became
very stiff and awkward and the cigar
slipped to the floor. Still clutching the
camera with his left hand Donnell
stooped after his “pickings”—and that
was Holbrook’s moment. By the time
Donnell had acquired his cigar, the tell
tale plateholder had gone to join the
booty In the pocket of the Captain’s
dinner coat.
As he stooped Donnell managed to
articulate: “Yes. but ye know this
ain't New’ York.”
And as he slipped the plate holder
into his pocket Larry answered with
knowledge: “Yes—but a policeman is
a policeman the world over.”
“I guess' that ain’t no lie, ' replied
Donnell.
Larry was fairly bursting with jubi
lant friendliness now.
'“You’fe all right, Donnell—and if
anything ever happens to you here—
your foot slips—and you never ('an tell
when it will—maybe T could help you
get a start in the BIG town”
"Think you could, sir?”
“Indeed—and I do.”
And l^arry was ready to welcome back
to the room even such once dangerous
foes as the chief and the inspector.
“Chief, I don’t suppose we can get
back to the filibustering matter to
night?” he queried.
"Xo—captain—this has put a crimp
in it,”
“Well, any time I can assist you "
said the victor with large generosity.
"Not to-night. . .
“Sure?”
“Oh, I guess we have the matter fair
ly w’ell in hand,” answered Dempster.
For one moment that gave Holbrook
pause. But he thought of the pockets
of his dinner jacket and the sleeve of
his topcoat and took heart of grace.
He looped his coat over his arm and
set his gray fedora on his head after
a comprehensive sweep and salute.
• —if you’re sure there is nothing
I can do—good night.”
And he thought the battle w’on. But
the battle had not yet begun.
Over the table in his den sprawled
the dead spider—poisonous, dangerous
even in death. And in a dainty bedroom
not far away a girl was staring out
into the night with eyes that were
learning to look on horror.
The men Holbrook left behind him in
the spider's den went on with their
grim business of tracking every possible
clew 7 that led to the destroyer of the
poison creature before them. And the
sprawling thing that had once been
called by his fearful victims a danger
ous and powerful man lay undisturbed
across the table where he had fallen.
In one dead hand he still clutched
the file on which he had carefully
pinned letters that might wreck for fair
women a possession more precious tha 7 »
the poisoned and venomous life that had
just been taken from him. And the
rich trappings and comforts of the great
den were masterless until the law
should give them to the frightened boy
to whom F'lagg had left ty dangerous
heritage—the knowledge that human
weakness may be preyed upon by that
most despicable of all human weak
nesses—greed.
The sleuth hounds of the law’ went
on with their work.
“Have you looked over that safe?”
said Inspector MacIntyre.
“Not thoroughly—no,” answered the
chief.
Tommy volunteered a bit of infor
mation now 7 . “Oh, there’s a box there
— that will help you, I am sure.” Now
that Holbrook had gone the boy’s at
titude of reticence had changed. What
influence had this ”w 7 orld man” whom
Aline loved and her father hated over
the boy Tommy? Was It the strength
of a man who had learned in far and
strange lands to control weak natures
to his own uses—or was it some power
stronger than his very self working
through Lawrence Holbrook for the pro
tection of a cowering victim turned de
stroyer w'hen at bay?
“What box?” asked the Inspector.
“A tin box, sir, with my uncle's pri
vate papers.”
"What kind of papers?”
"Why papers, sir—letters.”
To Be Continued Monday.
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