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HJSAKgT’M inuai. lACA^J&jnnr-n 2*, imm. Special Price The Game Complete in Every Detail cc NOT a TOY, but a GAME Every Move a Play Some Features of the Game BALLS. A batter may “get on” by drawing four balls. Some of the provisions in connection with a “ball” cover a “wild pitch and passed ball;” runner out at tempting to steal second; runner safe stealing second or third. STRIKES. A strike either may be called or a foul. In conjunction with a strike, a runner may be enabled to steal home or be put out in the effort to steal third. OUTS. Put-outs are indicated, such as “third to first;” “fly to center;” “double play, second to first,” etc. A groan or a cheer, accord ing to one’s sympathies, often ac companies a double play with one out. HITS. Singles, two-baggers, thpee- base hits and home runs are all provided for. Just as in the reg ular game, three-base hits are scarcer than two-baggers, and home runs are not at all com mon. Frequently a game Is played with very little hitting, the batters going out "one, two, three.” SCORING. Indicators are provided to reg ister the runs and hits of the vis iting team. Indicators for strikes, balls and outs also are provided and also an Innings in dicator for each team. Runners on bases are also shown and the team at bat Is not overlooked. All these devices are self-contain ed and neither pencil nor paper is required to score the game. Call to-day at The American and Georgian office. If you can’t call, ascertain from postmaster the postage on a thirty-ounce game by parcel post from Atlanta. Send it with 50c and one American or Georgian heading. Hearst’s Sunday American and Atlanta Georgian Circulation Department 20 East Alabama Street, Atlanta, Georgia Postage Extra - - Weight 30 Ounces “The Money Master” in HEARST’S MAGAZINE 7 ONG AGO A MAN from Outside Mo!,, away the Money Master's '—* a(lnred wife: n Man from Out- - hie now steals his dnugUter. Poor Jean .Tacqttrs. the hero of Sir Gilbert p : rher's wonderful story of Canadian habitant life, now running in HEARST’S MAGAZINE, has learned nothing by experience, and so his great bouse is empty. The great English novelist has written a tnasterpieee in hia descrip tion of bow Zoe, the Money Mas tor's daughter, found that she loved the "Man from the Outside;” how her father dlsoovered that love, and what happened thereafter. The following exeerpts from Sir Gilbert Parker's grentest story are taken from the current December number of HEARST’S MAGAZINE by courtesy of its editors and are re printed here hernnse no finer ex ample of dramatic writing has been ofTered to the reading public for yea rs. F om the December Instalment of Gir Gilbert Parker’s "The Money Ma ter,’’ now appearing aerially In HEARST’S MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of HEARST’S MAG AZINE. r iiE Judge nas right. After all the years that had passed since his wife had left him Jean Jacques did break out. It was the night of his birthday party, at which was present the Man from Outside. It was In the hour when he first saw what, the Clerk of the Court had seen some time before the understanding between Zoe and the English Protestant actor, who had come and gone in the friendly ways of his home for so many weeks. It had never occurred to him that there was any danger. Zoe had ever been so indifferent to the young men of Rt. Saviour’s and beyond, had ever been so much his friend and the friend of those much older than himself, like the Judge and M. Fllle. that he had not yet settled to think of her as one who might any day elert to leave him alone. To Ira re him alonel To be left alone it had never become a pos sibility to his mind. It did not break upon him with its full force all at once. He first got the glimmer of It, then the glimmer grew to a glow, and the glow to a great red light. In which his brain became drunk, and all his philosophy was burned up like a wood-shaving In a fiery furnace. “Did you llko It so much?” Zo« had asked when her song was fin ished. and the Man from Outside had replied. "Ah, but splendid, bplondid' It got into every corner of every one of us.” Then it was that Jean Jacques saw the look pass between them, and then it was that Zoe replied with a laugh Intended to be merely playful, but having a meaning for the Man from Outside, and to sll else who had brains to Bee; “Into the senses —why not into the heart? Songs are meant for the heart. “Yes, yes, certainly,” was the voung man’s reply, "hut It touches the heart more than the senses, and vice versa. Won't you Bins that per fect thins, the sons of songs of old Canada. ’A la Claire Fantaine?’” he added, with eyes as bright as pas slon and the hectic fires of hl» lung- trouble could make them. She nodded and was about to sing, for she loved the song, and it had been ringing In her head all day, hut at that point M. Fllle rose, aDd with his glass raised high—for at that moment Seraphe Corniche and another carried round wine and cider to the company—he said; "To Monsieur Jean Jacques Bar- bille and his fifty years, bonne *<infc.’ This is his birthday. To a hundred years for M'sieu’ Jacques!" Instantly every one was up with 'uss raised, and Zoe ran and threw her arms round her father's neck. • Kiss me, father, before you drink. * she said With a touch which was almost solemn Jean Jacques drew her head to his shoulder and kissed her hair, then her forehead. "My blessed one —my angel,” he whispered; but there was a look in his eyes which only M. Fllle had seen there before. It was the look which had been In his eyes at the flax-beaters' place by the river. “Sing—father, you must sing," said Zoe. and motioned to the fid dler. "Sing Clnquante Ana." she cried eagerly. They all repeated her request, end he could do nothing else than obey. Jean Jacques' voice was rathet rough, but he had some fine reso nant notes in it, and presently, hl» eves fastened on the distance, and with free gesture and much expres- sion. he sang the first verse of ths haunting ballad of the man who had reached his fifty years. Suddenly he stopped In the middle af a verse and broke forward with arms outstretched, laughing. Hs "The Man from Outside directed the charades, and so it happened that Zoe’s fingers often came in touch with his, that his hands touched her shoulders, and once that his cheeks brushed against her dark hair and she had sensations never experienced before. Then he leaned down.’ To-morrow evening, over beyond the flume come : I want you, will you come?’ he whispered.” A Castaigne Illustration for "The Money Master” In HEARST’S MAG AZINE. felt that ho must laugh or he would cry, and that would he a humiliat ing thing for him to do. “Come, come, my children, my friends, enough of that!” he cried. "We'll have no more maundering. Fifty yearR—what nre fifty years? Think of Methuselah! It's Summer in the world still, and it’s only Spring at St. Saviour's. It's the time of the first flowers. Let’s dance—no, no, never mind the Cure to-night! He will not mind. I’ll settle with him. We’ll dance the gay quadrille.” He caught the hands of the two young est girls present and nodded at the fiddler, who at once began to tune hia violin afresh. One of the Joyous young girls, how ever, began to plead with him. "Ah, no, let us dance, but at the last not yet, M'sieu’ Jean Jacques! There is Zoe’s song, we must have that, and then we meet have char ade* Here Is M. Fynes— he can make splendid charades for us. Then the dance at the last—ah, yes, yes, M’sieu' Jean Jacques! 1/et it be like that. We all planned it, and though It (a your birthday, it's us are making the fete." "As you will, then, as you will, little ones," Joan Jacques acquiesced with a half sigh: but lie did not look at bis daughter. Somehow, sudden ly, a strange constraint had taken possession of him where Zos was con cerned. "Then let us have Zoe’s song; let u» have 'A la Claire Fontaine,’ ” cried the black-eyed young madcap who held Jean Jacques' arms. But Zoe Interrupted “No, no,” she protested charmingly, "the singing spell !b broken. We will have the song after the charades after the charades.” "Good, good after the charades!” they all cried, for there would be charades like none which had ever been played before, with a real actor to help them, to carry them through as they did on the stage; which to them was compounded of mystery and gaiety and the forbidden. So, for the next half hour they were all at the disposal of the Man from Outside, who worked as though it was the real stage and they wera real players and there were great audiences to see them. It was all quite wonderful, and it all Involved certain posings and attitudes and mimicry and pantomime, for they were really ingenious charades So it happeued that Zoe’s fingers often came in touch with those of the stage-manager, that his hands touched her shoulders, and once that his cheek brushed against her dark hair, and she had sensations never experienced before Why was It that she thrilled when she came near to him, and that her whole body throbbed, and her heart fluttered when their shoulders or arms touched? Her childlike nature, with all its warmth and vibration of life, had never till now felt the stir of sex lu its vital sense and power. All men had in one way been the same to her; hut now she realized that there was a world wide difference between her Judge Carcasson, her little Clerk of the Court, and this young man whose eyes drank hers. She had often been excited, even vildlv agitated, had been like a sprite let loose In quiet ways; but that was mere spirit. Here was body, too; here was her whole being beat ing to a music which had no source, but which had an aching sweetness and a harmony that coaxed every sense into delight. To-morrow evening, over beyond he flume, where the beech trees are come at six. 1 w ent to speak with mi. Will you come?” Thus whispered the maker of this usic of the senses who directed the arades. but who was also directing •c destinies of another life than “Yes, if l can,' wa- her whispered reply, and the words shook as she skid them, for Rhe felt that their meeting in the beech trees by the river over beyond the flume would be of consequence beyond past imagination. The Judge had always said that Zoe had sense beyond ner years; M. Fille had said vary often that she had both prudence and shrewd ness as well as a sympathetic spirit: but M. Faille's little whispering sis ter, who could never be tempted away from her home to any house, and to whom the market and the church were like pilgrimages to dis tant wilds, had said to her brother: "Wait, Armand, wait till Zoe Is waked and prudence and wisdom will be but accident. If all goes well you will see prudence and wisdom, but if it does not, you will see—ah, but just Zoe!” The now alert Jean Jacques had seen the whispering of the two, though he did not know what had been Bald. It was, however, soin»- thlng secret, nnd if It was secret then It was it was love; and love between his daughter and that va grant, that waif of a world — the world of the stage—In which men and women were only grown-up chil dren, and bad grown-up children at 1hat—it was not to be endured. One thing was sure, the man should come to the Manor Cartier no more. To morrow—he would see to that to morrow. There would be no falter ing or paltering on his part. His home had been shaken to Its foun dation once, and he was determined that it should not fall about his ears a second time. An Englishman, an actor, a Protestant, and a lawyer behind all—a renegade lawyer! It was impossible. The charade now being played wss the best of the evening. One of the madcap friends of Zoe was to be a singing girl She was supposed to carry a tambourine. When her turn to enter came, with a look of mis chief and a gay dancing step, she ran into the room. In her hands was a guitar, not a tambourine. When Zoe saw the guitar she gave a cry. "Where did you get that?” 6he asked in a low, shocked, Indignant voice. “In your room—your bedroom," was the half-frightened answer. ”1 saw It on the dresser and 1 took 1t.” "Come, come, let us get on with the charade,” urged the Man from Outside. On the instant’s pause In which Zoe looked at her lover, almost In voluntarily, and without fully un derstanding what he said, some one else started forward with a smoth ered exclamation—of dismay, of hor ror, of anger. It was Jean Jacques. He was suddenly transformed. Hia eyes became darkened by hid eous memory, and his face lighted with passion. He caugnt from the girl's hands the guitar—Carmen’s forgotten guitar which he had not seen for seven years—how well he knew it! With both hands he broke it across his knee. The strings, as they snapped, gave a shrill, wailing cry like a voice stopped suddenly by death. Stepping Jerkily to the fire place, he thrust it into the coals. "Ah, there!” he said. “There— there!" When he turned round slowly again his face which he had never sought to control before he had his great Accident seven years ago—was un der his command. A strange. Ironic almost sardonic- smile was on his lips. 'It Is in the play," he said. “It is not in the charade. Mon sieur Barbille,” said the Man from Outside fretfully. "That is the way I read it. m’sieu’,” reatored Jean Jacques, and he made a motion to the fiddler. "The dance! The dance!” he ex claimed. But yet the looked little like a man who wished to dance, save upon a grave. "I said l was not falling in love." she persisted quietly, but with a characteristic boldness, "1 am in love.” “You are In love with him—with that interloper! Heaven of heavens, do you speak the truth? Answer, me, Zoe,” She brid'.ed. “Certainly I will an swer. Did you think 1 would let a man look at me as he did, that I would look at a man as I looked at him, that r would let him hold my hand as I did, if I did not love him? Have you ever seen me do it be fore?” Hqr voice was even and quiet— as though she had made up her mind on a course and meant to carry It through to the end. “No, I never saw you took at a man like that, and everytnmg is as you say, but”—his voice suddenly became uneven and higher pitched and a little hoarse, "but he Is Eng lish, he is an actor—only that; and he is a Protestant." “Only that?” she asked, for the tone of his voice was such as one would use in speaking of a toad or vermin, and she could not Dear It. "Is it a disgrace to be any one of those things?” “The Barbilles have been here for two hundred years; they have been French Catholics since the time of—-" he was not quite sure—"since the time of Louis XI.,’’ he added at a venture, and then paused, over come for the instant by his own rasbnese. “Yes, that is a long time,” she said, “but what difference does it make? We are just what we are now and as if there never had been a Baron of Beaugard What is there against Gerard except that he Is an actor, that he is English, and that he Is a Protestant? Is there any thing?” “Sacre, is It not enough? An actor, what Is that T to pretend to be some one else and not to be yourself!” “It would be better for a great many people to he gome one else rather than themselves-- for noth ing: and he does it for money." “For money! What money has he got? You don’t know. None of us know Besides, he's a Protestant, and he’s English, and that ends it. There never has been an English- man or a Protestant in the Barbille family, and it sha’n’t begin at the Manor Cartier.” Jean Jacques’ vtnee was rising in proportion as he perceived her ouiet determination. Here was something of the woman who had left him seven years ago -left this comfort able home to go to shamelessness of exile, and God only knew what else! Here In this very room—yes. here where they now were, father and daughter, stood husband and wife that morning when he had his hand on the lever prepared to de stroy the man who had invaded his home; who had cast a blight upon it which remained after all these years: after he had done all a man could do to keep the home and the woman too. The woman had gone; the home remained with his daugh ter in It: and now again there was a fight for home and the woman. Memory reproduced the picture of the mother standing just where the daughter now stood, Carmen quiet and well in hand, and’ himself all shaken with weakness, and with all power gone out of him, even the power which rage and a murderous soul gave. But yet this was different. There was no such shame here as had fallen on him seven years ago. But there was a shame after Us kind In his daughter being willing to give herself to a Protestant, an English man and a vagabond mummer; and if it were not averted there was the end of the t»me, of the prestige, the pride and the hope of “M sleu’ Jean Jacques, philosopher." "What shall not begin here at the Manor Cartier?" she asked with burning cheek. "The shame — it shall not begin here." "What shame, father?” "Of marriage with a Protestant and an actor." “You will not let me marry him?” she persisted stubbornly. Her words seemed to shake hfn- all to pieces, it was as though he was going through that tragedy of seven years ago all over again. It had possessed him ever since me sight of Carmen’s guitar had driven him mad ^tree hours ago. He swayed to and fro, even as he did w'hen his hand left the lever and tie let the master carpenter go free. It was in deed a philosopher under troture, a spirit rocking on its ancaor. Just now she had put into words herself what he had even in his fear hoped she had not considered—marriage with the man. He did not know this daughter of his very well. There was that in her which was far beyond his ken. Thousands of miles away in Spain it had origin, and the stream of tendency came down through long generations by courses un known to him. "Marry him—you want to marry him!” he gasped. "You, my Zoe, want to marry that tramp of a Protestant!” Her eyes blazed in anger. Tramp —the man with the air of a young Alexander, with a voice like the low notes of the guitar which had gone to the flames! .Tramp! “If I love him I ought to marry him,” she answered with a kind of calmness, however, though all her body was quivering. Suddenly she came close to her father, a great sympathy welled up in her eyes, and her voice shook. "I do not want to leave you, father, and I never meant to do so. I never thought of it as possible; but now It is different. I want to say with you, but I want to go with him, too.” Presently as she seemed to weaken before him he hardened. ‘You can’t have both,” he declared angrily with as much sternness as was possible to him and with a great deal of Norman wilfulness which was not strength, "You shall not marry an actor and a Protestant. You shall not marry a man like that—never- never—never. If you do. you will never have a penny of mine, and I will—I will never” "Oh. hush—grace de Dleu, hush!" she cried. "You shall not put a curse on me, too." “What curse?" he burst forth, pas sion shaking him. You cursed my mother’s baptism It would be a curse to be told that you would see me no more, that 1 should be no more part of this home There has been enough of that curse here . . . Ah, why — why ” she added with a sudden rush of indignation, “why did you destroj the only thing I had of hers? It was all that was left—her guitar. 1 loved it so.” All at once with a cry of pain she turned and ran to the door enter lng on the staircase which led to her room. In the doorway she turned "I can’t help it. I can’t help it, father. I love him—hut I love you. too," she added. "I don’t want to go —oh, I don’t want to go! Why do you” her voice choked; she did not flush the sentence; or, If she did, he could not hear. Then she opened the door wide and disappeared into the darkness of the unlighted 6tairway, murmuring. "Pity—have Dtty for me. oh Mother of God!" Then the door closed be hind her almost with a bang. After a moment of stupefied in action Jean Jacques hurried over and threw open the door she had closed "Zoe—little Zoe come back and say good-night," he called. But she did not hear, for, with a burst ol crying, she hurried into her own room and shut and locked the door It was a pity, a measureless pity as Mary, the Mother, must have seen. If she could see mortal life at all, that Zoe did not hear him. It might have altered the future. As it was, the Devil o{ Estrangemem might well be content with his night’s work. The full instalment of this remark able story, from which the preceding excerpts were taken, will be found in full 'n the current December num ber of HEARST’S MAGAZINE. BA TRS. GABBER fell downstairs -cvs- and bit her tongue in two.” "1 feel sorry for her husband. She was a terror when she had only- one tongue." By EDWIN MARKHAM. Zona Gale’s Quaint Story. Zona Gale sends out another human book, “When I Was a Little Girl” (The Macmillan Company, $1.50), Miss Gale goes exploring back Into her memory, finding clews to childish moods and deeds, as she dramatizes events in which she and her little friends were actors. Simple events of dooryard and village street and wild- wood she sets forth with quaint ad denda of fairy tales. Zona Gale possesses not only a charming fancy, but she has also a clear, keen perception of human val ues. Innocently and incidentally she | punctures pious sophistries, as when she finds that the piteous drunkard of the village is not poor because he drinks, but that he drinks because he is poor, or as, when she thrusts at the comfortable fallacy that poverty is God-ordained, and insists that it is not God-appointed but man-permit ted. But unless you are canny you will not see these preachments that do not get into the current of the story. You will get instead only the glow of a lovely, old-fashioned narrative with old - fashioned nice - and - naughty- streaked little girls. » “Poems and Ballads.” Hermann Hagcdorn, whose poetry ha^ won him a place among young Americans of talent, issues a vol ume called “Poems and Ballads (The Macmillan Company, $1). Of the 44 short verses ten are print ed from various magazines. Mr ITagedorn has a real poetic gift. We have quoted his work before on this page. Take, for Instance, the last stanza of the poem, “Wings," in the present volume: Wings! Tn chimney and eaves What cityful grieves In pitiful murmurings? Wings! Do they seek to speak? Draw closer, my mate! They come too near. Their woe. their hate I fear! Through the night afar, they Cry, cry wild things! Wings! Who are they? Who are they? Mr. Hagedorn has a bright future. “The Desire of the Moth’ ” The chief recommendation of “The Desire of the Moth," by Maxwell Gray (D. Appleton & Co., $1.35), lies in one character, the father in the story. Ronald Leith is portrayed in this tale of London fog, Italian skies and human frailty as a character al most too patient for our wicked world. As a young man, he has the mis fortune to fall in love with a young girl of the Italian .nobility. Her fam ily objects and through treachery he is attacked and left for dead. She thinks he is dead and he thinks she j has thrown him over. Ronald mar ries a woman of his own nation, who has a disregard for the Queen’s Eng lish and a head as light as a feather. We will not go into the story in de tail. When his daughter grows to a marriageable age. he is retired by his bank on an old age pension. As a consequence, partly of his own dis like for his work and partly through an honorable effort to save a dishon orable man, that pension is as small as his position always had been. But he is able through unexpected windfalls to take his daughter to Italy and there meets with the ghosts of the past and sees his dreams come true—a generation late. This book will not make the mark that “The Silence of Dean Maitland" made. “A Modern Eve.” Will a whole-souled longing for woman suffrage come out winner or loser In a battle of the heart? In teresting question if there ever was one. And you may find one answer in "A Modern Eve," by May Edginton (Frederick A. Stokes & Co., $1.25). Perhaps every answer will not be like this one, but at any rate this one is flattering to the male. The hero Is a capable young man who has robbed a bank in Vancouver, and, having agreed to meet his broth er in a hamlet on the way to Winni peg, runs across Miss Flamartin, aged 13, with beautiful red hair, asleep on a flowery knoll with a full lunch bas ket by her side. Having eaten the lunch, he begins to admire the girl, and when she awakes and he has ipologized for his rags and dirt, he gives her a note to deliver to his brother. The young girl reads the note, learns of the robbery' and does not deliver it. Hence the story. When the heroine, now graduated from Girton, meets Mr. Bellamy again he is an actor-manager, one of the rising lights of London and much sought after. He has followed her every step unknown to her and ac tually applauds her determination to go in for the militant cause. All this time she has not the faint est Idea that he and the youth of nine years ago are the same. She goes forward ardently, even speaking in public, to the dismay of her family. Then Gibbons, a powerful newspaper proprietor, falls in love with her, only tn find she has no place In her heart for sentiment. There's a climax when Bellamy loses every cent and It turns out that Gibbons is his brother who has been hounding him for what he thought was a brutal refusal to di vide when the bank was relieved of the $10,000. It all comes out right in the end. The girl flies to Bellamy when she hears of his trouble and the undelivered note is shown to Gibbons. A good story in which love triumphs, but then the heroine is , beautiful. ., With 1 Heading of The American or Georgian With 1 Heading of The American or Georgian