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The old gentleman, fo made so pretty a picture, framed as he} was in the arched doorway, and set off1 by a natural background of varying shades of green, that his general apâ€" pearance is worth sketching as he Md. To begin with he was dressed in the fashion of the commencement Of this century, and, as has been said,I old, though it was difficult to say how old. Indeed so vigorous and comparaâ€"1 tively youthful was his hearing that he was generally taken to be considerâ€" ably under seventy but, as a. matter of fact, he was but a few years short of eighty. He was extremely tall,- over six feet. and stood upright as a lifeâ€"guardsman; indeed, his heil;ht and stately carriage would alone have made him a remarkable-looking man, had there keen nothing else unusual about him; but, as it happened. his features were as uncommon as his per- , son. They were clear-cut and cast in a noble moldi mhe nose was large: and aquiline; the chin. like his son Philip’s, square and determined; but' it was his eyes that gave a painful} faseination to his countenance. They ‘ “ere steely blue, and glittered under the pentâ€"house of his thick eyebrows, that, in striking contrast to the snowâ€" white of his hair, were black in hue, as tempered steel glitters in a. curtain- ed room. It “as those eyes, in con- junction with sundry little peculiari- ties of temper. that had earned for the old man the title of "Devil Caresfoot,"' a sobriquet in which he took peculiari pride. So pleased was he with it, in-i deed. that he caused it to be engraved: in solid oak letters an inch long upon the frame of a life-sized and life-like portrait of himself that hung over the staircase in the house. ‘ "1 am determined," he would say to! I he was 01d.‘ his son, “to be known to my posterity 9.51 was known to my contemporaries. The picture represents my person not inaccurately; from the nickname my descendants will be able to gather what the knaves and fools with whom I lived thought of my character. Ahl boy, I am wearing out; people will soon be staring at that portrait and wonâ€" dering if it was like me. In a very few years I shall no longer be 'devil," but deviled,” and he would chuckle. at his grim and illâ€"omened joke. Philip felt his father's eyes playing‘ ._upon him, and shrunk from them. His face, had at the mere thought of the consequences of his chastisement of his cousin lost the beauty and aniâ€" mation that had clothed it a minute before; now it grew leaden and hard, the good died away from it altogether. and, instead of aydung god. bright with vengeance, there was nothing but a sullen youth with dull and fright- ened eyes. To his son, as to most peo- ple who came under his influence. "Devil" Caresioot was a grave reality. Presently the picture in the doorway opened its mouth and spoke‘in a singu- larly-measured, gentle voice. ' "You will forgive me. Philip for inâ€" terrupting your tete-aâ€"tete, but may I ask what is the meaning of this?" Philip returned no answer. “Since your cousm is not in a com- municative mood, George, perhaps you Will inform me why you are lying on your fax, and groaning in that unâ€" pleasant and aggressive manner?:’ 4‘ had there keen about him; but features were as son. They were féémge lifted‘l‘his blood’stained fave from the stones, and, looking at his unglg. gyuan‘ed loudgr _t‘hu.n> ever. A- VT’Vfiéyc‘lvasâ€"Erybu, Philip, it George has fallen down and hurt, himself. or if there has been anâ€"au altercation between you!" here Gieéig'e himself got. up, amd before Phfilp could reply, address. ed himseu to his uncle. p "Sir," he said. "1 will answer for Philip;‘there has been an altercation and he in the Souffle knocked me down, and l confess." here he put his hand up to his battered face. "that 1 am sufferâ€" ing a good deal, but what 1 want to bay is, that i beg you will not blame Philip. He thought that i had wrong- ed him, and though 1 am quite innocent and could easily have cleared myself had he given me a chance, 1 must ad- mit that appearances are to a certain extent against meâ€"-â€"" "He liesl” broke in.l:‘hilip, sullenly. "You will wonder, Sir," went on the blood-stained George. 'how [allowed myself to be drawn into such a. brutal affair and one so dlSCI‘edllable to your house. 1 can only say that I am ver ysorry"â€"which indeed he wasâ€" -â€"â€"‘and that 1 should never have taken any notice of his wordsâ€"knowing how he would regret them on reflectionâ€" had he not in an unguarded moment allowed himself to taunt me with his allowed himself to taunt me with my birth. Uncle, you know the misfortune of my father's marriage. and that she was not his equal in birth, but you birth. Uncle, you know the misfortune of my father's marriage, and that she was not his equal in birth, but you know too that she was my‘muther, and 1 love her memory though I never saw her, and 1 could not bear to hear her spoken of like that. and 1 struck him. I hope that both you and he will for- give me; 1 cannot, say any more." “He lies again; he lannot speak the truth. tion' of the val ther narrative you will be SC side of. this st ther narrative nor argument. Perhaps you will be so kind as to tell me your side of this story; you know I always “35h to 124; periestly impartial." I , ' "fie lied to you this fno‘i-‘nihg about the money. 1135 true enough that. I ambled away the ten pounds at Rox- am fair, instead ‘of paying it in to the bank as you told me but be persuaded me to it, and he was to have shared the profits if we Won: I was a. black- guard. but he was a bsgger blackguard; (BY 11. R CHAPTER I.â€"â€"(Oontinued) be old gentleman, for he w: DAWN- H. RIDER HAG GARD.) 1 never saw to hear her struck him. he will for- more." rt speak the mint and- qyetx- Speech it is one that may cost him, dear. Look you here, Philip Care‘s“ foot. 1 know very well that our family has been quite as remarkable for its Vices as its virtues, but for the last two hundred and fifty years we have been gentlemen, and you are not a gentleman; we have not been thieves, and you have proved yourself a find; we have spoken the truth, and you are. what you are so fond of sailing your cousin, who is worth two of 310‘}, a liar. Now listen. However impen- ous I may have grown in my old age. I van still respect the man Who thwarts me. even though 1 hate him; but I desp}se the man who deceives me as I despisejou. my son. Phillipâ€"and I tell ’you this, and I beg you to lay it' to heart. that if ever again I find that you} have deceived met by Heaven Iwill dismherit you in favor ofâ€"oh, oh!" and the old man fell back against the gray wall, pressing his hands to his reast, and with the cold parapiration starting on his palm-countenance: ing the fair, your cousin George came' to the bank with ten pounds, and told] him how you had spent the ten pounds I gave you to pay in, and that he brought the money .his own savings, to replace what yqu had gambled away; and Bellamy added that, under all the circumstances he did not. be] justiifed in placing it to my Cfldlt. “'lmt have you to say _to that?" to know hi mto be such a brute, an to know him to be such a. brute. an a bearer of false witness, such an i poster as you are. Do you know t} 1 have just seen Mr. Bellamy, the be clerk at the bank and inquired if knew anything of what happened abc that ten pounds, and do you knl what he told me?" I "No. I don’t, and I don‘t want t: "But, .I really must hag your_a§_t( "What have 1 to say that I don't bel If George had mean‘ turn he would have and said nothing * it. Why won't you. more, father? l to are turning me into yeing gwisted ‘up_ fine but indee tion of v him. I a ward evi pion; he told me mgwthe~ fair, yqur I am obliged to-lie my of ruin. 1 know what he «ants to work yon. out of the proyerty w mine by right. He k1 I thrash‘e it." “There is to continue tering eye anchuly for nessesâ€"” "My weaknesses es!" thundered 111.5 gold-headed cane "what do you mea "Hush. uncle, l broke ‘Vfiorthcthé’laa-éi sy‘i‘hngI forwérd, but before the reached him he had recover- ed himsel . “It is nothing," he said, in his qrâ€" dinary gentle voice, "a trifling indls- position. I wish you both good-morpâ€" Ing,da11d beg you to hear my words 111 mm When- he was fairly gone, .George came up to his cousin and 11nd 1115 han_(_i_rupon his arm: ' “th do you insist upon quarreling with me. Philip? it always ends like this. ygq‘always get the worsp of‘ HE." But, Philip's only reply was to shake him roughly of! and to vanish through the door toward the lake. George re- garded his departing form with a. pecu- liar smile, which was rendered even more peculiar by the distortion of his more peculiar b) swelled features it is gjiiicul to imagine any.study that would pi= ve more fasvinating in itself or more instructing in its issues. than the examination of the leading characteristics ol~ individual families as displayed through a series of gener- ations. But it is a subject that from its very nature is more or less unap- proachable, since it is ‘out little that we know even of our immediate ancesâ€" tors. Occasionally in glancing at the‘ cracking squares of canvas, many Ofl which cannot even boast a name, but‘ which alone remain to speak of the. real and active life, the joys and griefs, the sins and virtues that centered in the originals of those hard daubs and oil ourselves, we may light upon a face that about six generations since was the counterpart of the little boy upon our shoulder. or the daughter standâ€" ing at our side. In the same way, loo, paitly through tradition, and partly by other means, we are sometimes able to trace in ourselves and in our chilâ€" dren the strong development of charâ€" acteristics that distinguished the rare centuries ago. If local tradition and such records of their individual lives as remained are worthy of any faith, it is beyond a doubt that the Caresfoots of Bratharn Abbey had handed doun their own hard and peculiar cast of character from l'a- ther to son. unaffected in the main by the continual introduction of alien b ood on the side ot the mother. The history of the (‘aresfoot family had nothing remarkable about it. They had been yeomen at Brathain from time immeinorialâ€"perhaps ever since the village had become a geographical (at; but it “as on the dissolution of the monasteries that they first became of any importance to the county. lira- t.th Abbey, which had shared the common fate, was granted by Henry .VIlI. to a certain courtier, Sir Charles Varry by name. for two years the owner never came near his new pos- session but one day he appeared in the village. and riding to the house .nf l-‘m-nwr (‘aresfoot which was its session but one day he appeared in the village, and riding to the house of Farmer (‘aresfoot, which was its most respectable tenement, he begged hMI to show him the Abbey house 39"! 3‘1? 19.319; ggtgclgsé H mm a, Hark Nommhor afternoon, and by the time the (armer and his wearied guest had crossed the soaked lands and reachâ€" ed the great gray house. the damps and shade-“s of the night had begun to curtain it and to render its appearâ€" ance forsaken, as it were, inexpreasibly dreary and lonesome. kc in George. Meant inotbing 1 9011 evnde am sorry 5d he is 1 vbat too don’t, and I don really must hag told me that. the at took 1d. if nec aveâ€"«Mr. ; no need no need, George, Ior ‘ and then, fixing his n Philip; "It is very me. having only one Into be such a brute, 1 to be such a. brute. {also witness, such at u are. Do you know aeen Mr. Bellamy, the ‘ bank andAinquired CHEAPTLEB. II to my? 1 mm to believe a word oi it. leant h '10 me a. good ave paid che money in ‘g h Beilamy about you rust me 0» Iitfie tell you that you nto a Scoundrel. lam- infic o. *xetr of lies till ,ie myself to keenvlear whal this sneak Is at; 1; you nto cutting me arty which should be He knows your weakâ€" to contradict 1’1111: m error; the recolle 3k place has escape necessary, bring to an féiherfistriking his uto the stones; §ir,â€"my .Weakuess’ Then for an idle ‘. mav cost him. )y that?” ' meant nothing amy my, the???“ . on it. and taken me omor 01 m1 qured If he and my stubby growth therefro lpened a'bO‘Jt'I will give youâ€"â€"-â€"” and this a you knowjof all the (‘aresfoots whispered " small sum into Sir Charles’ ear 11 Want tO- "Your price is vary small. Your atten- friend; it doth almost vanish int day follow- in; and methixiks the land tha ame and And Lll a} for you such such lit at friend; it doth almost vanish into ing; and methinks the land that ed you cannot be so unkind as would have me think. The men] not love bad land, but yet, if hast it in the gold, I will take‘i chiseg of treasure-trove and deodand. and more than a thousand acres of the best. land in Marlsbire. The same astuteness that had en- able d this wise projenitor to ac.- qfuire the estate enabled his desrendants to stick tightly to it and thm‘gh, like other families, they had aL ..lmes met with reverses, they never lost iheir‘ grip of the Abbey property, During the cqurse of the half.of the the pla'ce practice of nl'wa income; and sec late in middle the heiress of worth estatz, (,1 two thousands I‘amiuy that had disturbed him 110‘ a kibble. ; His father had left; mo sons, 111111.59” and a brother many years his junior- va this brother was very dear fio Mr. Caresfoot; his affection for him was the one weak: point. in his armqr; nor was it rendered any lhe 1955 .Sm' cere. but rather the more touching by the fact that its object was httle better than hairf-witted. It is thereâ€" fore easg to imagine his distress and anger when he heard that a woman who had ti'ifl shortly before been kitchâ€" en-maid at the Abbey House. and “as 13mv_lxivi_ng in the village. hag, be?“ Con' “Fed Of a sun whichqshe fixed upon hrs brother. whose wife she declared herselI to “be. Investigation only brought- 0'ut the truth of the story; his weak-minded brother had been enâ€" tFlipped into a g‘l‘aring mesalliance. But Mr. Caresfoot proved himself equal to the occasion. .80 soon as ins :‘SiSterâ€"in-law,“ as he plquefl It? ml! But Mr. Care§foot proved himself equal to the Occasion. .80 soon as his “sisterâ€"in-law,“ as he pleased to vull her sardonical'ly had sufficiently reâ€" covered, he cabled upon her. ‘\\'hut took place at the visit never transpired, but next day Mrs. E. (‘urcsfoot left her native p‘lace never to return, the child remaining with the father, or rather with the uni-lie. That boy was George. At the time: when this story Opens both his parents wore dead; his father from i’lllneiss resulting from enâ€" tire failure of brain power. the mother from drink, ill Whether it was that he vousidered that the circumstance of the [ad’s birth entitled him to peculiar Comiderution or that he transferred to him the afâ€" fection he bore his father. the result was that his nephew was quite as dear if not even dearer to Mr. (‘aresfoot than his own son. Not, ho“ ever. that he allowed his preference to be apâ€" parent, save in the negative way that he was blind. to faults in George that he was sufficiently quick to note in Philip. To observers this parlizllity seemed the more strange when they thought upon Phill'ip's bonny face and form, and then noted how the weakâ€" brained father and coarse-blooded moâ€" ther had left their mark in George’s thick lips, small, restless eyesfpallid mrgplexign. a}nd_looseâ€"jointed form. \Vhen Philip shook off his COUSIII'S grasp and vanished toward the lake, he did so with bitter wrath and hatred in his heart. for he saw but too clearly that he had deepliy iinjured himself in his father's estimation, and, what was more, he felt that so much as he sunk his; side of the balance ,by so much he had raised up that of George. He was incuflpatexi; a Bellamy came upâ€" on the scene to save George. and, what was worse, an m‘trulhfuii Bellamy; he was the aggressor. and George the meek in gpjri} with the soft answer that turneth away wrath. It was inâ€" tolerable; he hated his father, he hated Geor c. There was no justice in the worfd, and he had not wit: to play rogue with such a. one as his cousin). Appearances were always against him; he hated everybody. in the worm, and he had not wit: to play rogue with such a. one as his cousim. Appearanoas were always against him; he hated ever body. And then he began to ink that 11' n was splashing. You are right 1t be." hen the \l to Fun awful own its two ad‘ tly an off -, is you may Iunks is on it we a mind to ave a little Ia for the land, 1 1 taken the co an we 3.1] tEey do say that full of the spirips zone a Zleht burden firmer ittle laid by and anat- : land, havin been bred ‘ the color my mind, growth therefrom, and â€"â€"-â€"” and this astutest may see himself and mut lieve it," and the) r two, and I of the land.‘ Zaxnsfoot bel' Bratham At ms, its royal f (we and deed |sand acres of p shuddgr Into whxc‘ It nk his hat Ill. 1‘“ and The d as you monks did t, if thou ake it; it and I care the house the 01d doth what curse good noth- rear RD- I germ: H6 1 had} Moo, London. Tamra was a. miniature line of rails raised at one end to the height of nine Ieet, while an the other was a, box in which w‘wa contained the imventor’s mechanism. That. box was a, mystery. Everybody wanted to know, but nobody was permitted to obtain the slightest, inkling about its 'contents. When Mr. de Kolta. was not stand- ing by the side of it, then two young ladies watched aver it, with jealous Ail Engllshnmn‘s Invention to Save Llfe In Runway Colllsloml. A party of ladies and gentlemen were anited recently to witness how it is possible to obviate loss of life: in a railway accident. The inventor of the apparatus is Mr J. B. de Kolta. The demonsuuion took place at the Wmeering works oi Messrs. G. Smith & (3b., Commercial road, Pim- lloo, London. Tmu‘e was a. miniature 1n care mg toseewasa. hug piece down tb t.th at t lad ney their 1 Mr. I Mr. ue Kolta smiled blandly and ap- peared perfectly satisfied with the re- sults of the experiments, the specta- tors gave expression to their feelings Ln appreciative outbursts of applause, and all that now remains for Mr. de Kolta‘ to do is to mke out his patent, and, if possible, induce the railway companies to adopt it. Then, if there are any more railway acci~ dentsâ€"well, according to Mnde Kolta, there should 'be no more 1055 of1 life, if his box of mystery is affixed to the carriages. lnteresllnz AuldreSs Before the British Association By Prof. Roberts Austen. Prof. Roberts Austen, director of the British Mint, delivered an address In Toronto on Friday evening before the British Association, on "Canada's Met» alls.” Sir John Evans presided. Nob-l ing that the strength of a. nation de- pends largely on its metals, Prof. Rob- l erts Amwn considered that in the near tuture the Mother Country would turn to her eldest daughter, the one who is nearest home for the supply of these metals ugporn whixh the material welâ€" fare and industrial progress of the Empire depend. Canada’s prinmpal metals he described to be gold, silver. nickle, copper, lead and iron. There Is also manganese. chromium, antimony- mercury and zinc. besides platinum and rarer metals such as molybdenum. He dealzt with the distribution of gold in Nova Scotia, British Columbia. and Onâ€" tario. noting that since the Montreal meetin of the association! in 1884, the minera‘ prodmtts oi ilk! Dominion had doubled. Among the reasons which he assigned for the slow development of the mines of Canada were the Hudson’s Bay Company’s cultivation of the fur trade, rather than mlnes, l‘Tnglishlack of acquaintance \V‘llh the Canadian cliiinate, while another reason was that favorath sitiuiled for ’water transit. as Canada is by her magnificent network of lakes and rivers, it was not until the continent. was traversed from. ocean to and steel production and expres‘: opinion that the prospects for u in Canada are bright. By :L 59] experiments he then showed how enables steel in resist shot. m [urged on tha great value of ('u nickle deposits in View of this. Hr, concluded by expressing the that our metafl and: our men w able ‘us to maintain our empire Mr. De Richâ€"I must buv a $500 harp for my daughter. must, i? She's got a regular music store on band now; first a piapo. then EL. pipe; organ, fheu first a, piano, then a pipe organ, then a banjo, then a violin, then a. guitar, then a. ziiher, next a mandolin, and dear knows w’hat else: and now she wants a harp. Has she mastered a single one of the instruments already pufir‘chased’t . . A.- . ,, L 1114... Mrs. De Richâ€"Of course not. How col-d she? She no sooner gets a new instrument tuned up and ready t( start when away it goes out of fashion Jinks, at a meetingâ€"That man you asked about is not) a delegate. Hb in a. repormr. ( B-lmksâ€"Umâ€"hie must a_4 new ‘1_na.n q-.. 7 _., Yas. Eww did you know? 011, he has a sum of a solid, prosper 01b. moneyed Mt. ' my, boldly sun Lfâ€"paat he 0p: n‘t he empty as he] piece of woo 1 the anl‘in‘ at the box e effort as First th whom he RLAPIDI M’t 'SICAL PROG 5 legs had been w 3 very near the Hartlth at its JUST BEGINNING A CAREE ster asks. e Kolta perfch trip, and a; demonstrati short jourm to do is to and, if possib those present were permitted as a trolley with a. project- : of wood in front, starting 9 anline and running full 110 box wntnuut any, appre- Efort as a result. of the im- 9‘Lrst the trolley was start- Ly, then one of the young ett her post by the Side- of d'the str tdl'd bin: BOX 0F MYSTERY. CANADA’S METALS. J ust yâ€"hox ind After this a we of ‘the time rang the; bell. be Continued.) smiled blandly and y satisfied with the xpgriment; trhe Vspgx 9.1118 my next parish not hate, but w starting in journadism, tha sled nun, mm was an; to his troubles, aware of the fact 1 had been think- walking. and that )he abode of that gates, in short. at his watch; “5 uast eleven, the mad succeeded in ,vin‘g landed on lent of both the two in the course not. How sooner gets a new up and flatly. ta knuckles; but it, was about ) early to call. 1nd, advancing has toasquare time of Queen mde journalist able finish gentlemen trolley on BESS ho, on jour- ill .141. 1101 THE AMMUNITION FOR GUNS COULD NOT BE CARRIED. Ten Days’ Supply Weighs 18,000 Tons, and 90-15 $89,400.000â€"J‘o Transport it Would Require 16,500 “’nguns, 66.000 llorscl, 30.000 Teamsters and a. Guard 0! 50.000 Men. MODERN ARMY AND WAR. The modern army is much in the position of the Knights of Eoissan’s time. .They were loaded down with armor; it is hampered by its enorâ€" mous ammunition Lruins, made neces- sary by the magazine rifles. The knight did not dare desert the solid ground of the high road; the ammy of today cannot. leave the railroad to strike amass counLry, for it cannot carry. with it sufficient ammunition, let alone supplies. Even a. superficial analys sis of modern military conditions will convince k the observer that the modem army as an instrument of war will prove but a. clumsy tool In View of the numbers of men either under arms or ready at. call in Europe. it is reasonable to expect that unmies of 200,000 or more men ewh‘ would face each other should. war break out be- tween two (great powers. In battle, under new conditions, not more than half of eanh army would be actively engaged, say 100,000 on each sideâ€"200,- 000 in] all. This numbecr in a. strug- gle lasting two days woqu probably be so shifted in and out of action, and lessened by death, desertion and wounds, thaL the average of steady firing for each man of the original number would not be more than four, hours. lilaguz'me rifles, such as the Lebel. of France; Mannliaher, of Get-- my and Austria, and the {Lee-Met- ford, of England, can be fired at the rate of ' . THIRTY SHOTS A MINUTE, but, allowing for the clumsiness and nervousness of the soldiers; disabled guns, em, lvn shots 3. minute in bat- tle is all that military experts look for. Thus, with 200,000 men engaged. 2,000,000 cartridges "would be used ev- ery minute, at a. cost of $600001 In two days’ fighting, assuming that the estimate of four hours’ steady Kir- ing is correct, 480,000,000 cartridges u ould be used. They would Weigh 12,- 000 tons and cost $14,400,000. ; With each army there would be at a. low estiizuzite three hundred of the new highâ€"power, breech-loading can- non, which even in the stress of a. brisk artillery d/u‘el can be fired three times a. minute. Assuming that artilâ€" lery will be as much used as infantry, four hours’ continuous firing would ei- hause 4,320,000 rounds of ammunition weighing 3,592 tons and costing 53,- 888,000 The two armies would cou- sume in one pitched battle 15,592 tons of ammunition, costing $17,888,000. The cost, however, is not the greatest probâ€" lem. How are Lhese thousands of tons of cartridges to be brought to the armies and distrbbmted to the men? guns, etc, ten shots tle is all that mirli for. Thus, with 20[ 2.000.000 cartridfles ' 1L is self-evident that if there is to be war there must be invasion, unlesg two armiiw are to take their stand each on its own frontier and fire over the boundary line. The invader is the war-maker, and. the conditions which confront him are the conditions ofi the war. He must, of course, tux-ks his amâ€" munition with him, but how? No Gen- eral would dream of entering an enâ€" emy's country with less than ten days' supply, which would weigh 78,000 tons and cost $89,400,000, «If hieiézua u'zse {he-railroads of the in- vader’s country would serve his purpose, but as he would undoubtedly find bridges blown up and rails_twi§ted or»carr1‘ed awgy so as to make the road useless, he would have to use wagons. Of these, even if they carried {our ions each, ho would need 16,500, which would reach in a. straight line ninety miles and re- quire 50,000 men at least as a. .guard, not to mention 20,000 or so teamsters, helpers, etc. No army so hampered could be effective against an active enemy, even if it were feasible to use such a number of wagons, or» possible to provide forage for Lhe.66,000 animals required to horse them. Magazine rifles use enormous quan- tities of ammunition; very well, the problem, then, is how to make your enemy exhaust. his while you keep your own supply replenished. And this brings up another problem. As 150 cartridges weigh about eight pounds, it will not be feasible for men to curry more than that number. Fif- let-n minutes’ firing exhausts the supply. "_l."went.y-four times during a. hulile would the infantry need fresh zliiimuniiion, and the artillery even oflenwr. How are they; to get. it]. ofLenm‘. HOW are they to 11 is the old story of t‘] smothered in his own armor Kind. Ladyâ€"1 suppose of hardships? Trampâ€"Indeed. it winter w'en (he {arme thin' but eatin’ apsz cider. ii’s too (:0ch for 1 in th' summer we’re Elk work. watchâ€"Met goodâ€"by, de m but: an Fl First Young on,â€"\Vh[:t ti Secomd Yorun HURRIEiD FAREW’ELI Merv y sticky 7b0 FREIGHT CABS IN HALRD LUCK GEN EROUSI bite (31'; y l‘h‘a Lrb; kiss me While mum. In (h’ s is (loin‘ no- un' drinkin' to tramp; nn' 3 heen‘ oifered our lot is full the“ knight