SEMA - A
————— i ——— i
EE
SYNOPSIS
CHAPTER I.—Gabriel Warden, Seattle
. capitalist, tells his butler he is expecting
& caller, to be admitted without question.
He informs his wife of danger that
threatens hith if he pursues a course he
considers the only honorable one. War-
den leaves the house in his car and meets
% man whom he takes into the machine.
en the car returns home, Warden is
found dead, murdered, and alone. The
caller, a young man, has been at War-
den’s house, but leaves unobserved
CHAPTER IL.—Bob Connery, covductor,
receives orders to hold train for a party
Five men and a girl board the train
The father of the girl, Mr. Dorne, is the
Posen for whom the train was held
hilip D. Eaton, a young man, also
boarded the train. Dorne tells his dauglh-
ter and his secretary, Don Avery, to find
out what they can concerning him.
CHAPTER IIl.—The two make Eaton’s
acquaintance. The train is stopped by
snowdrifts.
CHAPTER IV.—Eaton receives a tele-
gram addressed to Lawrence Hillwara,
which he claims. It warns him he is
being followed. :
CHAPTER V.—Passing through the car,
Connery notices Dorne’s hand hanging
outsidef the berth. He ascertains Dorne’s
has recently rung. Perturbed, he
vestigates and finds Dorne with his
skull crushed. He calls a surgeon, Dr
8inclair, on the train.
CHAPTER VI.—Sinclair recognizes the
injured man as Basil Santolne, who, al-
ough blind, is a peculiar power in the
ancial world as adviser to “big inter-
ests.” His recovery is a matter of doubt
CHAPTER VIIIL.—Eaton is practically
placed under arrest. He refuses to make
explanations as to his previous move-
ments before boarding the train, but
@dmits he was the. man who called on
arden the night the financier was mur-
ed,
CHAPTER IX.—Eaton pleads with Har-
Flor Santoine to withhold judgment, tell-
g her he is in serious danger, t ough
Front of the crime against her father.
feels the girl believes him,
CHAPTER X.—Santoine recovers suffi-
elently to question Eaton, who refuses
to reveal his identity. The financier re-
obese aton to accompany him to the
ntoine home, where he is in the posi-
tion of a semi-prisoner.
CHAPTER XI.—Eaton meets a resident
of the house, Wallace Blatchford, and a
young girl, Mildred Davis, with whom
apparently he is acquainted, though they
<onceal the fact. KEaton’s mission is to
@ecure certain documents which are vital
w his interests, and his being admitted
to the house is a remarkable stroke of
luck. The girl agrees to aid him. He
becomes deeply interested in Harriet San-
toine, and she in him.
CHAPTER XII.—Harrlet tells Eaton she
and Donald Avery act as “eyes” to San-
toine, reading to him the documents on
which he bases his judgments. While
walking with her, two men in an auto-
mobile deliberately attempt to run Eaton
down. He escapes with slight injuries.
The girl recognizes one of the men as
having been on the train on which they
came from Seattle.
CHAPTER XIIl.—Santoine questions
Eaton closely, but the latter is reticent.
The blind man tells him he is convinced
the attack made on him on the train was
the result of an error, the attacker hav-
ing planned to kill Eaton. Santoine tells
Harriet she is to take charge of certain
papers connected with the *“Latron prop-
erties,” which had hitherto been in
Avery's charge.
CHAPTER XIV.—Avery seeks to influ-
ence Harriet, as his wife to be, to give
the papers to him. She refuses. Harriet
is beginning to feel that her love belongs
to Eaton.
(Continued from last week).
He thanked her and withdrew. He
did not look back as Miss Davis closed
the door behind him; their eyes had
not met; but he understood that she
had comprehended him fully. Today
he would be away from the Santoine
house, and away from the guards who
watched him, for at least four hours,
under no closer espionage than that of
Avery; this offered opportunity—the
first opportunity he had had—for com-
munication between him and his
friends outside the house.
He went to his room and made
some slight changes in his dress; he
came down then to the library, found
a book and settled himself to read.
Toward noon Avery looked in on him
there and rather constrainedly prof-
fered his invitation. Eaton accepted,
and after Avery had gone to get ready,
Eaton put away his book. Fifteen
minutes later, hearing Avery's motor
purring outside, Eaton went into the
hall; a servant brought his coat and:
hat, and taking them, he went out to
the motor. Avery sppeared a moment
later, with Harriet Santoine.
She stood lookirg after them as
they spun down the curving drive and
onto the pike outside the grounds;
then she went back to the study. She
dismissed Miss Davis for the day, and
taking the typewritten sheets and
some other papers her father had
asked to have read to him, she went
up to him,
Basil Santoine was alone and awake.
“What have you, Harriet?’ he asked.
She sat down and glancing through
the papers in her hand, gave him the
subject of each; then at his direction
she began to read them aloud. As
she finished the third page, he inter.
rupted her.
“Has Avery taken Eaton to the
country club as I ordered?”
“Yes.”
“I shall want you to go out there
In the afternoon; I would trust your
observation more than Avery's to de-
termine whether Erton has been used
*9 such surroundings.”
©he read another page, then broke
off suddenly.
“Has Donald asked you anything
today, Father?”
“In regard to what?”
“I thought last night he seemed dige
The
BLIND MAN'S,
EYES
WILLIAM MACHARGEDWIN BALMER.
[Mustrations by R.H.Livingstone
COPYRIGHT BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
turbed about my relieving him of part
of his work.”
“Disturbed? In what way?”
She hesitated. unable to define even
to herself the impression Avery's man-
ner had made on her. “I understood
he was going to ask you to leave it
still in. his hands.”
“He has not done so yet."
“Then probably I was mistaken.”
She read again for half an hour
after luncheon, finishing the pages she
had brought.
“Now. you'd better go to the club,”
the blind man directed.
She put the reports and letters
away in the safe in the room below,
and going to her own apartments, she
i dressed carefully for the afternoon.
As she drove down the road. she
passed the scene of the attempt hy
the men in the motor to run Eaton
down. The iIndefiniteness of ler
knowledge by whom or why the attack
nad been made only made it seem
more terrible to hei. Unquestionahiy
he was in constant danger of its repe-
tition, and especialy when—as to-
day—he was outside her father's
grounds. Instinctivelv she hurried
her horse. She stopped at the clun-
house only to make certain that Mr.
avery and Lis guest were not there;
-hien she drove on to the polo field.
As she approached, she recogn'.:d !
avery's lithe, alert figure on one of
the ponies; with .a deft, quick stuyg.e
As She Approached She Recognized
Avery's Lithe, Alert Figure on One
of the Ponies. f
he cleared the ball from before rhe
feet of an opponent's pony, then he
looked up and nodded to her. Harriet
drove up and stopped beside the bar
rier; people hailed her from all sines.
and for a moment the practice wis
stopped as the players trotted over to
speak to her. Then play began again.
and she had the opportunity to look :
for Eaton. Her father, she knew, had
instructed Avery that Eaton was to be
introduced as his guest; but Avery
evidently had either carried out these
instructions in a purely mechanical
manner or had not wished Eaton tc
be with others unless he himself was
by; for Harriet discovered Eaton
standing off by himself. She waited
till he looked toward her, then sig
naled him to come over. She got
down, and they stood together follow-
ing the play. !
“You know polo?’ she questioned
him, as she saw the expression of
appreciation in his face as a player
daringly “rode-off” an antagonist and
saved a “cross.” She put the ques
tion without thought before she rec
ognized that she was obeying her fa
ther’s instructions.
“T understand the game somewhat,”
Eaton replied.
“Have you ever played?”
“It seems to deserve its reputation
as the summit of sport,” he replied.
He answered so easily that she
could not decide whether he was evad
ing or not; and somehow, just then
she found it impossible to pug the
simple question direct again.
“Good! Good, Don!” she cried en
thusiastically and clapped her hands
as Avery suddenly raced before them
caught the ball with a swinging, back.
handed stroke and drove it directly
toward his opponent’s goal. Instantly
whirling his mount, Avery raced away
after the ball, and with another clean
stroke scored a goal. Everyone about
cried out in approbation.
“He's very quick and clever, isn’t
he?” Harriet said to Eaton.
Eaton nodded. “Yes; he's by all
odds the most skillful man on the
field, I should say.”
The generosity of the praise im-
welled the girl, somehow, to qualify it,
: reaiily have
played much—that man and that.”
“Yes, I picked them as the experi.
enced ones,” Eaton said quietly.
“The others—two of them, at least—
are out for the first time, T think.”
AslL kia Lav Olle
! not upon the ball or the play; in-:
They watched the rapid course of
the ball up and down the field, the
scurry and scamper of the ponies
after it, then the clash of a melee,
Two ponies went down, and their
riders were flung. When they arose,
one of the least experienced boys
limped apologetically from the field.
Avery rode to the barrier.
“I say, any of you fellows, don’t you
want to try it? We're just getting
warnied up.”
Avery looked over to Eaton and
gave the challenge direct,
~ “Care to take a chance?”
Harriet Santoine watched her m-
panion: a sudden flush had come to
his face, which vanished, as she
turned, and left him almost pale; hut
his eyes glowed. Avery's manner in
challenging him, as though he mus?
refuse from fear of such a fall as he
Just had witnessed, was not enough
to explain Eaton's start.
“How can I?” he returned.
“If you want to play. You can.”
Avery dared him. “Furden—rhat
was the boy whe had just been hurt—
“will lend you some things; his jus:
about fit you; and you can have his
mounts.”
Harriet continued to watch Eaton:
the challenge had been put so as to
give him no groand for refusal
timidity.
hpi
“You don’t care to?’ Avery taunte:! |
him deftly,
“Why. don’t’ vou try 1?”
found herself saying to him,
He hesitated. She reaiized it wav
not timidity he was feeling; it was
something deeper and stronzer than
that. Tt was fear; but so plainly i
was not fear of bodily hurt that she
moved instinctively toward him in
sympathy, He looked swiftly gt
Avery, then at her. then away, He
seemed to fear alike accepting or re-
fusing to play: sudden: he made 3
decision.
“I'I} play.”
He started instanucly away to the
Harvie
dressing rooms: a few minutes later,
when ne rode onto che aele. Harriet
was conscious tbat. in some way, ki
ton was playing a parr as he listened
to Avery's directions,
Avery appointed himself to oppose
Eaton wherever possibie, besting nun
in every contest for the bail; but she
saw that Donald, though he took it
upon himself to show alli the other
players where they made their mis-
takes, did not offer any instruction to
Eaton. One of the players drove the
ball close to the barrier directly be-
fore Harriet; Eaton and Avery raced
for it, neck by neck. Eaton by better
riding gained a Mttle; as they came
up, she saw Donald's attention was
: stead, he was watching Eaton closely.
And she realized suddenly that Don-
ald had appreciated as fully as her-
| pretense.
self that Eaton's clumsiness was a
It was no longer merely
polo the two were playing; Donald.
suspecting or perhaps even certain
that Eaton knew the game, was try-
ing to make him show it, and Eatdn
was watchfully avoiding ¢,,s. Just in
front of her, Donald, leaning forward,
swept the ball fom in front of Ka-
ton’s pony's feet.
For 4 few moments the play was ali
at the further edge of the field; then
the ball crossed with a long curving
shot and came hopping and rolling
along the ground close to where she
stood. Donald and Eaton raced for it.
“Stedman!” Avery called to a team-
mate to prepare to receive the ball
after he had struck it; and he lifted
his mallet to drive the ball away from
in front of Eaton. But as Avery's
club was coming down, Eaton, like a
flash and apparently without lifting
his mallet at all, caught the ball a
sharp, smacking stroke, It leaped like
a bullet, straight and true, toward the
goal, and before Avery could turn, Eu-
ton was after it and upon it, but he
did not have to strike again; it bound-
ed on and en between the goal-posts,
while together with the applause for
the stranger arose a laugh at the ex-
pense of Avery. But as Donald halted
before her, Harriet saw that he was
not angry or discomfited, but was
smiling triumphantly to himself; and
as she called in praise to Eaton when
he came close again, she discovered
In him only dismay at what he had
done.
The practice ended, and the players
rode away. She waited in the club-
house till Avery and Eaton came up
from the dressing rooms. Donald's
triumphant satisfaction seemed to
have increased; Eaton was silent and
preoccupied. Avery, hailed by a group
of men, started away; as he did S0,
he saluted Eaton almost derisively.
Eaton's return of the salute was open-
ly hostile. She looked up at him
keenly, trying unavailingly to deter-
mine whether more had taken place
between the two men than she herself
had witnessed.
“You had played polo before—and
played it well,” she charged. “Why
did you want to pretend you hadn't?”
He made no reply. As she began to
talk of other things, she discovered
with surprise that his manner toward
her had taken on even greater formal-
ity and constraint than it had had
since his talk with her father the day
before,
The afternoon was not warm enough
to sit outside; in the club house were
gathered groups of men and girls
who had come in from the golf course
or from watching the polo practice, |
She found herself now facing one of
these groups composed of some of her
edn friends, who were taking tea and
wafers in the recess before some win-
dows. They motioned to her to Join
them, and she could not well refuse,
especially as this had been a part of
her father’s instructions. The men
rose, as she moved toward them, Ea-
ton with her; she introduced Eaton;
a chair was pushed forward for her,
and two of the girls made a place for
Eaton on the window seat between
them,
As they seated themselves and were |
served, Katon’s participation in the
polo practice was the subject of con-
versation.
general conversation which Eaton had
Joined.
had accepted him as one of their own
sort to the point of jesting with him
She found, as she tried to |
talk with her nearer neighbors, that
she was listening instead to this more |
She saw that these people |
about his “lucky” polo stroke for a |
beginner;
his manner toward them |
was very different from what it bad |
heen just now to herself; he seemad
at ease and unembarrassed with them.
One or two of the girls appeared to
have been eager—even anxious—to
meet him; and she found herself od Ny
resenting the attitude of these girls.
Her feeling was indefinite, vague: it |
made her flush and. grow uncomfort- ;
able; to recognize dimly that there |
was in it some sense of a proprietor- !
ship of her own in him which took
alarm at seeing other girls attracted]
hy him: but underneath it was her un-
easiness at his new manner to herself,
which hurt because she could not GX-
pinin it. As the party finished their
tea, she looked across to him.
“Are you ready to go, Mr. Bat:n®”
she asked,
“Whenever Mr. Avery is ready.”
“You needn't wait for him upiess
vou wish; I'tl drive you hack” she
offered.
“Of course I'd preter that, Miss Sap.
roine.”
They went out to her trap, feavino
Donald te motor back alone. As soon
she had driven out of the club
grounds. she ot the horse take its
own gait, and she turned and faecard
him.
“Will you tell me.” she demanded.
“what have I done this afternoon to
make vou class me among those wha
oppose you?”
“What huve you done?
Miss Santoine.”
as
Nothwg,
“But you are clagsing wae 0 now”
“Oh, no.” he dexied so unconvine
Ingly that she felt he was only put-
fing her off,
Harriet Santoinz knew that what
had attracted her friends to Blatep
SN
=
a
Sg
ee
“Jou Needn’t Wait for Him Unless
You Wish; I'll Drive You Back,”
She Offered.
was their recognition of his likeness
to themselves; but what had im-
vressed her in seeing him with them
was his difference. Was it some mem-
ery of his former life that seeing
these people had recalled to him,
which had affected his manner toward
her?
Again she looked at him.
“Were you sorry to leave the club?’
she asked.
“I was quite ready to leave,” he
answered inattentively.
“It must have been pleasant to you,
|
' of the day.
which had all but placed her hand
on his.
“Will you tell me something, Miss
Santoine?” he asked suddenly,
“What?”
“I suppose, when I was with Mr, |
Avery this afternoon, that if I had |
attempted to escape, he and the chauf-
feur would have combined to detain
me. Dut on the way back here—aid
you assume that when you took me
in charge you had my parole not to |
try to depart?”
She was silent
thoughtful.
for a
the possibilities of escape?”
“It would be only natural tor me to
do that would it not?’ he parried
*No.”’
“Wny noc?”
“T don’t mean that you unght not wy |
to exceed the limits Father has set for
you; you might try that, and of course
you would be prevented. But you will
not” (she hesitated, and when sha
went on she was quoting her father)
“—sacrifice your position here.”
“Why not?”
“Because you tried to gain it—op—
it not exactly that, at least you ha
some object in wanting to be
Father which you have not yet gained.”
She hesitated once more, not looking
What it was that had hap. !
pened during the afternoon she conld |
at him.
not make out; instinctively, however,
she felt that it had so altered Eaton's
velations with them that now he might
attempt to escape,
They had reached the front of the
house, and a groom sprang to take the
horse. She let Eaton help her down:
as they entered the house, Avery---
who had reached the house only a fou
woments before them—was still ip
the hall. And again she was startle
n the meeting of the two men hy
Avery's triumph and the swift flare
of defiance op Eaton's face.
She changed from uer afrernou.
arass slowly. As she Aid so. she
orought swiftly in review the events
Chiefly it was to the polo
practice and to Eaton's dismay sat
+ his one remarkable stroke that her
mind went. Had Donald recognized
in Eaton something more than merely
a good player trying to pretend igno-
rauce of the game? The thought sud-
denly checked and startled her. For
how many great polo players were
: there in America? Were there a hun-
dred?
Fifty? Twenty-five? She did
not know ; but she did know that there
were so few of them that their names
and many of the particulars of their
| lives were known to every follower of
the sport.
She halted suddenly in her dressing,
perplexed and troubled. Her father
had sent Eaton to the country club
with Avery; there Avery, plainly, had
forced Eaton into the polo game. By
ner father's instructions? Clearly
, there seemed to have been purpose in
‘what had
ben done, and purpose
which had not been confided to her-
self either by her father or Avery.
For how could they have suspected
Eaton would betray himself in the
© game unless they had also suspected
that he had played polo before? To
suspect that, they must at least have
some theory as to who Eaton was.
But her father had no such theory; he
had been expending unavailingly, so
| far, every effort to ascertain Eaton's
though, to—to be among the sort of
people again that you—you used to
know. Miss Furden”—she mentioned
one of the girls who had seemed most
Interested in him, the sister of the
boy whose place he had taken in the
polo practice—“is considered a very
attractive person, Mr. Eaton.
heard it said that a man—any man—
not to be attracted by her must be
forearmed against her by thought—or
memory of some other woman whom
he holds dear.”
I have
“I'm afraid I don’t quite under-
stand.”
The mechanicalness of his answer
reassured her. “I mean, Mr. Eaton”—
she forced her tone to be light—*“Miss
Furden was not as attractive to you
as she might have been, because there
has been some other woman in your
life—whose 'memory—or—or the ex-
pectation of seeing whom again—pro-
tected you.”
“Has been? Oh, you mean before.”
“Yes, of course,” she answered has-
tily. :
“No—none,” he replied simply, “It’s
rather ungallant, Miss Santoine, but
Im afraid I wasn't thinking much
about Miss Furden.”
She felt that his denial was the
truth, for his words confirmed the im-
pression she had had of him the night
before. She drove on—or rather let
the horse take them on—for a few
moments during which neither spoke.
They had come about a bend in the
road, and the great house of her fa-
ther loomed ahead. A motor whizzed
past them, coming from behind. It
was only Avery's car on the way
home; but Harriet had jumped a little
tn memory of the day before, and
her companion’s head had turned
quickly toward the car. She looked
ap at him swiftly; his lips were set |
and his eyes gazed steadily ahead
after Avery, and he drew a little away
from her. A catch in her breath—
almost an audible gasp—surprised
her, and she fought a warm impulse
connections. So her thoughts led her
only into deeper and greater perplex-
ity, but with them came sudden—and
unaccountable — resentment against
Avery.
At seven Harriet went in to dinner
with her father. The blind man was
alone; he had been awaiting her, and
they were served at once. All through
the dinner she was nervous and
moody; for she knew she was going
to do something she had never done
before: she was going to conceal
something from her father. She told
of Eaton’s reception at the country
club, and of his taking part in the
polo practice and playing badly: but
of her own impression that Eaton
knew the game and her present con-
viction that Donald Avery had seen
even more than that, she said noth- |
ing. She watched her father’s face,
but she could see there no conscious-
ness that she was omitting anything
in her account.
An hour later, when after reading
aloud to him for a time, he dismissed
her, she hesitated before going.
“You've seen Donald?’ she asked.
“Yes.”
“What did he tell you?”
“The same as you have told, though
not quite so fully.”
She was outside the door and in
the hall before realization came to
her that her father’s reply could mean
only that Donald, like herself, had
concealed his discovery of Eaton's
ability to play polo. Why Donald had
not told, she could not imagine; the
only conclusion she could reach was
that Donald's silence in some way
menaced Eaton; for—suddenly now—
it came to her what this must mean
to Eaton. All that he had been so
careful to hide regarding himself and
his connections must be obtainable
by Avery now, and Avery, for some
purpose of his own, was withholding
betrayal to make use of it as he might
see fit.
She moved once more to return to
her father; again she stopped; then,
swiftly, she turned and went down-
stairs.
She looked hurriedly about for
Avery. She did not find him, nor at
first did she find Eaton either. She
discovered him presently in the music
room with Blatchford. Blatchford at
~nce excused himself, tired evidently
of his task of watching over Eaton.
Harriet caught herself together and
controlled herself to her usual man-
ner.
“What shall it be this evening, Mr.
Katon?’ she asked. “Music, billiards?”
“Billiards, if you like,” he respond-
ed.
moinent, |
“Do you mean that you .
have heen considering this afternoon '
near |
They went up to the billiard room,
. and for an hour played steadily; but
, her mind was not upon the game—nor,
: she saw, was his. Finally, as they
¢ ended a game, he put his cue back in
the rack and faced her.
“Miss Santoine,” he said, “I want
to ask a favor®
“What is jt?’
“I want to go out—unaccompanied.”
“Why ?”
“I wish to speak to a friend who
. will be waiting for me.”
“How do you know?”
“He got word to me at the coun-
try club today. Excuse me—I did not
mean to inform on Mr. Avery; he was
really most vigilant. I believe he only
made one slip.”
“He was not the only one observing
| you.”
| “I suppose not. In fac,, I was cer-
| min of it. However, I received a mes-
sage which was undoubtedly authen-
tie and had not been overseen.”
“But you were not able to make
reply.”
“I was able to receive all that was
necessary.”
She considered for a moment
do you want me to do?”
i “Either because of my presence or
, because of what has happened—or
perhaps normally—you have at least
four men about the grounds. two of
whom seem to be constantly on duty
“What
| to observe anyone who may approach.
! T wish you to order them to let mé
| pass and go to a place perhaps ten
rainutes’ walk from here. If you do
so, T will return at the latest within
ualf an hour” (he glanced at his
waich) “—rto be definite, before a quar-
ter of eleven.”
“Why should { do this?”
He came close to her and faced her.
“what do you think of me now, Miss
Bantoine¥”
“Why—""
“You ure certain now, are you not,
that T had nothing to do with the at-
tack on your father—that is, in any
other connection than that the attack
might be meant for me. I denied yes-
terday that the men in the automobile
meant to run me dewn; you did not ac-
cept that denial. I may as well admit
to you that I know perfectly well they
meant to kill me. They are likely to
try again to kill me.”
“We recognize that too,” she an-
swered. “The men on watch about
the house are warned to protect you
as well as watch you.”
“l appreciate that.”
“But are they all you have to fear,
Mr. Eaton?’ She was thinking of
Donald Avery.
He seemed to recognize what was in
her mind; his eyes, as he gazed in-
tently at her, clouded, then darkened
still more with some succeeding
thought. “No, not all.”
“And it will aid you to—to protect
yourself if you see your friend to-
night?’
“Yes.”
“But why should not one of Fa-
ther’'s men be with you?”
“Unless 1 were alone,
would net appear.”
“1 see.”
He moved away from her, then
came back; the importance to him of
what he was asking was very plain to
her—he was shaking nervously with
it. “Miss Santolne,” he said intently,
“you do not think badly of me now. 1}
do not have to doubt that; I can see
it; you have wanted me to see it. I
ask you to trust me for a few minutes
tonight. I cannot tell you whom I
wish to see or why, except that the
man (vmes to do me a service and to .
endanger no one—except those trying
to injure me.”
She herself was trembling with her
desire to help him, but recollection of
her father held her back; then swiftly
there came to her the thought of Ga-
briel Warden; because Warden had
tried to help him—in some way and
for some reason which she did not
know—Warden had been killed. And
feeling that in helping him there might
be danger to herself, she suddenly and
eagerly welcomed that danger, and
made her decision.
“You'll promise, Mr. Eaton, not to
try to—leave?”
“yes.”
“Let us go out,” she said. a
(To be Continued.)
mr ps m—— ff ————
Warm Your Blood.
A poet has said “the owl for all his
feathers was a-cold.” Some people for all
their wraps are a-cold whenever they are
out-of-doors even in normal winter
weather.
It is plair that they need the warmth
there is in pure, rich, red blood, which
reaches through artery and vein, from
head to foot, all over thie body. They
could be told by many people, from exper-
ience, that to have this good blood they
should take Hood's Sarsaparilla. This
great medicine has really made it possible
for many men and women, boys and girls,
to enjoy cold weather and resist the at-
tacks of disease. It gives the right kind .
of warmth, stimulates and strengthens at
the same time, and its benefits are as last-
ing as those of any tonic possibly cain be,
If there is biliousness or constip tien,
which often oceurs as a result of the tor-
pifying effect of cold, Hood's Pills ray be
taken. They are perfectly compat¥,le with
Hood's Sarsaparilla, and are gentle and
thorough. 685-6
my friend
What This Country Needs.
What this country needs isn’t more
liberty, but less people who take libex-
ties with our liberty.
What this country needs is not a
job for every man, but a real man for
every job.
What this country needs isn’t more
young men making speed, but more
young men planting spuds.
Waat this counliy nceds isn't a
lower rate of interest on money, but a
higher interest in work.
What this country needs is to fol-
low the footsteps of the fathers in-
; stead of the footsteps of the dancing
master.—S. Paul Crescent.