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Cor iconed from last week).
SYNOPSIS
CHAPTER I.—Arriving at the lonely
little railroad station of El Cajon, New
Mexico, Madeline Hammond, New York
1, finds no one to meet her. While in
e waiting room a drunken cowboy en-
ters, asks if she is married, and departs,
leaving her terrified, He returns with a
priest, who goes through some sort of
Soremory and the cowboy forces her to
y “Si.” Asking her name and learning
= identity the cowboy seems dazed. In
a shooting scrape outside the room a
Mexican is killed. The cowboy lets a
rl, “Bonita,” .ake his horse and escape,
en conducts Madeline to Florence
Kingsley, friend of her brother.
CHAPTER II.—Florence welcomes her,
learns her story, and dismisses the cow-
boy, Gene Stewart. Next day Alfred
Hammond, Madeline's brother, takes
Stewart to tack. Madeline exonerates
him of any wrong intent.
CHAPTER II}
Sister and Brother.
Then Madeline returned to the little
parlor with the brother whom she had
hardly recognized.
“Majesty!” he exclaimed.
of your being here!”
The warmth stole back along her
veins. She remembered how that pet
pame had sounded from the lips of
this brother who had given it to her.
“Alfred!”
“Dear old girl,” he said, “you
haven't changed at all, except to grow
“To think
“Dear Old Girl,” He Said.
fovelier. Only you're & woman now,
and you've fulfilled the name I gave
you. G—d! how sight of you brings
back home! It seems a hundred years
since I left. TI missed you more than
ull the rest.”
Madeline seemed to feel with his ev-
ery word that she was remembering
him. She was so amazed at the change
in him that she could not believe her
eyes. She saw a bronzed, strong-
jawed, eagle-eyed man, stalwart, su-
perb of height, and, like the cowboys,
belted, booted, spurred. She had bid
den good-by to a disgraced, disin-
herited, dissolute boy. Well she re-
membered the handsome pale face
with its weakness and shadows and
careless smile, with the ever-present
cigarette hanging between the lips.
The years had passed, and now she
saw him a man—the West had made
him a man. And Madeline Hammond
felt a strong, passionate gladness and
gratefulness, and a direct check to her
sudden inspired hatred of the West.
“Majesty, it was good of you to
come, I'm all broken up. How did
you ever do it? Rut never mind that
now. Tell me about that brother of
mine.” :
And Madeline told him, and then
about their sister Helen. Question
after question he fired at her; and she
told him of her mother; of Aunt Grace,
who had died a year ago; of his old
friends, married, scattered, vanished.
Put she did not tell him of his father,
for he did not ask.
Quite suddenly the rapid-fire ques-
tioning ceased; he choked, was silent
a moment, and then burst into tears.
It seemed to her that a long, stored-
up bitterness was flooding away. It
hurt her to see him—hurt her more to
hear him. And in the succeeding few
moments she grew closer to him than
she had ever been In the past. Had
her father and mother done right by
him? Her pulse stirred with unwonted
quickness. She did not speak, but she
kissed him, which, for her, was an
indication of unusual feeling. And
when he recovered command over his
emotions he made no reference to his
breakdown, nor did she. But that
scene struck deep into Madeline Ham-
mond’s heart. Through it she saw
what he had lost and galned.
“Alfred, why did you not answey
my last letters?” asked Madeline, “I
had not heard from you for two years.”
“So long? How time flies! Well,
things went bad with me about the
last time I heard from you. I always
intended to write some day, but I
i
% A Roma nce
4 a
never did. You remember all about
my little ranch, and that for a while
I did well raising stock? I wrote you
ail that. Majesty, a man makes ene-
mies anywhere. Perhaps an eastern
man in the West can make, if not so
many, certainly more bitter ones. At
any rate, I made several. There was
a cattleman, Ward by name—he’s gone
now—and he and I had trouble over
cattle. That gave me a back-set. Pat
HWawe, the sheriff here, has been in-
strumental in hurting my business.
He's not so much of a rancher, but he
has influence at Santa Fe and El Paso
and Douglas. I made an enemy of
him. I never did anything to him,
The real reason for his animosity
toward me is that he loves Florence,
and Florence Is going to marry me.”
“Alfred!”
“What's the matter, Majesty? Didn't
Florence impress you favorably? he
gsked, with a keen glance.
“Why—yes, indeed. I like her. But
1 did not think of her In relation to
you—that way. I am greatly surprised.
Alfred, is she well born? What con-
nections?”
“Florence is ust a girl of ordinary
people. She was born in Kentucky,
was brought up in Texas. My aristo-
cratic and wealthy family would
scorn—"
~“Alfred. you are still a Harmamond ”
said Madeline, with uplifted bead
Alfred laughed. “We won't quae
rel. Majesty. I remember you, and in
=pite of your pride you've got a heat,
it vou stay here a month you'll Jor2
Florence Kingsley. J want you m0
know she’s had a great deal to do with
straightening me up. Well. to
go on with my story, There's Don
Carlos, a Mexican rancher, and he's
my worst enemy. Don Carlos is a
wily Greaser, he knows the ranges,
ne has the water, and he is dishonest,
So he outfigured me. And now 1 am
practically ruined. He has not gotten
possession of my ranch, hut that’s on'y
a matter of time, pending lawsuits
at Santa Fe. At present I have a
tew hundred cattle running on Still-
well’s range, and T am his foreman.”
“Foreman?” queried Madeline.
“L amssimply boss of Stillwell’s eow-
poys, and right glad of my job.”
Madeline was conscious of an
ward burning. It required an effort
Tor her to retain her outward tranquil
ny.
“Cannot your property be re-
ciaimed?”’ she asked. “How much dao
yon owe?”
“Ten thousand dollars ‘would clear
me and give me another start. Buf,
Majesty, in this country that’s a good
deal of money, and I haven't been able
to raise it, Stillwell’s in worse shape
than I am.”
Madeline went over to Alfred and |
put her hands on his shoulders.
“We must not be in debt.”
He stared at her as if her words had
recalled something long forgotten.
Then he smiled.
“How imperious you are! I'd for-
gotten just who my beautiful sister
really is. Majesty, you're not going
to ask me to take money from you?”
a7 am.”
“Well, I'll not do it. 1 never did,
even when I was in college, and then
there wasn’t much beyond me.”
“Listen, Alfred,” she went on, ear-
nestly, “this is entirely different. I
bad only an allowance then. You had
no way to know that since I last
wrote you I had come into my inheri-
tance from Aunt Grace. It was—
well, that doesn’t matter. Only, I
haven't been able to spend half the
fncome., It's mine. It’s not father's
money. You will make me very happy
if you'll consent. What is ten thou-
sand dollars to me? Sometimes I
spend that in a month, I throw money
away. If you let me help you it. will
be doing me good as well as you.
Please, Alfred.”
“You always were the best of fel-
lows, Majesty. And if you really care
—if you really want to help me I'll
be only too glad to accept. It will be
fine. Florence will 'go wild. And that
Greaser won't harass me any more.
Majesty, pretty soon some titled fellow
will be spending your money; I may
as well take a little before he gets it
all,” he finished, jokingly.
“What do you know about me?” she
asked, lightly.
“More than you think. Even if we
are lost out here in the woolly West
we get news, Everybody knows about
Anglesbury. And that Dago duke who
chased you all over Europe, that Lord
Castleton has the running now and
seems about to win. How about it,
Majesty?”
Madeline detected a hint that sug-
gested scorn in his gay speech, And
deep in his searching glance she saw
a flame. She became thoughtful. She
had forgotten Castleton, New York,
soclety.
“Alfred,” she began, seriously, “I
don’t believe any titled gentleman will
ever spend my money, as you elegdntly
express it.”
“I don’t care for that. It's youl!”
he cried, passionately, and he grasped
her with a violence that startled her.
in- :
—— ——————
He was white; his eyes were now like
fire. “You are so splendid—so won-
derful. People called you the Ameri-
can Beauty, but you're more than that.
You're the American Girl! DNajesty,
marry no man unless you love him, and
love an American. Stay away from
Europe long enough to learn to know
the men—the real men of your own
country.”
“Alfred, I'm afraid there are not al-
ways real men and real love for Amer-
ican girls in international marriages.
Alfred, tell me how you came to know
about me, 'way out here? You may
be assured I was astonished to find
that Miss Kingsley knew me as Maj-
esty Hammond.”
“I imagine it was a surprise,” he
replied, with a laugh. “I told Flor-
ence about you—gave her a picture of
you. And, of course, being a woman,
she showed the picture and talked.
She’s in love with you. Then, my
dear sister, we do get New York pa-
pers ott here occasionally, and we can
see and read. You may not be aware
that you and your society friends are
objects of intense interest in the U.
S. in general, and the West in partic-
ular. The papers are full of you, and
perhaps ‘a lot of things you never did.
Majesty, I must run down to the sid-
ing,” consulting his watch. “We're
loading a shipment of cattle. I'll be
back by supper time and bring Still-
well with me. You'll like him.”
Madeline went to her room, intend-
ing to rest awhile, and she fell asleep.
She was aroused by Florence's knock
and call.
“Miss Hammond, your brother has
come back with Stillwell.”
Madeline accompanied Florence to
the porch.: Her brother, who was sit-
ting near the door, jumped up and
said:
“Hello, Majesty!” And as he put
his arm around her he turned toward a
massive man whose broad, craggy face
began to ripple and wrinkle. “I want
to introduce my friend Stillwell to yon.
Bill. this Is my sister, the sister I've
sn often told you about—Majesty.”
“Wal, wal, Al, this ’s the proudest
meetin’ of my life,” replied Stillwell
fu a booming volen. Be exter ded n
huge hand. “Miss—Miss
sight of you Is as welcome as the rain
an’ the flowers to an old desert cattle-
man.”
Madeline greeted him, and it was all
she could do to repress a cry at the
way he crunched her hand in a grasp
of iron. He was old, white-haired,
weather-beaten, with long furrows
down his cheeks and with gray eyes
almost hidden in wrinkles. If he was
smiling she fancied it a most extraor-
dinary smile. The next instant she
realized that it had been a smile, for
his face appeared te stop rippling, the |
light died, and suddenly it was like
rudely chiseled stone. The quality of
hardness she had seen in Stewart wus
immeasurably intensified in this old
man's face.
“Miss Majesty, it’s plumb humiliatin’
to all ef us thet we wasn't on hand; to
“Miss Majesty, It's Plumb Humillatin'
To All of Us Thet We Wasn't on
Hand to Meet You,” Stillwell Said.
meet you,” Stillwell said. “I'm sure
afraid it was a bit unpleasant fer you
last night at the station. Wal, I'm
some glad to tell you thet there's no
man in these parts except your brother
thet I'd-as lief hev met you as Gene
Stewart.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, an’ thet’s takin’ into considera:
tion Gene's weakness, too. I'm allus
fond of sayin’ of myself thet I'm the
last of the old cattlemen. Wal, Stew:
art’s not a native westerner, but he's
my pick of the ‘last of the cowboys.
Sure, he’s young, but he’s the last of
the old style—the picturesque—an’
chivalrous, too, I make bold to say,
Miss Majesty, as well as the old hard-
ridin’ kind. Folks are down on Stew-
art. An’ I'm only sayin’ a good word
for him because he is down, an’ mebbe
last night he might hev scared you,
you bein’ fresh from the East.”
Madeline liked the old feilow for his
loyalty to the cowboy he evidently
cared for; but as there did not seem
anything for her to say, she remained
silent,
“Miss Majesty, I reckon, bein’ as
you're in the West now, thet you must
take things as they come, an’ mind
each thing a little less than the one
before, If we old fellers hedn’t beer
thet way we'd never hev lasted.
“Last night wasn’t particular bad,
ratin’ with some other nights lately,
There wasn’t much doin’. But I had
a hard knock. Yesterday when we
started in with a bunch of cattle 1
sent one of my cowboys, Danny Mains,
along ahead, carryin’ money I hed to
Majesty, ;
pay off hands an’ my bills, an’ I want:
ed thet money to get in town before
dark. Wal, Danny was held up. 1
don’t distrust the lad. There's been
strange Greasers in town lately, an’
mebbe they knew about the money
comin’.
“Wal, when I arrived with the cat:
tle I was some put to it to make ends
meet. An’ today I wasn’t in no angelic
humor. When I hed my business all
done 1 went arqQund pokin’ my nose
heah an’ there, tryin’ to get scent of
thet meney. An’ I happened in at a
hall we hev thet does duty fer jail
an’ hospital an’ election-post an’ what
not. Wal, just then it was doin’ duty
as a hospital. Last night was flesta
night—these Greasers hev a fiesta ev:
ery week or so—an’ one Greaser whe
had been bad hurt was layin’ in the
hall, where he hed been fetched from
the station.
“The hall was full of cowboys, ranch:
ers, Greasers, miners, an’ town folks.
along with some strangers. I was
about to get started up this way wher
Pat Hawe come in,
“Pat, he’s the sheriff. He come ini¢c
the hall, an’ he was roarin’ about
things. He was goin’ to arrest Danny
Mains on sight.
told Pat thet the money was mine an’
he needn't get riled about it. An’
if I wanted to trail the thief I reckor
I could do it as well as anybody.
“Then he cooled down a bit an’ was
askin’ questions about the wounded
Greaser when Gene Stewart comes in.
Whenever Pat an’ Gene come together
it reminds me of the early days back
in the 'seventies. Jest naturally ev-
erybody shut up. Fer Pat hates Gene,
an’ I reckon Gene ain't very sweet on
Pat.
* ‘Hello Stewart! You're the feller
I'm lookin’ fer,’ said Pat. ‘There was
some queer goings-on last night thet
vou know somethin’ about. Danny
Afains robbed—Stillwell’s money gone
—your roan horse gone—an’ thi
sreaser gone, too. Now, seein’ thet
<ul was up late an’ prowlin’ round
the station where this Greaser was
“voyul. it ain't onreasonable to think
you might know how he got plugged
—is 1t?
“Stewart laughed kind of cold, an’
he rolled a cigarette, all the time eyein’
Pat, an’ then he sald if he'd plugged
the Greaser it'd never hev been sich a
buanglin® job.
“‘l can arrest you om suspicion,
Stewart, but before I go thet far I
want some evidence. I want to find
out what's become of your hoss. You've
never lent him since you hed him, an’
there ain't enough raiders across the
border to steal him from you. It’s got
a queer look—thet hoss bein’ gone.
You was drunk last night?
“Stewart never batted an eye.
* ‘You met some woman on Number
Eight, didn’t you? shouted Hawe.
“‘I met a lady,’ replied Stewart,
quiet an’ menacin’ like.
* ‘You met Al Hammond's sister, an’
you tock her up to Kingsley’s. An’
cinch this, my cowboy cavalier,’ I'm
goin’ up there an’ ask this grand dame
some questions, an’ if she’s as close-
mouthed as you are I'll arrest her?!
“Gene Stewart turned white.
one expected to see him jump like
lightnin,’ as he does when he’s riled
sudden. But he was calm an’ he was
thinkin’ hard. Presently he said:
“ ‘Pat, thet's a fool idee, an’ if you
do the trick it’il hurt you all the rest
of your life. There's absolutely no rea-
son to frighten Miss Hammond. An’
tryin’ to arrest her would be such a
d—d outrage as won't be stood fer in
El Cajon. If you're sore on me send
me to jail. I'll go. If you. want to
hurt Al Hammond, go an’ do it some
man kind of way. Don’t take your
spite out on us by insultin’ a lady who
has ¢ome hyar to hev a little visit.
We're bad enough without bein’ low-
down as Greasers.’
“It was.a long talk for Gene, an’ 1
was as surprised as the rest of the fel-
fers. It was plain to me an’ others
who spoke of it afterward thet Pat
Hawe hed forgotten the law an’ the
officer in the man an’ his hate,
“‘I'm a-goin’, an’ I'm a-goin’ right
wow!" he shouted.
“Stewart seemed kind of chokin’,
an’ he seemed to hev been bewildered
by the Idee of Hawe’s confrontin’ you.
“An’ finally. he burst out: ‘But,
man, think who it is! It’s Miss Ham-
mond! If you seen her, even if you
was locoed or drunk. you—you couldn't
do it.
“‘Couldn’t I? Wal, I'll show you
d—n quick. What do I care who she
is? Them swell eastern women—I've
heerd of them. They're not so much.
This Hammond woman—'
“Suddenly Hawe shut up, an’ with
his red mug turnin’ green he went for
his gun.”
Stillwell paused in his narrative to
get breath, and he wiped his molst
brow. And now his face began to lose
its cragginess. It changed, it softened.
it rippled and wrinkled, and all that
strange mobility focused and shone in
a wonderful smile.
“An’ then, Miss Majesty, then there
was somethin’ happened. Stewart took
Pat’s gun away from him and throwed
it on the fioor. An’ what followed was
beautiful. Sure it was the beautiful
est sight I ever seen. Only it was
over so soon! A little while after,
when the doctor came, he hed another
patient besides the wounded Greaser,
an’ he said thet this new one would re-
quire about four months to be up an’
around cheerful-like again. An’ Gene
Stewart hed hit the trail for the bor-
der.”
CHAPTER IV
A Ride From Sunrise to Sunset.
Next morning, when Madeline was
aroused by her brother, it was not yet
daybreak; the air chilled her, and in
the gray gloom she had to feel around
for matches and larmap. Her usual
languid manner vanished at a touch
Wal; I jest polite-like |.
1 fer
of the cold water. Presently, when
“Well, If | Havent Some Color!” She
Exclaimed.
Alfred knocked on her door and said
he was leaving a pitcher of hot water
outside, she replied, with chattering
teeth, “Th-thank y-you, h-but I d-don’t
ne-need any now.” She found it neces-
sary, however, to warm her numb fin-
gers before she could fasten hooks and
buttons. And when she was dressec
she marked in the dim mirror thar
there were tinges ef red in her cheeks.
“Well, if I haven't some color!” she
exclaimed.
Breakfast waited for her in the dn:
fng-room. The sisters ate with ner.
Madeline quickly caught the feeling or
hrisk action that seemed to be In the
fir. Then Alfred came stamping in.
“Majesty, here’s where you get tne
real thing” he announced. merrily,
“We're rushing you off, I'm sorry to
: bu tl k to the |
say t We must lustle hugs, fo tu ‘what lay. beyond. That climb wag
ranch. The fall round-up begins: tp:
morrow. You will ride in the buck-
board with Florence and Stillwe'l. I'll
ride on ahead with the boys and fix
up a little for you at the ranch. It's
a long ride out—nearly fifty miles by
wagon-road. Flo, don’t forget a couple
of robes. Wrap her up well. And
hustle getting ready. We're waiting.”
A little later, when Madeline went
out with Florence, the gray gloom was
lightening. Horses were champing bits
and pounding gravel.
“Mawnin’, Miss Majesty,” said Still-
well, gruffly, from the front seat of &
Sigh vehicle.
Alfred bundled her up into the back
seat, and Florence after her, and
wrapped them with robes. Ther he
i mounted his horse and started off.
As Madeline gazed about her and
listened to her companions, the sun
rose higher and grew warm and soared
and grew hot; the horses held tire-
lessly to their steady trot, and mile
after mile of rolling land slipped by.
From the top of a ridge Madeline
saw down into a hollow where a few
of the cowboys had stopped and were
sitting round a fire, evidently busy at
the noonday meal. Their horses were
feeding on the long, gray grass.
“Wal, smell of thet burnin’ grease-
wood makes my mouth water,” said
Stillwell. “I'm sure hungry. We'll
noon hyar an’ let the hosses rest. Ii's
a long pull to the ranch.”
During lunch-time Madeline observed
| chilly.
N
“It was Danny Mains’ brome.”
“How do you know thet?” demanded
Stillwell, sharply.
“Bill, the left front foot of thet little
hoss always wears a shoe thet sets
crooked. Any of the boys can tell you.
rd know thet track if I was blind.”
“Nels, you don’t think the boy's
sloped with thet little hussy, Bonita?”
“Bill, he shore was sweet on Bonita,
same as Gene was, an’ Ed Linton be-
fore he got engaged, an’ all the boys.
She’s shore chain-lightnin’, that little
black-eyed devil. Danny might hev
sloped with her all right. Danny was
held up on the way to town, an’ then
in the shame of it he got drunk. But
he'll show up soon.”
“Wal, mebbe you an’ the boys are
right. I believe you are. Nels, there
ain't no doubt on earth about who was
ridin’ Stewart’s hoss?”
“Thet's as plain as the hoss’ tracks.”
“Wal, it's all amazin’ strange. It
beats me. I wish the boys would ease
ap on drinkin’. I was pretty fond of
Danny an’ Gene, I'm afraid Gene's
done fer, sure. If he crosses the bor-
der where he can fight it won't take
long fer him to get plugged. I guess
I'm gettin’ old. I don’t stand things
like I used to.”
“Bill, I reckon I'd better hit the Pei-
oncillo trail.” Mebbe I can find Danny.”
“I reckon you had, Nels,” replied
Stillwell. “But don’t take more’n a
couple of days. We can't do much on
the round-up without you. I'm short
of boys.”
That ended the conversation. Still
well immediately began to hitch up
nis team, and the cowboys went out
to fetch their strayed horses. Made-
itne had been curiously interested, and
she saw that Florence knew it.
“Things happen, Miss Hammond,”
she sald, soberly, almost sadly.
Madeline thought. And then straight-
way Florence began brightly to hum &
une and to busy herself repacking
what was left of the lunch. Madeline
suddenly conceived a strong liking and
respect for this Western girl
Soon they were once more bowling
along the road down a gradual In
cline, and then they began to climb a
long ridge that had for hours hidden
rather tiresome, owing to’ the sun ana
the dust and the restricted view.
Presently, at the top of the steep
ascent, Stillwell got out and walked,
leading the team. During this long
ellmb fatigue claimed Madeline, and
she drowsily closed her eyes, to find
when she opened them again that the
glaring white sky had changed to a
steel-blue. The sun had sunk behind
the foothills and the air was growing
Stillwell had returned to the
driving-seat and was chuckling to the
horses. Shadows crept up out of the
hollows.
“Wal, Flo,” sald Stillwell, “I reckon
we’d better hev the rest of thet there
lunch before dark.”
“You didn’t leaves much of 1t.”
laughed Florence, as she produced the
basket from under the seat.
While they ate, the short twilight
shaded and gloom filled the hollows.
Madeline was glad to have the robes
{ close around her and to lean against
* Florence.
There were drowsier spells
in which she lost a feeling of where
she was, and these were disturbed by
the jolt of wheels over a rough place.
! Then came a blank interval, short or
{ long, which ended in a more violent
i shoulder.
that she was an object of manifestly
great interest to the three cowboys.
- TONE IN “AFRICAN WIRELESS”
caused them painful embarrassment. :
She returned the compliment, and was
amused to see that a glance their way
They were grown men—one of whom
had white hair—yet they acted like ;
boys caught in the act of stealing a |
forbidden look at a pretty girl.
“Cowboys are sure all flirts.” said
Florence, as if stating an uninteresting
fact. But Madeline detected a merry
twinkle in her clear eyes. The cow-
boys heard, and the effect upon them
was magical, They fell to shamed
confusion and to hurried useless tasks.
“Haw, haw !” roared Stillwell. “Flor-
ence, you jest hit the nail on the hald.
Cowboys are all plumb flirts. I was
wonderin’ why them boys nooned hyar.
This ain't no place to noon. Ain't no
grazin’ or wood wuth burnin’ or nuth-
fn’. Them boys jest held up, throwed
the packs an’ waited fer us. It aln’t
so surprisin’ fer Boely an’ Ned—
they're young an’ coltish—but Nels
there, why, he's old enough to be the
paw of both you girls. It sure is amaz-
in’ strange.”
A silence ensued. The white-haired
cowboy, Nels, fussed aimlessly over
the campfire, and then straightened up
with a very red face.
“Bill, you're a dog-gone liar,” he
sald. “I reckon I won't stand to be
classed with Booly an’ Ned. There
ain't no cowboy on this range thet’s
more appreciatin’ of the ladies than
me, but I shore ain't ridin’ out of my
way. I reckon I hev encugh ridin’ to
do. Now, Bill, if you've sich dog-gone
good eyes mebbe you seen somethin’
on the way out?”
“Nels, I hevn't seen nothin’,” he re-
plied, bluntly.
“Jest take a squint at these hoss
tracks,” said Nels, and he drew Still-
well a few paces aside and pointed to
large hoofprints in the dust. “I reckon
you know the hoss thet made them?”
“Gene Stewart's roan, or I'm a son-
of-a-gun!” exclaimed Stillwell, and he
dropped heavily to his knees and began
to scrutinize the tracks. Nels, who-
ever was straddlin’ Stewart’s hoss met
somebody. An’ they hauled up a bit,
but didn’t git down.”
“Tolerable good for you, Bill, thet
reasonin’,” replied the cowboy. *I
reckon you know what hoss made the
other tracks?”
“I'm thinkin’ hard, but I ain’t sure.”
i
lurch of the buckboard. Madeline
awoke to find her head on Florence's
She sat up laughing and
apologizing for her laziness. Florence
assured her they would soon reach the
ranch.
(To be continued).
Matter That Has Long Baffled Euro-
peans Seems to Have Been Cleared
Up by Discovery.
Just at the time when the British
are expecting authorization of their
own wireless broadcasting, the secret
of African “wireless”—the drum mes-
sages that have bafiled the curiosity
of travelers, explorers and big game
hunters ever since they have known
of it—has been discovered.
Everyone who has traveled in Africa
has listened with a thrill to the drums
of the natives rolling and tapping off
a message to a distant village, which
in turn sends it on. The message may
be anything, a social announcement,
a dance invitation or a tribal call to
arms for war. That these messages
are accurate has been proved time and
again,
Always there has been an astonish-
Ing accuracy about native messages
sent in this way, and the natural con-
clusion was that they used a code.
This, indeed, was the general conclu-
sion. But it is not so. The man who
has discovered the secret, a well-
known African explorer, : tells the
writer that the drum messages are
tonic. That is they depend on tone.
He has brought home to England the
complete tone system.—Chicago Amer
lean.
Saving Wild Life.
Lovers of woodland life will be
heartened to learn that efforts for the
conservation of the bison, or buffalo,
as we more commonly say in America,
have succeeded to the extent that
there are 3,000 more of the animals
now than two decades ago. The fact
is of chief significance as showing
a way of preventing the extinction of
valuable or interesting species of wild
life. If the states, with the co-opera-
tion of their citizens, will do half as
much for the preservation of birds and
game as the national government has
done for the bison during these last
Z0 years, a stupid and shameful chap-
ter of our history will be rewritten in
happier terms.—Atlanta Journai.