Bellefonte, Pa., July 12, 1929.
———————————————————
AT THE SIGN OF THE LAST
CHANCE.
(Continued from page 2, Col. 6.)
when they expected he was dying
and sent for his brother.
“Duke never thought to speak
about the dentist that had come in-
to Drybone and gone on to Buffalo,
and the Kid naturally thought it
was Doc Barker who had done the
job on Duke's teeth. And Buck he
said nothing. So Kid drops in to the
hospital next time he’s in town for
a spree at the hog ranch, and in-
vites the Doc to put a gold edging
on his teeth for him.
«Not in my line,’ says Doc. ‘I'm
a surgeon. And I've got no instru-
ments for such a job.
“You had ’'em for Duke Gardiner,’
says the Kid. “Why not for me?”
“That was a dentist’ says Doc,
«while I was getting Duke's arm in-
to shape.’
“So Toothpick he goes out. He feels
offended at a difference being made
between him and Duke, and he sits
in the hog ranch thinking it over
and comforting himself with some
whisky. He doesn’t believe in any
dentist, and about four o'clock in the
afternoon he returns to the Doc's
office and says he insists on having
the job done. And Doc he gets hot
and says he’s not a dentist and he
orders Toothpick out of the office.
And Toothpick he goes back to the
hog ranch feeling awful sore at the
discrimination between him and
Duke.
“Well, about two o'clock a. m.
Doc wakes up with a jump, and
there’s Toothpick. Toothpick thumps
a big wad of bills down on the bu-
reau—he’'d been saving his time up
for a big spree, and he had the
best part of four or five months’ pay
in his wad—and Doc saw right away
Toothpick was drunk clear through.
And Toothpick jams his gun against
the Doc’s stomach. “You'll fix my
teeth,’ he says. “you'll fiix 'em right
now. I'm just as good as Duke Gar-
diner or any other blankety-blank
hobo in this country and my mo-
ney’s just as good as Duke’s, and
T've just as much of it, and you'll
do it now.” :
«I remember, I remember,” said
Marshal. “That's what the Kid told
Doc. He beat his fist on the table
and shook with enjoyment.
«Well, of course Doc Barker put
on his pants at once. Doc could al-
ways make a quick decision. He
takes the Kid out where he keeps
his instruments and he lights his
lamp; and he brings another lamp,
and he lights two candles and ex-
plains that daylight would be better,
but that he’ll do the best he can.
And he begins rummaging among
his knives and scissors which make
a jingling, and Toothpick sits watch-
ing him with deeper and desper in-
terest. And. Doc. Barker ae keeps
rummaging, and Toothpick keeps
sitting and watching,’ and Doc he
brings out a horrible-looking saw
and gives it a sort of a swing in the
air.
« ‘Are you going to use that thing
on me?” inquires Toothpick.
“ ‘Open your mouth,’ says Doc.
«Toothpick opens his mouth but
be shuts it again. ‘Duke didn’t men-
tion it hurt him,’ says he.
«qt didn’t, not to speak of, says
Doc. ‘How can I know how much
it will hurt, if you don't let me see
your teeth?’ So the Kid’s mouth
goes open and Doc he takes a little
microscope and sticks it in and louks
right and looks left up and down
very slow and takes out the micro-
scope. ‘My, my, my, he says, very
serious.
«qs it going to hurt bad?” in-
quires Toothpick.
«qq can do it, says Doc, I can
do it. But I'll have to charge for
emergency and operating at night.
«will it take long?’ says the Kid.
«¢q must have an hour, or I de-
cline to be responsible,’ says the
Doc: ‘the condition is complicated.
Your friend Mr. Gardiner’s teeth of-
fered no such difficulties.’ And Doc
collects every instrument he can lay
his hands on that comes anywhere
near looking like what dentists
have. ‘My fee is usually two hun-
dred dollars for emergency night op-
erations, says he, ‘but that is for
folks in town.
“Toothpick brings out his wad and
shoves it to Doc, and he counts it
to Doc, and Doc he counts it and
hands back twenty dollars. Th ac-
cept a hundred and fifty,’ he says,
and Tl do my best for you.
“By this time Toothpick’s 2yes are
bulging away out of his head, but he
had to put up too much play to
pack down from it. Duke {idn't
mention a thing about its hurting
him, he repeats.
«I think I can manage,’ says Doc.
“You tell me right off if the pain is
too much for you. Where's my
sponge?” So he gets the sponge,
and he pours some ether on it and
starts sponging the Kid's teeth.
“The Kid he's grabbing the chair
till his knuckles are all white. Doc
lets the sponge come near the
¢andle, and puff! up it flares and
Toothpick gives a jump.
« qt's nothing,’ says Doc. ‘But a
little more, and you and I and this
room would have been blown up.
That's why I am obliged to charge
double for these night emergency
operations. It's the gold edging
that’s the risk.
«qq hate to have you take any
risk, “says Toothpick. ‘Will it be
risky to scrape my teeth, just Yo
give/them a little scrape, y'know,
like ‘you done for Duke?”
“ ‘Oh, no says Doc, ‘that will not be
risky.” So Doc Barker he takes an
ear cleaner and he scrapes, while
Toothpick holds his mouth open and
grabs the chair. “There,” says Doc.
‘Come again’ Andout flies Tooth-
pick like Indians were after him.
Forgets the hog ranch and his night
of joy waiting for him there, jumps
on his horse and makes camp short-
ly after
mo Buck heard about Toothpick
and Doc Barker, and laid flat down in
the sage-brush.”
“Buck sure played it on the Kidat
that Wolf Dance,” said Work.
“Toothpick thought the ladies had
stayed after the storm.”
Again Marshal beat his fist on the
table. We had become a lively com-
any.
“On the Crow reservation, wasn't
it?” said Henry.
“Right on that flat between the
Agency and Fort Custer, along the
river. The ladies were all there.”
“She always stayed as pretty as a
bride,” said Old Man Clarke.
“Have another drink, Uncle Jer-
ry.”
“No more, no more, thank - you
just the same. I'm just a--sitting
here for a while.”
“The Kid had on his buckskin and
admired himself to death. Admired
his own dancing. You remember
how it started to pour. Of course
the Kid's buckskin pants started to
shrink on him. They got up to his
knees. About that same time the
ladies started to go home, not hav-
ing brought umbrellas, and out
runs Buck into the ring. He whis-
pers to Kid. “Your bare legs are
scandalous. Look at the ladies.
Go hide yourself. I'll let you kuow
when you can come out.’
, “Away runs Kid till he finds a
big wet sage bush and crawls into it
deep. The sun came out pretty soob.
But Toothpick sat in his wet sage
bush, waiting to be told the ladies
had gone. Us boys stayed till the
dance was over and away runs Buck
to the sage bush.
‘‘My, says he, Tm sure sorry,
Kid. The ladies went two hours 8go.
Tl have to get Doc Barker to fix up
my memory.’ "”
‘I used to be hell and repeat,” said
Old Man Clarke from his chair.
“Play that again. Play that quad-
rille,” he ordered peremptorily,
The fiddler smiled and humored
him. We listened. There was silence
for a while.
“ ‘Elephant and Castle,” said the
man at the back of the room. “Near
London.” >
“That is senseless, too,” said Hen-
ry. “We have more sensible signs
in this country.
Jed Goodland played the quadrille
quietly, like a memory, and as they
made thei bets, their boots tapped
the figor to its rhythm.
“Swing yer duckies,” said Old Man
Clarke. Cage the queen. All shake
your feet. Doe se doe and doe doe
doe. Sa shay back. Git away, girls
git away fast. Gents in the center
and four hands around. There you
go to your seats.”
“Give us ‘Sandy Land’ again,” said
Stirling. And Jed played ‘Sandy
Land.”
“Doc Barker became Governor of
Wyoming,” said Work, “about 1890.”
“What year did they abandon the
‘stage route?” I asked.
“Later’ said Henry. “We had the
mail here till the Burlington road
got to Sheridan.”
“See here,” said the man at the
back of the room. “Here's some-
: thing.”
“Well, I hope it beats Elephants
and Castle,” said Henry.
“It’s not a sign-board, it's an old
custom,” said the man.
“Well let’s have your old custom.”
The man referred to his magazine.
“It says,” he continued “that many
a flourishing inn which had been
prosperous for two or three hundred
years would go down for one reason
or another, till no travelers pat-
ronized it any more. It says this
happened to the old places where
the coaches changed horses or stop-
ped for meals going north and south
every day, and along other import-
ant routes, as well. These routes
were given up after the railroads be-
gan to spread.
“The railroads finally killed the
coaches. So unless an inn was in
some place that continued to be im-
portant, like a town where the rail-
roads brought strangers same as
the coaches used to, why, the inn’s
business would dry up. And that’s
where the custom comes in. When
some inn had outlived its time and
it was known that trade had left it
for good, they would take down the
sign of that inn and bury it. It
says that right here.” He touched
the page.
The quiet music of Jed Goodland
ceased. He laid his fiddle in his lap.
One by one, each player laid down
his cards. The bullets holes were
there and the empty shelves. Henry
looked at his watch.
¢ “Quittin’ so early?” asked Old
{Man Clarke. “What's your hurry?”
“Five minutes of twelve,” said
Henry. He went to the door and
looked up at the sky.
“Cold,”
“Stars small and bright.
a-coming, I tell you.”
Standing at the open door, Henry
looked out at the night for a while
and then turned and faced his
friends in their chairs round the
table.
“What do you say, boys?”
Without a word they rose. The
man at the back of the room had
risen. Jed Goodland was standing.
Still in his chair, remote and busy
with his own half-dim thoughts, Old
Man Clarke sat watching us almost
without interest.
“Gilbert,” said Henry to the man
at the back of the room “there's a
ladder in the corner by the stairs.
Jed, you'll find a spade in the shed
outside the kitchen door.”
“What's your hurry, boys?”
ed Old Man Clarke. ‘“Tomorro’
get ye a big elk.”
But as they all passed him in si-
lence he rose and joined them with-
out curiosity, and followed without
understanding.
The ladder was set up, and Henry
mounted it and laid his hands upon
the sign-board. Presently it came
loose, and he handed it down to
James Work who stood ready for it.
It was a little large for one man to
carry without awkwardness, and
two corners of it while Work held
Marshal stepped forward and took
the others.
Winter's
ask-
r
sunrise. It was that same |
said Old Man Clarke. |
“You boys go first with it,” said
Henry. “Over there by the side of
the creek. Ill walk next. Stirling,
you take the spade.”
Their conjured youth had fled
from their faces, vanished from their
voices.
“I've got the spade, Henry.”
“Give it to Stirling, Jed. I'll want
your fiddle along.”
Moving very quietly, we followed
Henry in silence, Old Man Clarke
is one of us, Work and Marshal lead-
ing with the sign-board between
them. And presently we reached
ithe banks of Willow Creek.
, “About here,” said Henry.
They laid the sign-board down,
and and we stood round it, while
Stirling struck his spade into the
earth. It did not take long.
“Jed,” said Henry, “you might
play now. Nothing will be said.
Give us ‘ Sound the dead march as
ye bear me along.’”
In the night, the strains of that
somber melody rose and fell, always
quietly, as if Jed were whispering
memories with his bow.
How they must have thanked the
darkness that hid their faces from
each other. But the darkness could
not hide sound. None of us had
been prepared for what the music
would instantly do to us.
Somewhere near me I heard a
man struggling to keep command of
himself; then he walked away with
his grief alone. A neighbor followed
him, shaken with emotions out of
control. And so. within a brief time,
before the melody had reachea its
first cadence, none was left by the
grave except Stirling with his spade
and Jed with his fiddle, each now
and again sweeping a hand over his
eyes quickly, in furtive shame at
himself. Only one of us withstood
jt. Old Man Clarke, puzzled, went
wandering from one aeighbor to the
next saying, “Boys, what's up with
ye? Who's dead?”
Although it was to the days of
their youth, not mine, that they were
bidding this farewell and I nad only
looked on when the beards were
golden and the betting was high,
they counted me as one of them to-
night. I felt it—and I knew it when
Henry moved nearer to me and
touched me lightly with his elbow.
So the sign of the Last Chance
was laid on its last place, and Stir-
ling covered it and smoothed the earth
while we got hold of ourselves, and
Jed Goodland played the melody
more and more quietly until it sank
to the lightest breath and died
away.
“That's all. I guess,” said Henry.
“Thank you, Jed. Thank you, boys.
I guess we can go home. The re-
quium of the golden beards, their
romance, their departed West, too
good to live for ever, was finished.
As we returned siowly in the still-
ness of the cold starhght, the voice
of Old Msn Clarke, shrill and with-
ered, disembodied as an echo, start-
led me by its sudden uuthreak.
“None of you knows:d her boys.
She was a buckskin son-of-a-gun.
All at the bottom of Lake Cham-
plain”
-«Take - him, boys,” said Hebpry.
«Take Uncle Jerry to bed, please. I
guess I'll stroll around for a while
out here by myself. Good night,
boys.’
I found that I could not bid him
good night, and ‘he others seemed
as little able to speak as I was. 0ld
Man Clarke said nothiag more. He
followed along with us as he had
come, more like some old dog, pot
aware of our errand nor seeming to
care to know, merely contented, his
dim understanding remote within
himself. He mnezdad no attention
when he came to the deserted stage
office where he slept. He sat down on
the bed and began to pull off his
boots cheerfully. As we were shut-
ting his door, he said:
“Boys. tomorro’ I'll get ye a fat
bull elk.”
“Good night, Jed,” said Marshal.
“Good night, Gilbert,” said Stir-
ling.
“Good night, all.” The company
dispersed along the silent strect.
As we reentered the saloon- Work
and I, who were both sleeping in the
hotel—the deesrted room seemed to
be speaking to us, it halted us on
its threshold. The cards lay on the
table, the vacant chairs round it.
There stood the empty bottles on
the shelf. Above them were the bul-
let holes in the wall where the clock
used to be. In the back of the room
the magazine lay open on the table
with a lamp burning. The other
lamp stood on the bar, and one lamp
hung over the card-table. Work ex-
tingished this one, the lamp by the
magazine he brought to light us to
our rooms where we could see to
light our bedroom lamps. We left
the one on the bar for Henry.
“Jed was always handy with his
fiddle,’ said Work at the top of the
stairs. “And his skill stays by him.
Well, good night.”
A long while afterwards I heard
a door closing below and knew that
Henry had come in from his stroll.
alearshy International Cosmopol-
tan.
———————————
BEARS QUIT WINTER DIET.
Roused from the inactivity of win-
ter, bears in several counties de-
scended on nearby farms to break
their fasts, according to reports to
‘the Board of Game Commissioners.
During May seventeen claims cov-
ering the killing of 51 sheep and the
destruction of 18 beehives were re-
ported.
As a result of complaints from
Tioga county a 300- pound bear that
Yas Dismed for several raids was
ed.
THEN AND NOW.
Thirty-two years ago the appro-
priation received by the Board of
Game Commissioners amounted to
the scant sum of $800.00 and this
was used entirely for postage and
express. This year $200,000 is being
set aside by the Board for the pur-
chase of additional refuges and pub-
'lic shooting grounds.
FARM NOTES.
—When buying celery plants get
them from a patch that has been
sprayed for blight.
—A hen will eat two pounds of
oyster shell and a pound of grit in a
year. They must have grit and lime
in some form to do any work for
the egg basket.
—Cod liver oil in mash or grain
for young chicks prevents leg weak-
ness and aids normal growth. Feed
at the rate of one pint of the oil to
109 pounds of fezl.
—Yes sir, after a couple years,
you'll take more pride in showing
your neighbors and visitors that for-
est you set, than the new silo or
the fine stand of alfalfa.
—By treating fence posts with
creosote, many kinds of wood that
are ordinarily almost worthless may
be made to last twenty-five or more
years with only a small additional
cost for the treatment.
—The petted calf is the one thal
responds most easily to the care of
the young stockman. When the
junior club member feeds his calf.
the time that he spends in petting it
a little is not lost time.
—Spring calves will do better if
not turned on pasture at all Juring
the summer. Keep them in clean, well-
ventilated quarters. Feed milk cr
milk substitute with good quality
hay and some green feeds.
—Cow testing association reports
show that as the production of but-
terfat increases from 100 pounds per
cow to 300 pounds, the price receiv-
ed for the roughaz2 the cow eats in-
creases from $5.50 per ton to $39
per ton.”
—When the young shoots of black
raspberries are about 18 inches long
their tops should be pinched off to
force development of the lateral
buds into branched canes. The bear-
ing surface of next year’s
crop will thus be kept closed to the
ground and a top heavy condition
will be avoided.
—Now is the time to begin rouge-
ing or removing raspberry and
blackberry plants affected by lead
curl or mosaic. Spraying will not
control virus diseases. Curling,
crinkling, mottling or yellowing of
leaves, dwarfing cof leaves and canes,
and partial death of the plants are
symptoms of the disease.
—To control brown rot and scab
of peaches, spray with self-boiled
lime-sulphur of the 16-16-100 for-
mula. Champion Carmen, and Roch-
ester are the .most susceptible
varieties.
month before the fruit begins to
ripen. Be sure mist covers all fruit
and leaves. Large drops of spray
tend to spot the fruit.
..—Selection of cockerels for breed-
ing should begin at the broiler age.
By saving twice as many cockerels
as will be needed. further selection
can be made as the birds develop.
Often the mistake is made of selling
ers, while the breeding birds are
chosen from late hatches. Tihs re-
sults usually in breeding cockerels
of small size when mature.
—The fruit growers must not fal-
ter in their spray application if mid-
summer and fall are to bring in
abundant crops of high quality fruit.
If the mid-summer applications are
neglected much of the benefits which
should have been derived from early
sprays will be lost and the pests will
gain a foothold that will make them
more difficult to control
as well as thoroughness is a requisite
in good spraying. 2
‘ _Thriftless colts are often found
infested with blood worms, and
teething also aggravates the condi-
tion. Have the teeth put in order by
a veterinarian; then feed whole oats,
wheat bran, ear corn. carrots and
good mixed clover and timothy hay.
If you find a collection of scaly sub-
stances around the anus or see
worms in the feces. mix in the
dampened feed night and morning
for a week two teaspoonsful of a
mixture of two parts of salt and one
part each of dried sulphate of irom,
tavtar emetic and tlour of sulphur;
then discontinue the treatment for
ten days, and then give it for an-
other week. Clip the hair from the
legs above the knees and hocks and
from the belly and sides to a line
with the straps of a breast collar
and breeching.
--The dairy cow furnishes a better
market today for feed than ever be-
fore, says H. R. Searles, dairy spe-
cialist with the agricultural exten-
sion division, University of Minne-
sota.
Mr. Searles has been comparing
prices and finds that while the prices
of dairy feeds have increased 24 per
cent since 1914, butterfat prices have
mounted about 70 per cent in the
same period.
“In 1914, with butterfat selling at
30 cents a pound. the 300 pound cow
returned $00 at a feed cust of $45, or
a return over feed cost of $45,
says Mr. Searles. “In 1927, with but:
ter 50 cents a pound, the 300-pound
cow returned $153 at a feed cost of
about $56, leaving a retura over feed
cost of $97. This cow, then, in 1927 re
turned $52 more over feed cost than
she did in 1914. Translated into
terms of return over feed costs, the
increase in favor of 1927 has beep
around 115 per cent.
“It pays to feed grain to good
cows. For the man who has the
cows they are a better market for
his feed grain than the clevator i
he is short of grain he can afford te
buy it at present prices. The proper
grain ration fed with roughage wil)
greatly increase his income for the
( roughage he is selling through the
| COW.
Make Your Will and Name
Us as Executor
OT many years ago, when one was appointed
to a position of trust, requiring a bond, at
was necessary for him to find a friend will-
ing to go on his bond and become responsible: for
the proper performance of his duties. All thisuis i”
past. Corporations now assume this duty.
More and more, corporations are assuming dll {|
fiduciary offices, including the administration of
estates. Corporate management offers many ad-
vantages. This bank is fully equipped for such :
work. it
THE FIRST NATIONAL BANK
BELLEFONTE, PA.
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About Success
UCCESS is each man finding the
work he can do best and deing
it to his highest satisfaction.”
Work with a will and save with a determi-
nation to accumulate. An account with
this Bank will be of excellent service to you.
8 per cent. Interest Paid on Savings Accounts
THE FIRST NATIONAL BANK
2 STATE COLLEGE, PA.
OEE 0) TOURNEY 3 TERRE (INES 3
¢«
————————
A a a RE a aS Le Pa aaa Ae aaa BTIeTRR
RR CCS ERC CUR BRAMAN ARRAN GAARA OA O
MEMBER FEDERAL RESERVE SYSTEM
ee eT SSS CISC SS EIS SA CIMA ACAI 32)
all of the early cockerels for broil-|
Persistence |
The Chance
of a Lifetime
Any Straw Hat. |
in our Store
WHILE THEY LAST, FOR u
$1.00 I
A. FAUBLE