THE YOUNG MAN*.FROM
is. WYOMING
4 AT EAQIJ§» MERE.
: A SULLIVAN COUNTY Nfi^jpfcf'FE.
BY THOMAS *
"So I reasoned; and proceeded in the investigations by
wfajch I'hoped to discover ' whietr"*con 1d be prac
ticatly applied to prolong life, i made searching analytical
examinations of all kinds of blodjd, UntiJ I knew its cliem-
at all ages, I |nadtf searching analytical ex
aminations of all kinds of food, and also of a large variety of
medicinal herbs and roots.
I gradually elaborated a system which enabled me to
C&unteract the change in the corpuscles of the blood, which
we call age. 1 found I could restore the blood to its normal
condition in youth. I could not turn the tide of time back
wards and obliterate changes already scored upon the body,
but I could hold my own against it, and prevent the years
from scoring new marks upon me.
''"ln many respects I found it desirable to prevent the
changes in my blood, which pointed towards old age and
death, by withholding the disturbing elements so often intro
duced in improper food and impure air. With my Utmost
care 111 these matters, however, I found it impossible for me
to dispense wholly with the use of chemical solvents adapted
to the specific condition of the blood. A chemical analysis of
a few drops of my blood showed when the specific remedies
were needed. They were always safe and certain. I soon
found it as not more difficult for me to preserve my youthful
appearance, with all of my youthful vigor, than it is for people
generally to preserve ordinary health.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.
"Although my chemical studies had cost me considerable,
I still had a thousand dollars at the end of each year, which 1
always invested in favorably located suburban lots. I en
joyed my four hours of daily study, and ftid not stop it after I
had made my discovery.
"I took up other scientific branches, and pursued them
P with no other object except to gratify my appetite for knowl
edge. My discovery, for reasons which were satisfactory to
me, I kept rigidly secret.
"I retained my place in Mr. Golding's store for several
years after that. One day, while I was engaged as usual at
my counter, a businesslike man stepped up to me and said:
" 'Are you—' he hesitated for a moment as if trying to
recall my name, and as 1 did not help him out with it, lie con
tinued 'the young man from Wyoming?'
"I suppose someone about the store had referred to me
by that name.
" 'Yes, sir,' I replied, 'and my name is Lessingham.'
" 'All, yes, excuse me; I recall it now,' he replied, speak
ing with a decided German accent. 'You own a farm, I bc
live, beyond the Swamp?'
"I answered, 'I do.'
" ' What "price do you ask for it?' said lie.
" 'I have not fixed a price upon it,' I replied, 'as I have
not put it in the market.'
" 'Not sell at any price?' said he, smiling.
"I laughed as I replied, '1 don't hold it so stifi" as that.
Money will buy it.'
" 'How much?' said lie.
" 'I am not prepared to name a price to-day,' said I.
" 'Well,' he replied, 'I not care much for it, only I have
some land just beyond it.and if ve put both pieces together it
would make quite a big farm. Maybe I turn farmer.' lie
smiled a very engaging smile; 'perhaps you buy mine?'
" 'Very well,' said I. 'what will you take for yours?'
"He was evidently hardly prepared for the question, as
he probably thought I was not prepared to buy, but he added
hesitatingly, 'I think I ought to have as much as twenty.thou
sand dollars.'
" 'I will give you twenty thousand dollars,' I replied
without hesitation. 1 knew the land very well, the extent of
it, and the owner, and knew it was worth twice that.
"He winced a little. 'I not say I would take that; I
must consider more. Now what you take for yours?'
" 'I think,' said I, 'I ought to have as much as a hundred
thousand dollars for mine.'
" 'I give you a hundred thousand,' said lie.
" 'I only said I ought to have as much as that,' I replied,
laughing; 'but seriously, Mr. Astor, I don't want to sell my
farm at present.'
" 'How do you know my name?' he asked.
" 'A great many people know you,' said I.
"'Well,' said lie, with a shrewd twinkle in his eye, 'I
send somebody else to make a bargain with you next time.'
" 'lt is not at all necessary,' 1 replied; 'when I want to
sell I shall be happy to deal with you.'
'With a quick 'Good-bye,' he went away.
"A few days after that I learned that the City Council
had determined to fill up the hollow swamp between my farm
and the city, and open new streets in that direction. It may
be Mr. Astor knew this when he called. Indue time the city
did fill up the hollow and the swamp, and streets were opened
across my farm. For the land thus taken I received a fair
compensation from the city. My land was now all laid out in
building lots, and I perceived that my rea lestate business
would take so mujph time that I could not remain in Mr. Gold
ing's store. I therefore, with considerable regret, relinquished
. my place behind the counter.
"Within a year I had sold one-third of my building lots
for a hundred thousand dollars. This money I put into six per
cent, government bonds. During the time I had owned the
farm, which was only fifteen years, the population of the city
had increased from less than thirty thousand to over seventy
eight thousand. It was still rapidly increasing. I advanced,
the price on the remainder of my lots, and did not make haste
to sell.
"Previousto the time I made my discovery I had a letter \
CALEB CONOVER'
vRAIL ROADER
••• CONOVER. ■**
™«oo7™ -A STORY of LOVE.POLITICS, INTRIGUE;
A RICH &r POWERFUL BOSS
.gdKg££s£L.fc AND AN INTREPID YOUNG
RE FORM ErR sk
1 ®ALBERT PAY SON TftRHONE- *
COP*IOHT 1.907 BY AUBART P*VSON >
■ - .-"vjpr _
**
:
"Allrightl Let him go! Never mind
the hat."
Dunderberg, his head free, leaped
forward as from a catapult. Master
and man thundered away down the
drive, and were swallowed in the
blackness. The double roar of flying
hoofs grew fainter, then was lost In
the solemn hush of the autumn night.
CHAPTER XXV.
Dunderberg Solves the Difficulty.
rpSTILIVK STANDISH had spent
I I the evening at the Civic
ItMll League headquarters, await-
Ivfti lng reports of the day's bat
tle. The rooms were full of the
League's minor candidates and of
clals, with a fair sprinkling of women.
Anlce Lanier, chaperoned by her aunt,
with whom she now lived, was there,
her high color and the light in her
big eyes alone betraying the fearful
suspense under which she laborerd.
The belated returns, which should
have been telegraphed at once to the
League headquarters, were still fur-
from 'Cretia, stating that the Legislature of-Pennsylvania had
confirmed the titles of the old settlers, and Obed had obtained
a patent. With a perfect title their land had become marketa
ble and they had determined to sell out and goto Ohio.
They had purchased a large farm on the river in the im
mediate vicinity of a small village called Cincinnati, and were
doing well.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX.
"I now concluded to build a dwelling house for myself
upon one of the most elevated of my lots. I had ideas of my
own about it, but I consulted with a skillful, practical builder.
1 told him in making the plans the first consideration must be
the health of the occupants; second, adaptation to the uses I
have for it ; third, general convenience. To attain these ends
no expense must be spared. In other respects strict economy
must be used. The outside must be in plain good taste. The
inside must be finished with the best materials. Floors and
walls must be such as can easily be cleansed. In arrangements
for heating, ventilation and sewage, expense must not be
spared. Arrangements for water must include an apparatus
to distill all that is needed for cooking and drinking. There
must be no useless splendor or gaudy superfluities. I added
to the architect, in general terms: 'ln all you do never forget
that the health of the occupants demand, in living rooms and
sleeping rooms, a full supply of pure, life-giving air.'
"Nothing makes destructive changes in the blood more
rapidly than foul air. How could it be otherwise? The blood
circulating in the thin films of the lungs is every moment in
chemical action with the air which we breathe into the air
cells. In sleep especially, when so many important life pro
cesses are going on, pure air must be abundantly supplied.
"As to water, that fs nature's great solvent. It will take
up every impurity within its reach. It will harbor myriads
of animalcules of many kinds. It will hold in solution sub
stances which will produce the most injurious chemical
changes in the human system; some rapid—then we call it
poison; some slow—then we call it chronic disease. It is a .
potent deceiver: it looks so innocent when it is bringing to us
the seeds of death. It must always be watched, and, when it
needs it, purified. The surest purifier is the still.
"My house was erected on a corner lot, and on the other
end of the lot I built a comfortable tenant house. I hired a
professional male cook, who nfioved his family into the tenant
house. His wife took charge of my chamber work. I also
had a suitable man to attend to the fires and such other ser
vice as I needed.
"1 soon taught my cook that no highly seasoned, un
healthy food was required on my table, but that it must be
supplied with the freshest and best fruits, vegetables and
meats that the market afforded. I could then select the kinds
which I knew my system most nee€ed. My cook also found
that 'cleanliness was next to Godliness' in my household. I
occasionally took a look into the kitchen myself, and no dirty
corner escaped my eyes. I talked in a pleasant manner to
him, but he well understood how I wanted my work done, and
that it must be done so. The house-cleaning, which some men
dread so much, came oftencrthan is usual in my house. No
seeds of malaria or poisonous particles were allowed to har
bor about the floors or walls. .1 knew pretty well how to com-,
bat such destructive elements as reached my blood, but I con-."
sidered it much easier and to keep them ci\t.
. (To befentiu^d.)
. ther delayed by-the fact that the one-i
J Wire now running into town had been
preempted by Conover. Hence, it wa»-
not until well after one o'clock ttikt
! Cllre received definite news of Mb
I own election. Throngs of friends and '
supporters had, on receipt of the final
figures, flocked about him with con
gratulations and good wishes. To all
he had given seeming heed, yet amqgg
the crush he saw but one face, T£ad
In one jpair of brown eyes the praise
find Infinite gladness he sought.
J And as Soon as he could he departed
with Anlce and her aunt for thaUat
tor's home, Where a little
three was to celebrate the victory.-
| They formed a Jolly trio about the
dainty Bupper table. Late as It was,
all were too excited to feel sleepy or
Wish to curtail by one minutd' the
little feast of triumph.
"To the next Governor of the
Mountain State!" proclaimed Anice
solemnly, as she lifted her glass. "To
be drunk standing and with— No,
no, Clive," she reported as the Gov-'
ernor-elect also rose. "You thustn't
drink It. It's —"
"I'm not going to," retorted Stan
dish Indignantly. "I'm getting up to
look for a dictionary."
"But what on earth—"
"I want to find the feminine for
Governor. And —"
A whirr of the telephone bell broke
in on his explanation.
"Some stupid political message for
you," hazarded Anice, taking down the
receiver. "Yes, this is 318 R. Yes.
Yes, this is Miss La— Oh!" with a
changed intonation, "Mrs. Conover?"
A longer pause. Then Anice gave a
little exclamation of sympathy, lis
tened a moment and said:
"Yes, we will come at once. But I
hope you'll find It's not as bad as you
think. Don't break down. I'm sure
It will be all right."
"What is It?" asked CUve and her
bunt In a breath.
"I'm not quite sure," answered the
girl, ""he was so upset I could hard
ly understand her. Besides, the wires
are still in bad condition. But It
seems some accident or injury has
happened to her husband. Gerald is
away, and there is no one the poor
woman can turn to so she telephoned
for me. An<J Clive, she wants to know
"To the next Governor of the Moun
tain State I"
» you won c come, too. riease, ao.
You're the only relative she has. And
■she's so unhappy."
* "Just as you wish," acceded Stan
idlsh, with no great willingness, "but
•I'll be sorry to have to-night's happi
ness marred by another row with Con
"over."
i"I gather from what she says he is
>in no condition for a 'row' with any
"one. I told her we'd come at once.
" Please hurry, dear. I hate to think
of that frightened little woman trying
to meet any sort of a crisis alone."
In the great, comfortless drawing
room of the Mausoleum, on a couch
hastily pushed into the centre of the
room under the chandelier, lay Caleb
Conover, Railroader. Two doctors,
who had been working over him, had
now drawn back a few paces and were
conferring in grave undertones. At
the foot of the couch, clad only in
nightgown and slippers, as she had
been aroused from bod, her sparse
hair tight-clumped in a semicircle of
kid-curlers, Mrs. Conover crouched in
a moaning, rocking heap. Scared,
whispering groups of servants blocked
the doorways or peered curiously in
from behind curtains. The air was
thick with the pungent smell of anti
septics.
The Railroader, lying motionless be
neath the unshadud glare of a half
dozen gas-Jets, was swathed of head
and bandaged of arm. He was coat
less, and his shirt and waistcoat were
thrown open disclosing his mighty
chest. Across the couch-end his feet,
still booted and spurred, protruded
stiffly as a mannikin's.
It was upon this scene that Anice
and Clive entered. At sight of the
girl, Mrs. Conover scrambled to her
feet, and with a wild outburst of
scared sobs, scuttled forward to meet
her, the bedside slippers shuffling
and sliding grotesquely along the pol
ished floor. Anice took the panic
stricken, weeping creature into her
arms and whispered what words of
comfort and encouragement she could.
Meanwhile Clive, not l desiring to
break in on the doctor's conference,
turned to the doorway again and
asked a question of one of the ser
vants. For reply the groom, Giles,
was thrust forward and obliged to re
peat, with dolorous function, for the
tenth time within an hour, the story
of the accident.
"You see, sir," he said, lowering his
voice as though in the room with a
corpse, "Mr. Conover sent word for
me to ride with him. We started off
at a dead run, and my horse couldn't
noways keep up with Dunderberg. so
I follows along behind as fast as I
could, but I couldn't keep up to the
right distance between us to save me.
Mr. Conover turns out of the drive,
up Pompton Av'noo, sir, and on post
the Mumason place, me a-followin' as
fast as I could. All of a sudden I
catches up. It's in that dark, woody
patch of road just this side the quar
ries. The way I happens to catch up
is because Dunderberg was havin'
one of them tantrums of his an' Mr.
Conover was givin' it to him for all
he was worth, crop an' spur, an' Dun
derberg a-wliirlin' around and passag
in' an' tryin' his best to rear. An'
every time that horse's forelegs goes
up In the air Mr. Conover'd bring his
flst down between his ears an' down'd
come Dunderberg on all-fours again.
They was takin' up all the road, wide
as it is, an' Dunderberg was lashin'
an' plungln' like he was crazy, an'
Mr. Conover stickln' on like he was
glued there an' sendin' in the spurs
and the whacks of the crop till you'd
'a' thought he'd kill the brute. Then,
Dunderberg makes a dive ahead an'
gets out alongside the quarry-pit an'
tries to rear again. Right on the edge
of the pit."
"Yes," said Clive excitedly, as the
groom paused, "and then?"
"Why, sir, I can't rightly tell, the
light was bad. If it'd been anyone
else but Mr. Conover, I'd say he lost
his nerve, an' when Dunderberg
reared up he forgot to bring him down
like he'd done those other times, or
maybe he did hit the horse between
the ears again an' didn't hit hard
enough. Anyhow, over goes Dunder
berg backward —clean fifteen feet drop
—into the quarry. An' Mr. Conover
under him. An* then —"
But Clive had moved away. The
doctors had finished their consulta
tion, and one of them —Dr. Hawes, the
•Conover family physician—had again
approached that silent figure on the
couch.
At sight of Standlsh the second- doc
tor came forward to meet him.
"No," he whispered, reading the un
"pfxflten question In Cliye's face, "no '
poSSlble. hope. He can't last over an
hour longer at most. Another man,
crushed as he was, would have been
killed aft once. As it is, he probably
Won't recover consciousness. Noth
ing but his tremendous vitality holds
the shreds of life in him so long as
this."
"Does his wife know —?"
"She is not in a state to be told. I
wish we could persuade her to leave
the room. Perhaps Miss Lanier—"
A gesture from Dr. Hawes drew
them toward the couch. .
"He is coming to his senses," said
the family physician, adding under his
breath, bo that only his colleague and
CUve could hear; "It is the final ral
ly. Not one man in a thousand—"
But Clivj had caught Anice's eye
and beckoned to lead Mrs. Con
over to the 4fethe couch.
■The Railroader's face, set like car
-ven grapite, began to twitch. The
rigi* mouth relaxed its set whiteness
Mid the eyelids flickered. Mrs. Con
over, at these signs of life, prepared
for a fresh attack of hysteria, but a
gentle, firm pressure of Anice's hand
In hers forestalled the outburst. With
an aggrieved look at the girl, Letty
again turned her scared attention to
her husband.
Dr. Hawes was bending once more
over the prostrate man, seeking to
employ a restorative. Now he rose,
and as he did so, Caleb's eyes opened.
There was no bewilderment, no sur
prise nor pain in the calm glance that
swept his garish surroundings.
"Is he suffering?" whispered Anice.
"Or—?"
"Horribly," returned Dr. Hawes in
the same-tone. "He —"
The shrewd, pale eyes that scorned
to show trace of physical or mental
anguish, slowly took in the group be
side the couch, resting first on the
two physicians, then on Anice Lanier.
As he saw and recognized Anice
the first change caine ot the dying
man's hard-set features. A look of
perplexity that merged into glad sur
prise lighted his whole face, smooth
ing from it with magic touch every
line of care, thought or Mine; trans
figuring it into the countenance of a
happy boy. Long he sought and held
her sympathetic glance, that look of
youth and gladness growing and deep
ening on his face, while all around
stood silent and marvelling.
It was Mrs. Conover who broke the
spell.
"Oh, Caleb!" she wailed querulous
ly, "you said no horse could get the
better of you. And now—"
At her words the beatific light was
gone from Conover's eyes. In its
stead came a gleam of grim, ironical
amusement. Then his gaze travelling
past Anice to Clive" Standish, his
brows contracted in a frown of dis
pleasure. But this, too, faded. The
swathed head settled lower among the
cushions, the powerful body seemed to
shrink and flatten. The eyes closed, 1
and Conover lay very still.
His wife, divining for the first time
the actual state of affairs, flung her
self forward on her knees beside the
silent figure, her sobs scaling to a
crescendo cry of terror.
Slowly Caleb Conover opened his
eyes. Reluctantly, as though drawn
back by sheer force from the very
threshold of the wide portals of Rest,
his spirit paused for an instant longer
In its earthly abode—paused and
flared up, as a dying spark, in the
Railroader's stiffening face.
For a moment his eyes—already
wide with the awful mystery of the
Beyond—strayed over his kneeling
Wife; over the sparse locks bunched
up in that halo of kid curlers; over
the pudgy shape so mercilessly out
lined by the sheer nightgown; over
the tear-swollen red eyes, the blotched
cheeks, the quivering, pursed-up
mouth. ,*•
"Letty," he panted, in tired disgust,
"you look—more like a measly rab
bit —every day!"
Then, as though another and bet
ter thought had entered his darkening
mind, he reached out his hand toward
his wife, whether to signify a senti
ment of protection or a desire for help
no one could devine, but it fell inertly
to his side and the soul of this master
ful man passed behind the veil of
time.
THE END.
NORWAY WATCHBOYS.
Told the Farmers of the Approach of
Bchools of Fish.
It Is common enough to see a boy
watching cattle to keep them from
straying, and In days not so very long
gone by it was no unusual thing for a
boy to be set to keep the birds ofT the
crops; but a watchboy whose duty It
is to keep a lookout for a school of
fish and who sits in a sentry box sets
upon stilts is not an everyday sight.
This particular kind of watchboy la
Norwegian, the scene of his labors
being the shores of some fiord of his
native land.
His little sentry box is made of
wood and perched high upon posts.
Here the lad sits, gazing out across
the arm of the sea, using his keen
eyes for the benefit of the farmers who
are depending upon him to give the
alarm when a. school of fish shall ap
pear. They work contentedly enough
In their fields secure In their belie?
that their watchboy will let them
know when It Is time to reap a har
vest from the sea instead of from the •
land.
When th'e signal is given they leave
their work, throw their big nets over
their shoulders and hurry off to their
boats.
Sentinel boxes similar to those em
ployed In Norway were in use among
the fishermen on the shores of tire
Mediterranean, and it is supposed that
the vikings brought back with them
from some of their piratical raids the
idea that has been put In practice
•yer since.
* , " ... • - *