THE MEYERSDALE COMMERCIAL, MEYERSDALE, PA. #
— —————
a see the south, didn't you? Wah look «Almost Tice a football game.” said rupted. Blithely fom the inachine and grasped
tpt
omen
=
4°)
"EARL DERR BIGGERS
Adthor of
‘SEVEN KEYS TO BALDPATE
Copyright, 1914, the Bobbs-Merrill
Company
impolite But 1 believe we're going
to be very good friends. none the less.”
“We're going to be very close to each
other. at any. rate” Minot smiled.
“Once more au revoir, your lordship.”
«pardon me, goodby,” answered Lord
Harrowby, with decision.
And Richard Minot was again thread-
fng his way between awed tables.
Walking slowly down Fifth avenue,
Mr. Minot was forced to admit that he
bad not made a very auspicious be-
ginning in his new role. Why had
Lord Harrowby refused so determin-
edly to invite him aboa-\! the yacht
that was to bear the eager oridegroom
south? And what was he to do now?
Might he not discover where the yacht
lay, board it at dusk and conceal him-
gelf in a vacant cabin until the party
was well under way? I sounded fair-
ly simple.
But it proved otherwise. He was
palked from the outset. For two hours,
in the library of his club, in telephene
booths and elsewhere, he sought for
gome tangible evidence of the existence |
of a wealthy American named Martin |
Wall and a yacht called the Lileth. |
©Qity directories and yacht club year
Books alike were silent. Myth, myth,
myth, ran through Dick Minot’s mind.
Somewhat discouraged, he returned
to his club and startled a waiter by
imag dinner at 4:30 in the after-
n. Going then to his rooms, he ex-
ehanged his overcoat for a sweater, his
bat for a golf cap. At 5:30 a spy for
the first time in his eventful young
Mfe, he stood opposite the main en-
grance of Lord Harrowby’s hotel. Near
by ticked a taxi, engaged for the even-
ing.
At 8:15 a tall blond man, in a very
expensive fur coat which impressed
@ven the cab starter, came down the
gteps of the hotel. He ordered a limou-
gine and was whirled away to the west.
At'8:15% Mr. Minot followed.
Lord Harrowby's car proceeded to!
ghe drive and, turning; sped north be-
tween the moonlit river and the manlit
rtment houses.
Hood of One Hundred and Tenth street’
“came to a stop, and as Minot’s car
passed slowly by, he saw his lordship
standing in the moonlight paying his
@hauffeur. Hastily dismissing his own
@ir, he ran back in time to see Lord
Harrowby disappear down one of the
gtone stairways into the gloom of the
park that skirts the Hudson. He fol-
owed.
On and on down the steps and bare
wind swept paths he hurried, until
finally the river, cold, silvery, serene,
Tay before him. Some thirty yards
from shore he beheld the lights of a
yacht flashing against the gloomy back-| belora-t)
ground of Jersey. The Lileth!
IIe watched Lord Harrowby cross
the raiiroad tracks to a small landing
ar leap from that into a boat in
eharge of a solitary rower. Then he
Beard the soft swish of oars and
watched the boat draw away from
ghore. He stood there in the shade un- | ed out her old name
#1 he had seen his lordship run up the
@ccommodation ladder to the Lileth's
deck.
He, too, must reach the Lileth and at
ence. But how? He glanced quickly
up and down the bank. A small boat
was tethered near by. He ran to it,
but a chain and padlock held it firmly.
He must hurry. Aboard the yacht,
dancing impatiently on the bosom of
Hendrick Hudson's important discov-
ery, he recognized the preparations for
an early departure.
Minot stoed for a moment looking at
the wide, wet river. It was February,
yes, but February of the mildest win-
ter New York had experienced in years.
‘At the seashore he had always dashed
boldly in while others stood on the
gands and shivered. He dasbed in
HOW.
The water was cold, shockingly cold.
He struck out swiftly for the yacht.
Fortunately the accommodation ladder
had not yet been taken up. In another
moment he was clinging, a limp and
gone spectacle, to the rail of the
th.
Happily that side of the deck was
Just then deserted. A row of outside
cabin doors in. the bow met Minot’s
eye. Stealthily he swished toward
them.
And in the last analysis thé only
thing between him and them proved to
be 'a large, commanding gentleman,
whose silhouette was particularly mili-
tant and whose whole bearing was uRl-
vogable.
ty wall, I presume?’ said Minot
through noisy teeth.
«Correct! said the gentleman. His
voice was sharp, unfriendly. But the
moonlight, falling on his face, revealed
it as soft, genial, pudgy—the inviting
gort of countenance to which, under
the melting influence of Scotch and
goda, one feels like relating the sad
story of one’s wasted life.
Though soaked and quaking,
Minot aimed at nopchalance.
In the neighbor-
“well,” he said, “you might be good
enough to tell Lord Harrowby that
I've arrived.”
“Who are you? What
be @élighted, Pm sure. Just tell nim,
if you'll be so kind.”
“Did he invite you aboard?’
“Not exactly. But he’ll be glad to
see me.” mio
An expression of mingled rage and
dismay came into the pudgy face. It
purpled in the moonlight. Its huge
owner eame threateningly toward the
dripping Minot. 3
“Back inte the river
said savagely.
Almost lovingly—so it might have
séemed to the casual
for yours!” He
observer—he
“One—two”—counted the sailormen.
wound his thick arms about the drip-
ping Minot. Up and down the deck
they turkey trotted.
“Over the rail and into the river,”
breathed Mr. Wall on Minot's damp
neck.
Two iarge and capable sailormen
came at sound of the struggle.
“Here, boys!” Wall shouted.
me toss this guy over!” :
Willing hands seized Minot at oppo-
site poles.
“One—two”— counted the sailormen.
“Well, good night, Mr. Wall” re-
marked Minot. : :
| “Three!” .
A splash and he was inglorfously in
the cold river again. He turned to
the accommodation ladder. but quick
bands drew it up. Evidently there
was nothing to do but return ence
more to lttle old New York.
i He rested for a moment, treading
~ water, seeing dimly the tall homes of
| the’ cave dwellers and over them the
| yellow glare of Broadway. Then he
| struck out.
|
“Help
When he reached the
do you want?”
“I'm a friend of his lerdship. Hell
| shore and turned the Lileth was al- -
| ready under way, moving slowly down
| the stiver path of the moon. An 3ld
| man ‘was launching the padlocked row-
bodt.
“Great night for a swim,” he re-
marked sarcastically.
“I lovely,” chatsered Minot. “Say,
do you know anything about the yacht
that’s just steamed out?”
“Not as much as I'd like to.
a man in Chicago.
Used
Yes
about you.”
The Palm Beach special om which
Mr. Minot rode was no exception to
this rule. It entered Florida and a
state of innocuous’ destdetude” at one |
and the same time. After a tremen-
dous struggle it gasped its way inte !
Jacksonville about 9 o'clock of the
Monday morning following. Reluctant
4d Romeo in his famous exit from Ju- |
liet’s boudoir, it got out of Jackson-
ville an- hour later: Ar o :
was just two hours away according to
that excellent book of light fiction so
widely read’ in the south—the -time-
table.
It seemed to Dick Minot that he had
been looking out of a car window for
He Turned and Looked Upon the Ds
version at Jacksonville.
a couple of eternities. Save for the
diversion at Jacksonville nothing hat
happened to brighten that long and
wearisome journey. He wanted now
to glance across the car aisle toward |
the diversion at Jacksonville.
For half a mile the train served its
masters. Then, with a pathetic groan,
It paused. Still Mr. Minot gazed out
the window. He gazed so long that he
saw a family of razorbacks, passed a
quarter of a mile back, catch up with
the train and trot scornfully by. After
that he kept his eyes on the live oaks
and cvergreens, to whose topmost
branches hung gray moss like whiskers
on a western senator.
Then he could stand it no longer. He
turned and leoked upon the diversion
at Jacksonville. Gentlemen of the
jury—she was beautiful. The custo-
dian of a library of books on.sociology
could have seen that with balf an
astigmatic ere. Her copper ‘colored
hair flashed ailuringly in that sunny
car. The curve of her cheek would
have creats a sensation in the neigh-
borhood were hurning Sappho loved
and sang.
CHAPTER IIL
“The Nan of tie Happy Man.”
~1SCELLENT train, it seemed
fairly to fiy for a little while,
then another stop. Beauty
wildly anxious on the seat of
ancient plush. Anot.ier start—a stop—
and-a worried but musical voice in
Dick Minot's ear:
“I beg your pardon. but what should
you say are this train's chances for
reaching San Marco by 1 o'clock?”
Minot turned. Brown eyes and trou-
bled ones looked into his. A ‘dimple
. twitched beside an adorable mouth.
terday the caretaker told me she'd
been rente.! “er the winter. Seen him
tonight iu = gin mill with money to
throw to the birds. Looks funny to |
me."
“Thanks.”
«Man came this afternoon and paint- |
Changed it to
Lileth. Mighty suspicious.”
“What was the old name?”
«The Lady Evelyn. If I was you I'd
| get outside a drink, and quick. Good
night.”
As Minot dashed up the bank he
heard the swish of ‘the old man’s oars
behind.
He ran all the way to his |
rooms and, after a hot bath and liquid |
| refreshment suggested by the water- |
| man, called Mr. Thacker on the tele-
phone.
“Well, Richard?’ the gentleman in-
| quired.
“Sad mews. Little Cupid’s had a set-
pack. Tossed into the Hudson when
he tried to hoard the yacht that is tak-
ing Lord Harrowby south.”
“No! = Is that so?’ Mr. Thackers
tone was contemplative. “Well, Rich-
ard, the Palm Beach Special leaves at
midnight. Better be on. it. Better go
down and help the bride with her
| trousseau.”
| “Yes, sir. I'll do that. And I'll see
| to it that she has her lamp trimmed
and burning. Considering that ber fa-
ther’s" in" the oil' business, that ought
| not to be”"—
«I. can’t hear you, Richard. What
' are you saying?”
“Nothing—er—Mr, Thacker. Look up
a yacht called the Lady Evelyn—Chi-
cago men, I think. Find out if he’s
rented it and to whom. It's the boat
* Harrowby went south on.”
«All right, Richard. Goodby, my boy.
. Write me whenever you need money.
i Jephson must not lose.”
“Leave it to me. The Palm Beach
Special at midnight. And after that—
Miss Cynthi: Meyrick!”
No matter how swiftly your train
has sped through the Carolinas and
Georgia, when it crosses the line into
Florida a wasting languor overtakes it.
Then it hesitates, sighs and creeps
across the flat yellow landscape like an
aged t Now and then it stops
completely in the midst of nothing, as
1 £OT
| who should say: “You came dowp to |
Fortundte Florida. peopled with girls
like this.
“1 ghould say,’ smiled Mr. Minot,
“about the same as those of the fa-
mous little snowball that strayed far
from home.”
“Oh, you're right!” Why would she
fidget so? “And I'm in a frightfully
uncomfortable position. I simply must
13
AR
Se =
“Can you get us to San Marco by~1
o'clock?” she demanded.
reach San Marco for luncheon at 1.
1 must!” She clinched her small
bands. “It's the most important lunch-
eon of my life. What shall T do?”
Mr, Minot glanced at his watch.
“It is now twenty minutes of 12.” be |
|
said. “My advice to you is to order
lunch on the train.”
“It was so foolish of me.” cried the
girl. “I ran up to Jacksonville in a
jend’s motor to do a little shopping.
should hive kt 7 al
rays doing
0
I
rh
( better In
8 doing ing: lke ©
o
And San Marco |
|
5 | there.”
Minot blithely. «phird down—five
yards to go. Oh, by Jove. there's 8
' town on my side.”
«Not a trace of a town on mine,” she
replied. tL . ©
“Tf's the dreariest, saddest town I
! ever saw,” Minot remarked. “So, of
course, its name is Sunbeam. And
Jook-—~what do you see there beside the
station!” . ¢
| . #Ap‘automobile!” the girl cried.
| «well, an automobile’s ancestor, at
any rate,” laughed Minot—*‘vintage of
1905. Say, I have a suggestion DOW.
| If the chauffeur thinks he can get you
—1 mean us—to. San Marco by 1
! o'clock shall we'’—
But the girl was already on her way.
The lean, lank, weary native who
lolled beside the passe automo ile was
startled speechless for a moment by
the sight of two such attractive vis-
{tors in his unattractive town. Then
he remembered.
«Want a taxi, mister?’ he inquired.
«“pake you up to the Sunbeam House
for a quarter apiece”—
“Yes, we do want a taxi”—
gan.
“To San Marco!” cried the girl
breathlessly. “Can you get us there
by 1 o'clock?”
«“To—to— Say, lady,” stammered the
rustic chauffeur, “that train you just
got off of is going to San Marco.”
“Qh, no, it isn’t,’ Minot explained.
| “We know better. It's going out into
the country to lie down under a shade
i“tree and rest.”
{ “The train is too slow,” said the girl
' «J must be in San Marco before 1
o'clock. Can you get me—us—there by
then? Speak quickly, please!”
| The effect of this request on the
! chauffeur was to induce even greater
. confusion.
«T.to—to San Marco?’ he stumbled.
«W-well, say, that’s a new one on me.
Never had this car out 0’ Sunbeam
yet.”
“Please! Please!” the girl pleaded.
“Lady,” said the chauffeur, “rd deo
anything I could within reason” —
| “Can you get us to San Marco by 1
: o'clock ?”’ she demanded.
«I ain’t no prophet, lady”—a humor-
pus gleam came into his eye—‘but ever
gince I got this car I been feelin’ sort
o’ reckless. If you say so I'll bid all
my family and friends goodby, and
we'll take a chance on San Marco to
gether.”
«That's the spirit!” laughed Minot
«But forget the family and friends.”
The car rolled asthmatically from the
little settlement and out into the sand
and heat of a narrow road.
“Eight miles to San Marco,” said
the driver out of the corner of his
mouth. “Sit tight. I'm going to let
her out some.”
Again Dick Minot glanced at the
girl beside him. Fate was in a jovial
mood today to grant him this odd ride
In the company of one so charming.
Minot tried to think of some sprigh'-
Jy remark, but his usually agile tongue
remained silent. What was the mat-
ter with him? Why should this girl
seem different, somehow, from all the
other girls he had ever met? When
he looked into her eyes a flood of
memories, a little sad, of all the happy
times he had ever known overwhelrn-
ed him—memories of a starlit sea, the
red and white awnings of a yacht, the
wind whispering through the trees on
a hillside, an orchestra playing in the
distance—memories of old and happy,
| fdroff- things, of times when he was
| even’ younger, even more in love with
life. Why should this be? He wen-
dered.
| And the girl, looking at him, won-
dered too. Was he suddenly bereft of
.! his tongue?
| “I haven’t asked you the convention-
al question,” she said at last. “How
, do you like Florida?”
| “It's wonderful, isn’t it?” Minot re-
! plied, coming to with a start. “I can
speak of it even more enthusiastically
than any of the railroad folders Go.
And yet it's only recent—my discovery
of its charms.”
“Really?”
“Yes. When I was surveying it on
that stop watch of a train my impres-
i son of it was quite unfavorable. It
| seemed so monotonous. I told myself
| nothing exciting could ever happen
i
Minot be-
“And something has happened?’
“Yes, something certainly has hap-
pened.”
She blushed a little at his tone.
Young mien usually proposed to her the
first time they saw her. Why shouldn’t
she blush a little?
They rattled on down that road that
was so sandy, so uninteresting, so lone-
ly, with only a garage advertisement
here and there to suggest a world out-
side.
The girl sat anxiously on the edge of
the seat, her cheeks flaming, her eyes
alight. Minot watched her. And sud-
denly all the happy, sad little memo-
rles melted into a golden glow—the
glow of being alive on this lonesome
read—with. her! , Then suddenly he
knew. This was the one girl, the girl
of all the world, the girl he should love
while the memory of her lasted, which
would be until the eyes that looked
ultation swept through him.
«What did you mean,” he asked,
“when you sald you were always do-
ing things like this?”
“I meant,” shé answered, “that I'm
a silly little feol.” Oh, if you could
know me well,” and her eyes.seemed
to question the future, “you'd see for
yourself. Never looking ahead to cal-
culate the consequences. It's the old
story of fools rushing in”—
«You mean of angels rushing in,
1 never was good at old
| don’t you?
I'saws, but”—
( “And once
| watch?”
| «Twenty minutes of 1.”
| “Oh, dear! Can we'—
A wild whoop from the driver inter-
more, please—your
upon her now were dust. A great ex!
{
«Sap Marco!” he cried, pointing to
where red towers rose above the green
of the country. “It paid to take a
chance withme. I sure did let her out.
Where do you want to £0, lady?” |
sifhe Hotel de la Pax,” saidithe girl,
and, with a sigh of deep relief, sank
pack upon the cushions.
«and Salvator won,” quoted Mr.
pot, with a laugh.
«How can 1 ever thank you?” the
girl asked.
“Don't try,” said Minot. “That is—I
mean—try, if you will, please" :
“It meant so very much to me”—
“No; you'd better not, after all. It
makes me feel guilty, for. I did noth-
ing that doesn’t come under the head
of glorious privilege. A chanee to
serve you! Why, I'd travel to the ends
of the earth for that.”
«But it was good of you. You can
hardly realize all it meant to me to
reach this hotel by 1 o'clock. Perhaps
1 ought to tell you”’—
“It doesn’t matter,” Minot replied.
“That you bave reached here is my re-
ward.” His cheeks burned; his heart
sang. Here was the one girl, and he
Guilt castles in Spain with lightening
strokes. ~ She should be his; She must
be. Before him life stretched, glorious,
with her at his side. :
«I think I will tell you,” the girl was
saying. “This is*to be the most im-
portant luncheon of my life because”—
“Yes ?’ smiled Mr. Minot.
«Because it is the one at which 1
am going to announce my engage
ment!”
Minot’s heart stopped beating. A
hundred castles in Spain came tum- |
bling about his ears, and the rear of
their falling deafened him. He put out
his hand blindly to open the door, for
he realized that the car had come to a
Stop.
“Tet he help you. please,” he said
dully.
And even as he spoke a horrible pos-
sibility swept into his heart and over-
whelmed him.
“II beg your pardon,” he stammer-
ed, “but would you mind telling me
one thing?”
“Of course not.
fly”’—
«The name vf—the happy man.”
“Why, Allan, Lord Harrowby. Thank
vou so much, and goodby.”
She was gone now, gone amid the
palms of that gorgeous hotel court-
yard. And eut of the roar that en-
veloped him Minot heard a voice:
«hirty-five dollars, mister.”
So promptly did he pay this grievous
overcharge that the chauffeur asked
hopefully:
“Now. could I take you anywhere.
sir?”
“Yes,” said Minot bitterly. “Take me
back to New York.”
“Well, if 1 had a new front tire I
might try it.”
Two eager black boys were moving
inside with Minot's bags. and he fol
lowed. As he passed the fountain
tinkling gayly in the courtyard, “What
was it I promised Thacker?” he said*
to himself. “ ‘Miss Cynthia Meyrick
changes her mind only over my dead
body.” Ah, well, the goodl die young!”
At the desk of the De la Pax Mr.
Minot learned that for $15 a day he
might board and lodge amid the gplen-
dors of that hotel. Gratefully he sign-
ed his name. One of the negro. boys,
who had matched coins for him with
the other boy while he registered, led
the way to his room. ;
It proved a long and devious journey.
The Hotel De Ia Pax was a series of
afterthoughts’ on the part of its’ build-
ers. Up hill ‘and down dale the boy
led, through’ dark passageways, over
narrow bridges, until at length they
arrived at the door of 380,
The boy departed, and Minot gazed
out. of a solitary window. Directly
across from his window, looking
strangely out of place in that dead and
buried street, stood a great stone house
that bore on its front the sign “Man-
hattan Club and Grill.” On the veran-
da, flush with the sidewalk and barely
fifteen feet away, a huge red faced
man sat deep in slumber.
Many and strange pursuits had claim-
ed the talents of old Tom Stacy, man-
ager of the Manhattan club ere his
advent in San Marco. A too active
district attorney had forced the New
York police to take a keen interest in
his life and works; hence Mr. Stacy's
presence on that Florida porch.
Minot sat gloomily down on the bed.
What could he do, what save keep his
word, given on the seventeenth floor
of an office building in New York?
No man had yet had reason to ques-
tion: the good faith of a Minot. His
dead father at the beginning of his ca-
reer had sacrificed his fortune to keep
his word and gone back with a smile
to begin all over again. What eould
he do? - {
Nothing save grit his teeth and see
the thing through. He made up his
mind to this as he: bathed and shaved
and prepared himself for his debut in!
San Marco. So that when he finally !
left the hotel and stepped out into San i
Sebastian avenue be was cheerful with
a dogged; boy:stood on the burning
deck cheerfulness. |
A dozen negroes, their smiles rem- |
iniscent of tooth powder advertise"
ments, vainly sought to cajole him into |
thelr shaky vehicles. With difficulty’!
he" avoided their” pleas and’ strolled |
down San Marce’s ‘main thoroughfare. |
On every side clever shopkeepers
spread the net/ for the eagle on the dol- |
lar. Jewelers’ shops flashed, modistes"!
hinted, milliners begged to present |
tieeir latest creations.
Mi-
But I really must
CHAPTER IV.
An Old College Friend. o
his way back to the hotel in
front of one of the more daz-
zling modiste’s shops he saw a
limousine drawn up to the
curb and in it Jack Paddock, friend of
his college days. Paddock leaped
Dick Minot by the hand
«You here?’ heicried.
“Foolish question,” commented Mr,
Minot. eg Li
“Yes, I know,” said Mr. Paddock.
«Been here so 1oBg my brain’s a Hitle
dabby. But I'm glad to see you, eid
man.
«Same here.” Mr. Minot stared at
the ear. “I say, Jack, did yeu earn
that writing fiction?”
Paddock laughed.
«I'm pot writing much fiction now,”
he replied. “The car belongs to Mrs.
Helen Bruce, the wittiest hostess in
San Marco.’ He came e€loser./ “My
boy,” he confided, “I have struck some-
thing essentiaily soft. Some time
goon in a room with all the doors and
windows closed and the weather strips
in place I'll whisper it to you. I've
been dying to tell'somebody. ST
“And the car ¢ silve's
“Part of the graft, Dick, Here comes
Mrs. Bruce now. Did I mention ghe
was the wittiest—of course I did.
Want to meet her? Well, later then
You're at the Pax, I suppose. See you
there.” ses a
Minot devoted the next hour to sad
introspection in the lobby. It was not
until he was on his way in to dinner
that he again saw Cynthia Meyrick.
Then, just outside the dining room
door, he encountered her, still all in
white, lovelier than ever, in her cheek
a flush of excitement, no doubt put
there by the most important luncheon
of her life. He waited for her to rec-
ognize him, and he did not wait im
vain.
“AR Mr.”—
“Minot.” .
“Of course. In the hurry of this noon
I quite overlooked an introduction. I
am’ —
“Miss Cynthia Meyrick. I happen to
know because I met his lordship in
New York. May I ask—was the lunch-
eon’’— .
“Quite without a flaw. So you know
Lord Harrowby?"
“Er—slightly. May 1 offer my very
best wishes?”
“So good of you.”
Formal. formal, formal. Was that
how it must be between them here-
after? Wall, it was better so. . Miss
Meyrick presented her father and her
aunt. and that did not tend to lighten
the formality. Icicles, both of them,
though stocky puffing icicles. Aunt in-
quired if Mr. Minet was related to the
Minots of Detroit and when he failed
to qualify at once lost all interest in
him. Old Spencer Meyrick did not ac-
cord him even that much attention.
Yet all was not formal, as it happen-
ed, for as Cynthia © Meyrick maved
away she whispered. “I must see, you
after dinner—on important business.”
And her smile as she said it made Mi-
not’s own lonely dinner quite cheery.
At 7 in the evening the hotel orches-
tra gathered in the lobby for its night-
ly concert. and after the way of 'or-
chesfras it was almost ready to begin
when Mines deft tLe dining room at 8.
He sat down in a veranda chair and
looked out at the courtyard. In the
splendor of its evening colors it was
indeed the setting for romance. In the
midst of the green palms and blooming
things splashed a fountain : which
might well have been the one. old
Ponce de Leon sought. On three sides
the lighted towers and turrets of that
huge hotel climbed toward the bright,
warm southern sky. A dazzling moon
shamed Mr. Edison's lamps, the breeze
came tepid from the sea, the’ very
latest in waltzes drifted out from the
gorgeous lobby. Here romance, Minot
thought, must have been born..
“Mr. Minot, I’ve been looking every-
where” — >
She was beside him now, a ‘slim
white figure in the dusk—the one thing
lacking in that glittering picture.” He
leaped to meet her.
“Sitting here dreaming, I reckon,”
she ‘whispered. “of somebody far
away.”
"(continued next week)
Do you ever have
the“blues”?
That discouraged feeling often
comes from a disordered stom-
ach, or an inactive liver. Get
your digestion in shape and
the bile acting properly—then
the “blues” will disappear. You
will soon be cheerful, if you take
PILL
it oflf— ruin
the people's remedy. for life’s
common ailments. They, act
thoroughly on the stomach,
liver and bowels, and soon reg-
ulate and strengthen these im-
portant organs. Purely, vege-
table—contain no. harmiu
drugs. Whenever you feel
despondent. a few doses will
Make Things
look Brighter
Largest Sale of Any Medicine in the World.
oA Saleh Any Melidine fo the Weld.
You Never Can Tell.
Orawford—You spoke of opening a
bank account in your wife's name in
order to teach her the value of money.
How did it turn out? Crabshaw—She
used it up to pay a lot of bills I could
have staved off for six months.—Ex-
change.
Rich i
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