Evening Star Newspaper, May 12, 1894, Page 20

20 WINNING HIS STAR, OR THE ADVENTURES OF PAUL TRAVERS. ‘Written for The Evening Star by Sam Clover. Copyrighted, 1994. All rights reserved.) CHAPTER L ELL, MY BOY, what can I do for you?” ‘The speaker was chief editorial writer on one of the leading daily papers in the west. Of medium height, fairly robust frame, piercing black eyes, high forehead and sallow features his was, perhaps, the most familiar figure known to the Chicago Rewspaper world, where his trenchant pen had long since won for him the recogni- tion that his talents deserved. He now sat in his cozy den on the fifth floor of the Mercury building and, with his swivel chair half wheeled from his desk turned toward a lad of sixteen, who, straw hat in hand, had just entered the room in Fesponse to the invitation that followed his Modest tap on the door. + In the bright-eyed, alert figure of the youth that advanced toward him Mr. Wilder recognized the son of an old college friend, whose unpractical business notions, despite his cultured mind, had ever proved @ bar to his financial success in bustling, matter-of-fact Chicago. During the occasional visits paid to his former college chum Mr. Wilder had learn- ed to admire the younger Paul Travers, whose modest deportment, bright observa- tions, intelligent questions and fund of wit ‘were qualifications that readily attracted the keen newspaper man, who, perhaps, saw in the lad some trace of his former boyhood self. The cordial greeting he accorded Paul put the latter at his ease immediately. After inquiring if his parents were well and receiving an affirmative reply Mr. Wilder divined the youth had come to see him for some specific purpose and not for a mere friendly call, pointing to a chair, im a pleasant tone he asked: “Well, Paul, what's on your mind? What can I do for you?" Paul's eyes traced the pattern on the car- pet for a moment, and then meeting the kindly gaze of his father’s friend the lad modestly replied: “It’s like this, Mr. Wilder; I finished my studies at the high schoo! last month, and knowing that father can't afford to pay my expenses at college I am anxious to relieve him of my support at home, for, you see, the dear old pater, with bis slender income, has had a hard Paul and His Father. struggle to provide for mother and the girls and to keep me at school so long. His department chief in the railroad office has offered me a clerkship, but it isn't at all to my taste; in fact, Mr. Wilder,” continued Paul hesitatingly, “I want to do newspaper work, and have come up to see if you can give me any encouragement.” Paul blushed as he finished his speech, fealizing that his ambition might appear extravagant to the man of ripened expert- ence whom he addressed. Still, as he in- wardly reflected, even Mr. Wilder had to have a beginning, and perhaps he might re- member this fact. The editor pulled thoughtfully at his mustache before replying. Then he said “I don’t know any better crude material in the city, my boy, for a future guod news- paper man than yourself. But are you sure you have fully considered what you wish? Remember, a reporter’s life is not all roses. ‘The pay is small, the snubs are many, and there is no such thing as riches or fame awaiting even him who does his work thor- oughly and conscientiously, as I am sure Would be the case with you. Better aim for the president's chair in that railroad @ompany, and it will bring you more glory and a fuller purse that the editorial man- agement of the biggest newspaper in Chi- cago. Paul smiled, but shook his head. “I know that money is a mighty good thing to have, but I assure you, sir, I wasn’t cut out for rich man; you know it isn’t in our blood, he added with a pleasant laugh. “I hon2st- ly believe I can fit myself for the newspaper profession and hope to attain a moderate success in its ranks. As for the snubs, I am ready to take my share, but I should think if a fellow behaved himself he might expect decent treatment in return.” “So he might, so he might,” returned the editor heartily, “and its not neariy so bad now as when I was a youngster. Well, I find you are determined to break in on us, go I will do all I can to help you along. Let me see, Paul, how old are you?” “I shall be seventeen next month, sir.” “Pretty young yet to start in, my son. I fate to see you buckle down in earnest without first having a glimpse of the out- side world. After once fairly in harness it fs hard to get away, and one draws to man- hood and assumes its responsibilities al- most before one realizes what has happen- ed. My advice is to roam around a bit be- fore plunging into the stern realities of life. It would be an experience of even far more Value than a college training in the calling You wish to follow.” “I feel that you are right, Mr. Wilder; indeed, I have often wished that I couid be im the position of those wealthy young Eng- lishmen who are sent abroad to make the nd tour after finishing their studies at jome; but of course that sort of a trip is out of the question. I can’t even afford the economical tramps afoot such as Bayard Taylor took. But do you know, Mr. Wil- der,” continued Paul, in his chatty, confi- dential way, “I have had serious thoughts at times at starting out to see something of the world, regardiess of money or prospects. T actually believe I could leave Chicago with Just a few dollars in my pocket and circle €lear around the globe if I only had the berve to make a start. Do you think I could succeed?” The editor laughed grimly. “I believe if eny one could, you could, Paul, but it is a | I should | more serious undertaking than care to essay at my ege. With your activ- ity and pluck, however, I guess you would pull through all right, though I'm not ad- vising its attempt, mind. Just think over what I have told you, and come back to see me next week. Meantime, I'll ask the city editor to bear your application in mind.” Paul had the good sense to see that the interview was at an end, so, picking up his hat, he thanked Mr. Wilder warmly for his interest. and, with a cheery good afternoon, withdrew. He was unusually quiet that evening, and when his sisters atte y him he their banter p: unheeded. mother kissed him good night she hand caressingiy over her boy face and tenderly inquired if his head ached, but when Paul fondly returned the kiss and assured his mother that nothing ailed him physically her heart told her that the lad was wrestling with some problem which would undoubtedly be revealed in on. “Father, I want to walk down town with ."" said Paul next morning at the break- t, my son; I shall be delighted. 1 decided to take that clerkship but I want to have a talk with x Then, seeing the looks of curiosity @epicted om the faces of his sisters, he laughingly added: “No girls, just possess your souls in patience, ll disclose the dark secret this afternoon. Both Madge and Edith declared they hadn't the least particle of interest in his mysterious Plans, and begged him not to think of revealing them on their account, but Paul smiled good-naturedly, and said he knew they were burning with curiosity. To his mother he whispered, as she follow- ed her husband to the door, "i tell you all about it when I come back. Paul Travers, sr., always walked to his office in fine weather. In the first place it saved car fare, and secondly the two-mile tramp acted as a tonic on the system of the man who sat all day at his desk in the auditor's office of the big railroad company where he was employed. Then, too, the miserable street-car service in the west dis- trict where he lived repelled rather than attracted passenger traffic. Father and son traversed several blocks without either saying a word. Suddenly Paul spoke. “Do you think you could get me a pass to Pueblo?” was his startling query. “I might if I applied for it, I suppose; but what do you expect to do in Colorado?’ asked his perplexed parent. “I went to the Mercury office yesterday,” returned Paul, evading a direct reply, “and had a talk with Mr. Wilder about news- paper work. He thought he could help me, but suggested that I see a little of the world and rub off my rawness before start- ing in as a reporter. He thinks that a practical experience of this sort will be in- valuable to me later on. What do you think, father?” Mr. Travers hesitated. He was proud of his son’s energy and ambition, but the boy was dear to his heart, and the thought of any separation was painful. Yet, knowing bis own shortcomings, he realized that a journey of the kind proposed would give the lad practical ideas and a knowledge of the world that would at least save him fiom the fate that had befallen his father. Then, too, he shrewdly guessed that Paul imaginative mind would never be satisfied with the dull routine of clerical work, so with a rapid mental survey of these various problems he replied: “I certainly Lelieve travel and observation will improve any one, but, my boy, suppose you go to Colo- redo. What are your plans?” “Frankly, I have no definite ones, father. You know I have a standing inv! n from Ernest Horton to visit him at Silver- ton, to which point I would probably go from Pueblo. I am anxious to see some of the famous silver mines in Colorado, and to tramp over part of the Rockies. It seems to me that one who has lived all his life in a flat prairie country might be inspired by the sight of those mighty peaks out there.” “But $50 won't last you very long, Paul. What will you do when your money is gcne? I am sorry to say I can’t spare any just now.” ‘Don’t you worry about t turned Paul affectionately. “When my last cent is spent I may take a notion to turn tramp and keep on walking until I strike salt water. But just rest easy, I'm sure 1 can take care of myseif and I'll keep you all posted so that you may know I a:n safe and in the land of the living. Only give me your permission to go and help me win mother’s consent. Is it a bargain, father?" And the lad halted on the Adams street viaduct, over which they were then passing, and laid his hand caressingly on the elder man’s shoulde “You know what Mr. Wilder's views are,” he continued, by way of a clincher, “and I wouldn't urge it myself if I didn’t feel certain it was a good thing.” Five minutes more and they had reached the general offices of the railroad compuny. As Paul turned to retrace his steps his father called from the stairway: “I'll think it over, my son; I'm half inclined to let you go, but I must consult with your mother.” Mrs. Travers was decidedly averse to the Project at first, but after a long discussion that night with her husband, during which he told some forcible truths regarding his own early life and its isolation, the mother yielded and relunctantly gave her consent. When Paul outlined his plans and hinted of a possible extension of his Colorado trip to points far beyond, beth his mother and the girls thought he was merely joking, and Edith laughed gayly at the notion of any prolonged travels with so slender a purse as Paul carried. None of them could believe he was really in earnest. In his way Paul was something of a fa- talist and was willing to be guided to a great extent by circumstances. He was determined to travel and had planned to do any honest work, however humble or rough, in order to succeed in his object. Hard knocks and buffetings he expected to en- ccunter, but if he could have foreseen some of his later experiences even his enthusiasm might have suffered a collapse. ‘Two days before the time set for starting out on at Madge facetiously termed her brether’s “grand tower,” Paul made a fare- well call on his father’s friend at the Mer- cury office. “I have come to say good-bye, Mr. Wild- er,” he said, advancing to where the news- paper man sat at his desk. “You see, I have taken your advice and intend to knock around a little befcre joining the Mercury staff.” ‘The editor leaned back in his chair until the springs groaned. “Bless my soul, boy, you surely are not in earnest; I never dreamed your parents would give their con- sent. Which way do you go, and when do you start?” “I am going to Colorado first and expect to leave Thursday,” answered Paul. “I want to see something of the mountainous country and will put in a month or two at the silver mines; what my route will be after that I have net decided. I only know that I intend to keep my face to the west and hope that I won't have to turn in my tracks until I strike Chicago again.” The newspaper man emitted a long whis- tle. “Weil, come, I like that,” he ejacu- lated; “and what do you expect such a trip will cost you?” Paul smiled. “Well, not much; I have $53 in cash and a pass over the Santa Fe read to Pueblo. But I mean to make it, though, sure as I live,” added the lad earn- estly, noticing the look of ineredulity on Mr. Wilder's face. “Tell you what I'l do, Paul,” said the editor banteringly. “I'll give you six weeks to get back to three meals a day and a clean bed. You'll do well if you stand the pressure that long. Why, man, you'll starve to death out in that country when your money is exhausted.” This light estimation of his powers net- tled Paul, as Mr. Wilder had purposely in- tended, and his tone was a trifle brusque as he retorted: “Oh, no, sir, I guess not, and I am certain you will not see me back here in less than a year, for I will surely go clear around the world. But that isn’t all; I hope to get back with more money than I have now, if possible.” Paul was far from being a boaster, and the quiet, earnest manner in which he said this seemed to carry conviction to the quiz- zical editor, who immediately exclaimed: “Ah, Paul, forgive my incredulity. I haven't the slightest doubt of your ultimate suc- cess, and I promise that a first-class posi- tion shall be ready for you on the Mercury staff as a reward for your courage and en- terprise, when you return. Meanwhile, us in any letters descrip- vels we will not only publish y¥ you a good price if they prove tive of your t them but : you know, my boy, he continued, I am really proud of your spirited resolu- tion, and only wish I were twenty years younger, so that I could offer myself as a traveling companion. But don't forget, Paul, that wherever you go or in what com- pany you are thrown you have a good name to cherish and a mother whose heart would be broken if her boy went wrong. Another thing; don’t rush into danger needlessly. | One can be brave without being foolhardy. I firmly believe you will turn up here some fine morning safe and sound, with a fund of experiences worth the price of one of those silver mines out In the Rockies. So keep a stiff upper I y lad, and try to take things philosophi the feathers with the turkey.” Then this usually cynical leader writer, whose pen, people said, was tipped with gall, gave Paul a hearty handshake, wished him godspeed, and as the coor closed on his retreating form, muttered, “It's a fool thing to attempt. I am afraid, but if he comes through aii right it will’be the making of him.” Then he whirled around to his desk, dipped his stub pen in the ink and was soon ly, it) THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, MAY 12, 1894-TWENTY PAGES deep in a scathing criticism on the unblush- inb boodlers of the city hall. CHAPTER II. The Santa Fe train was speeding rapidly toward Pueblo and Paul, with the exuber- ance and elasticity of youth, was beginning to recover from the terrible attack of home- sickness that had haunted him since the day previous. It had beer harder to say good-bye to this parents and sisters than he had antici- pated, and but for his brave promise made to Mr. Wilder it is possible that he would have abandoned the trip at the last mo- ment when he saw the grief of his mother and the tears of Madge and Edith. But although there was a big lump in his throat and a heaviness of heart that op- pressed him sorely, he managed to go through the ordeal without utterly break- ing down, and the promise of liberal letter- writing on both sides was a slight measure of comfort. ‘To the lad who had never before been out of Illinois the journey so far had been full of novelty. The crossing of the Father of Waters and later of the mighty Missouri were events not to be soon forgotten, while the ever-changing scenery through which the train passed so engrossed his attention that gradvally his spirits brightened and his features resumed their accustomed vi- vacity. Perhaps it was his lively interest in the surroundings, together with his cheery countenance, which attracted the attention of a young army lieutenant, who presently opened a conversation that, by the time they reached Pueblo, resulted in establish- ing quite a bond of friendship between the in the cavalry branch of the service, and was returning to his post on the Colorado frontier, after a two months’ leave of absence. He was greatly interested in Paul’s proposed trip, and the gentle breeding of the lad, added to the fact that both had recently severed home ties, warmed his heart toward the young- ster. At Pueblo they stayed over night at the same hotel, where the officer insisted on settling the bill next morning. As the route of each lay in a similar direction ever the Denver and Rio Grande railroad, both went south on the same train, the presence of the Heutenant adding greatly to the charm of the ride in that picturesque region. Paul was fairly overcome by the awful grandeur of the mountains whose beauties he experienced for the first time and if he said little it was because he was too full for mere words. But there was an exultant leap at his heart and a thrilling of the pulses, as he absorbed the inspiring scen- ery, that caused his eyes to dilate and his cheeks to blush with gratified pleasure. Lieut. Hatfield had business to transact at Fort Garland that would detain him a day and he invited Paul to be his guest at the post. As the lad was in no hurry to reach Silverton, he gladly availed himseif of the chance to see something of soldier lifé on the frontier. “But you won't see much activity at this post," remarked the lieutenant. “It is to be abandoned shortly, and only two compa- nies of ‘doughboys’ remain. Just wait un- til we reach my command on the Uncom- pahgre river, then I'll give you a taste of army life.” However, Paul passed a very enjoyable day, especially in the forenoon, when, in company with two young lieutenants fresh from West Point, he hunted jack rabbits through the scrub oaks and sage brush in the San Luis Valley. It was great sport, and, as Paul had the good luck to knock over a big jack, he returned to the post elated with his success. His friend’s business proved to be of a na- ture not suspected by Paul, who accidently learned that Mr. Hatfield had lost his heart to the charming daughter of a Tich rancher down the valley. This accounted for the | late arrival of the heutenant at the post that night after an all day's absence and for the glum looks he wore as they rode to the station next morning in the ambulance. Paul rallied his friend on his lugubrious aspect, and his lively sallles finaliy elicited a hearty Jaugh from the young officer, who apologized for his dullness. At Anamosa they engaged seats in the stage coach which was to carry them through to Lake City, and at 10 o'clock the conveyance started, Paul and the Heutenant settling themselves for an all-night ride to Wagon Wheel Gap. At daylight the next morning the two comrades jumped out to stretch their cramped limbs and for an hour trudged alongside the horses that toiled up a steep incline. At the summit the driver halted to breathe his team and, pointing with his whip across the intervening valley oracu- larly observed: “Deer yonder.” Paul's eyes danced with excitement as he took in the graceful contour of the slender animals that, scenting the strangers, sud- denly darted back into the woods. Hear- ing the sigh of disappointment which es- ecaped him the lieutenant laughingly ex- claimed, “Never mind, Paul; I promise you plenty of sport when we get to camp.” It had been settled that before going to Silverton Paul was to leave the coach at Los Pinos and accompany Lieut. Hatfield to his command, which was camped forty miles north of the agency. There had been trouble with the Utes some months previous necessitating the presence of troops, and although the excitement had abated the regulars still remained tn the field. At Los Pines an zmbulance from the camp was found awaiting the arrival of the coach, into which Paul and his friend climbed, after eating a hearty dinner at the agency mess. A dusty ride through the reservation behind four spanking mules brought them to the camp just in time for supper, to which meal both did ample jus- tice. Paul's appetite, never particularly poor, had materially improved since his ad- vent into Colorado. e army officers, from the colonel down, gave the young Chicagoan a warm welcome, and Paul spent a very delightful week in their company, Owing to the absence of the captain on sick leave, Mr. Hatfield, as senior lieutenant, was in command of his troop, and he proved a capital host. He oe Rather Startling. arranged many pleasant excursions for the lad, on one of which Paul shot his first big game, a fine buck. He was even permitted to accompany the lieutenant on a scouting | expedition in the neighborhood of White river, where some unruly Utes were re- ported. This was quite a notable event to him. He was mounted on the leutenant’s spare horse, sported a pair of borrowed spurs, had a big revolver strapped to his belt, and, | wearing a pair of gauntlets and a gray, | slouch hat, rode off with the party in gal- | lant style. They were absent from camp four days, during which time they covered 150 miles and saw lots of game, but no In- dians. The second day out one of the ser- geants shot a magnificent elk, some steaks off which the Heutenant's orderly broiled for supper. It proved a toothsome dish, and washed down with clear, mountain spring water made a delicious meal. It was hard to say good-bye to his army friends, and especially to the leutenant, from whom he parted with many expres- | sons of regret and with the fervent hope of a future reunion. On the way back to the agency the ambulance halted at Chief | Ouray’s cabin, where Paul met the old war- |rior and his squaw, Chipeta, who offered him a bow! of soup, but the previous sight | of a string of skinned puppies hanging near | the shack caused the lad to decline the proffered hospitality. The fare from Pueblo to Anamosa, thence by stage route to Los Pinos, had made quite an inroad on Paul's slender purse, so, | after resting over night at the agency, he | decidede to send his valise to Silverton by express and set out afoot for that camp. His outtic consisted of a blanket strapped to his back, in which were a change of un- derclothing and a few handkerchiefs. On | his person he carried a comb, toothbrush, telescopic tin cup, a pocket knife and a small revolver, which Lieut. Hatfield had | | Pressed upon him as a parting gift. The| |slcuch hat that he had worn on the scout- | ing expedition, a woolen shirt and stout | shoes completed his tramp attire. The alkali dust was nearly a foot thick on the trail, so Paul quickly took to the | brush, where the startled sage hens flew up almost in his face as he trudged along. For a time he amused himself by pepping at them with his revolver, but as he hit none | and cartridges were scarce he soon desisted, At midday he halted near a mountain spring, nibbled some crackers and cheese in the shade of a huge rock and later bathed his swollen feet in the cool stream. It was a scorching hot afternoon and often Paul was tempted to throw away his blan- ket, but the thought of a cold night-camp proved a stronger argument than the broil- ing sun. That evening he found lodging at a rough frontier hotel in Ouray and early next morning struck boldly out over the trail, crossing the San Juan divide without any mishap. At Mineral Point he camped over night, and from there trudged on to Animas Forks. Between that camp and Silverton he had an awful scare. He was plodding through the dust, mentlly wondering what Mr. Wilder would think of his experience when, forty or fifty feet ahead, he spied a big black bear with a cub by her side trot- ing unconcernedly along in the middie of the trail. Paul stood stock still; then came a strong impulse to turn and run back. But the next minute, to his delight, bruin and her baby slunk off into the timber and disap- peared. Paul took no chances, however, but making a grand detour did not strike the trail again until he was a mile beyond the dreaded spot. He ruefully thought of his revolver and realized what a poor pro- tection it offered in case he had been com- pelled to test its powers. At Silverton, to his great chagrin, Paul found that Ernest Norton was out_pros- pecting near Bridal Veil Basin, and was not expected back until fall. This was a bitter disappointment to the lad, who had counted on a joyful meeting with his former school chum, to whom he had written an- nouncing his prospective arrival. But at the post office he found a card from Ernest reading as follows: CAMP CHICAGO, Aug. 18.—Dear Paul: Inquire at the Silverton Bank for the loca- tion of my claim, and come out as soon you arrive in town. Sorry I can’t be there to meet you, but will let you get even with me up het Can give you lots of sport and promise you a jolly visit. As ever, your friend, ERNEST. From the cashier of the bank Paul ob- tained the desired information, and after getting permission to leave his valise in the office, so as to save storage charges, he renewed his lonely tramp over the mountain trail. He had no difficulty in finding the camp, although it was nearly dark when, in response to his prolonged “Hello, Hor- ton!" the flap of a wall tent was pushed aside and his friend appeared in the door- way, his figure thrown into strong relief by the glare from a generous camp fire. “By all that’s glorious, it's Paul,” shouted Horton. “Say, but I'm glad to see you. Come in and meet the boys. Here, Dave, Ned, Harry, let_me introduce my friend from Chicago, Paul Travers,” and in a minute Paul's hand was warmly gripped by three sturdy young miners, who cordially welcomed him to their camp. The two friends spent the evening in ex- changing mutual reminiscences of school days, Ernest's companions meantime sew- ing industriously on certain garments that needed repairing. Occasionally they in- terrupted the flow of conversation to ask “Paul, by All That's Glorious.” some questions, but only at rare intervals, so that when it was time to turn in each had pumped the other nearly dry. Ernest warmly approved Paul's design to put a girdle around the globe, but said he had no intention of letting him start until he had paid the camp a long visit. He ex- plained that he and his three comrades had formed a partnership to do prospecting that season and had entered several prom- ising claims, one of which they expected to sell to a Boston syndicate. The fishing in the mountain streams was good, the hunt- ing was excellent, and if Paul wanted other exercise he might handle a pick and shovel on one of their recently acquired “pros- pects.” Ernest was a royal good fellow, and his partners proved to be a jolly trio, who in- sisted on treating Paul as a guest and giv- ing him the best of everything, despite his protests. The healthy outdoor existence, good hours and plain food imparted a rich color to the lad’s cheeks and sent the blood coursing through his veins, so that when the time for leaving arrived he felt strong enough to surmount any and all obstacles. It had been a delightful fortnight. Hunt- ing, fishing and exploring mountain fast- nesses had caused the days to glide by all too swiftly, so that Paul was reluctant to leave the camp. But he had determined to reach the coast before cold weather should catch him en route, so he manfully resisted the appeals of his friends to remain longer, and one bright, crisp morning toward the Ist of September started dowa the tall with a hearty Godspeed from the quartet that assembled to see him off. In his pocket he carried a letter of intro- duction to the agent of the stage line at Sil- verton, who was a brother to Dave Ender- ley, one of Ernest's partners. Knowing the state of Paul's finances, Dave had sug- gested that he could just as well save him coach fare to Gunnison City, to which point the stage ran. Paul gladly accepted the proffered kindness, for he dreaded the return tramp over the divide, the recol- lection of his narrow escape from the bear being still fresh in his mind. The agent proved to be all that Dave had depicted him, and Paul was deadheaded through to Gunnison, the only expense being his meals on the road. But even these were costly, and when he alighted from the coach at Gunnison City his stock of cash was reduced to $3. The situation began to grow serious, but Paul knew that sooner or later his purse would be emptied, so he did not borrow trouble. After registering at the only hotel the Place afforded he scrubbed off some of the dust and dirt, ate a dubious meal and then strolled over to what the old-timers called “New-town,” a collection of tents and board shanties that morked the more recently settled portion of Gunnison City. The main sireet presented an odd appear- ance to the eyes of the observant lad. Dance halls, hurdy-gurdy saloons, cheap clothing stores and gambling houses con- stituted the “substantial” buildings, which consisted of hastily constructed shanties of dressed lumber that were conspicuous because of their contrast with the pre- vailing style of tent architecture. ‘There was the usual medley of mixed characters that may be met in all new camps. Clerks from the states, in feverish search for riches and with poorer prospects of getting them than ever before; typical miners, stage drivers, bullwhacket gam- blers, loafers and roughs of all déscriptions, with here and there a gaudily dressed fe- male—the advance guard of her gentler sis- ters. No wonder Paul was fascinated by the strange sights; the atmosphere he breathed fairly teemed with excitement. A crowd that was constantly passing In and out of one of the wooden palaces at- tracted his attention, and with boyish curi- osity he strayed inside with the rest. A dance was in progress on the sanded floor, the bars on either side of the room were doing a flourishing business, while away at the rear end a number of gamblers bent over a green table where a man sat dealing cards from a polished steel box. Just as Paul approached this corner there was an excited protest from one of the players, followed by loud and angry cries of profanity. Next instant was heard a sharp report, and with a fearful groan the dis- putant fell in a nerveless heap to the floor, his late associates hastily scattering in a dozen different directions. In the rush Paul was swiftly borne out doors and before he could fully realize what had happened he found himself running a foot race with a strapping young fellow, who led the way in the direction of “Old- town,”” and whose long mustache fluttered like the streamers on a masthead, as they breasted the keen night air. CHAPTER III. Presently both slackened their speed and settled into a walk. “Pretty tough experfence that,” said Paul’s companion, with a backward wave of his hand. “Mighty glad to get away with a whole skin, weren't you?” “I should think so. I had no idea what sort of a den it was or I guess I should have kept out. Nice reception to give a stranger, isn’t it?” The other laughed. “Oh, well, it's what you must expect in these boom towns, where all the scum of civilization {s col- lected; mighty glad I’m going away.” “Then you don't live here?” “Oh, no; my home is in Denver; my two partners and I had an offer of plenty of carpenter work at pretty stiff prices, so as trade was dull at home this summer we came up here by wagon; but we are going back tomorrow.” “To Denver?” queried Paul, wistfully. “Yep! Don’t live there, do yo “No, but I am headed that way; I suppose there’s no chance to join your party, is there? “I don’t know; can you cook?” Visions of his experiences in camp at Bridal Veil Basin came to Paul's mind as he hesitatingly answered, “Well, I'm not an expert, but I can make good coffee and can turn a fiapjack without spilling the batter in the fire. “Where are you staying?” ver at the Gunnison House.” ‘Oh, yes; we're camped near there; that’s our tent just the other side of the prairie schooner you see with the green box. Tell you what I'll do, I'll speak to the boys to- The Last Dollar. night about it, and if you’re up before we get away in the morning verhaps I can fix you out.”” Paul was profuse in his thanks and ea- gerly promised to be on hand. He did not sleep soundly owing to the number of bed- fellows that forced their acquaintance, and he was glad to turn out at daybreak and settle his bill. He had just a dollar left when this was done. His companion of the previous night was vigorously splashing around in a tin basin as Paul neared the wagon with the green box. Presently he looked up and with a cheery “Hello, stranger, you did make it, didn’t you?” motioned him to a seat on an inverted bucket. “Well, what luck?” was Paul's anxious salutation. “First rate. We don’t really need a cook, but I managed to talk the boys into the idea, so they agreed you might join us. Got any baggage?” “I have a valise at the hotel.” “Better get it over here, then, because we want to make an early start.” Paul fervently expressed his obligation for these good offices and made a bee-line for the hotel, returning in a few minutes with his grip. “Had breakfast?” asked his new acquaint- ance, who introduced himself as Jack White. “No; I was too early and didn’t wait for fear of missing you.” “All right; might just as well pitch in now and show what you can do. There's the coffee beans and you'll find plenty of kindling under the wagon.” By the time the rest of the outfit was up and dressed Paul had a good fire blazing and a pot of coffee almost boiled. With the handle of a hammer inserted in a mus- tard can he had pounded his beans on the tire of a wagon wheel until they were pret- ty well pulverized, and having mixed up a batter and heated his pan he was ready to fry the flapjacks. Luckily, everything went off without a hitch and Jack’s two com- Trades voted the new cook a success. Down the Tomichi river, over Marshall Pass and across the South Park the ttle caravan wended its way, averaging from twenty-five to thirty miles a day. A saddle horse that had been bought from an im; cunious prospector was allotted to Paul, who generally rode ahead of the party and selected the camp for the night. The hunt- ing and fishing were prime, his duties were not exacting, and his companions were so- ciable and good-natured, so that the trip to Denver was almost like a continuous picnic to the young traveler, who was actually sorry when the capital city of the centen- nial state was reached. Paul's first night in Denver was passed on a pile of shavings in the workshop oc- cupied by Jack White and his two friends. It was not a choice couch, but this was no time to be squeamish, id wrapped in his faithful blanket the lad slept as contentedly if he were in his own bed at home. You can hold this down as long as you stay here,” said Jack, “but I suppose you will be moving toward the slope before the week's out, eh?” Paul thought he would, but hadn't quite decided just when he should leave town. He was grateful to Jack for his kind offer, however, and told him so. “Oh, that’s all right. Don't cost a cent and I guess you won't steal anything; you look honest.” A budget of news from home awaited him at the post office in answer to his letters mailed at Silverton. All wondered how he could possibly travel around so much on his slim capital, and expressed the hope that he would soon be with them again. But Paul had no intention of returning yet. He was fairly imbued with the spirit of travel and was determined to prove to Mr. Wilder that it was no idle boast he had made. It did seem to be a foolhardy under- taking, as he meatally confessed that noon, when, after writing the folks to direct their next letters in care of the general delivery at San Francisco, he sat with his last quar- ter in his pocket, eating dinner in a cheap restaurant on Holliday street. Perhays {t was the grim humor of the situation that lent a flavor to the meal which the cooking could never have im- parted. After settling his bill he would be down to hardpan, but instead of feeling Walking Good? alarmed he had only curiosity to know how he would fare. He stoutly rejected the sug- gestion that at times insinuated itself of writing home for funds, for, although he knew they would be forthcoming, he was also aware how illy his father could spare any money. “No, I must get cut of town, and at once,” was his final conclusion. “If I have to work for my meals I might just as well do It on the road. I'll start today—now—just as soon as I finish my dinner.” Paul had been in Denver about a week. He had sold his valise and reduced his wardrobe to the single change of under- clothing strapped in his blanket. His marching attire was the same as when he was tramping over the mountain trails. There was no ticket to buy, no trunk to check, and no farewells to make, except to shake hands with Jack White. ‘All he had to-do was to strike the railroad track and follow the ties until he reached the Union Pacific junction near Cheyenne,which meant a tramp of about 140 miles. He figured that he could do this easily in six days. (To be continued.) A SUMMER PIAZZA. Aids to Grateful Rest for Warm Days te Come. To quote our friends of the Emerald Isle the most important thing in a country home is the piazza which is outside of it, and the fitting of this outdoor parlor is an important item, writes Mrs. Garrett Web- ster in a practical article on “Furnishing a Summer Home” in the May Ladies’ Home Journal. The porch should contain at least two stout and serviceable hammocks, swung from strong and properly placed hooks. Equally necessary is it that each hammock shall be provided with at least two cushions and afghans of light and heavy weight. The cushions are most serviceable when covered with bright ban- danna kerchiefs, turkey red cotton or blue denim made with a double ruffle, and, if the time for its working can be spared, with the name of the house embroidered thereon in black on the red or white on the blue material. The wraps may consist of woolen afghans in gay colors and of the cheap Italian or Mexican silk blankets. Next in importance to the hammocks and their accouterments are the porch chairs. At least four large rockers with broad arms will be required, and to these should be added, if possible, four smaller chairs in- nocent of rockers. Two steady tables of whatever fashion may be desired are im- portant req’ ites. A large fish net tacked on to the walls of the house forms a con- venient abiding place for newspapers and novels. A couple of jardinieres of cheap pottery with growing plants therein, Jap- anese rattan screens as protection from the glare, one or two inexpensive rugs, on which are dropped a half dozen covered cushions, add beauty and luxury. SENATORS WHO DIED Over a Hundred Have Gone “With Harness on Their Backs,” THIS CONGRESS NOTED FOR MORTALITY, But It Has Had a Worthy Prede- cessor. ON DUTY TO THE END Written for The Evening Star. HERE HAS BEEN much comment at Washington about the extraordinary mortality in the pres- ent Congress. People recall in connection with it the remarka- ble mortality at the beginning of Mr. Cleveland’s other term, made note- worthy by the death of Vice President Hendricks. But what is particularly surprising about the mortal- ity of the past twelve months is the num- ber of Senators who have died. Within a very brief period the governors of three states have been called on to fill vacancies in the Senate caused by death. First Mr. Colquitt died, and Gov. Northen appointed Mr. Walsh his successor. Then Mr. Vance died, and Mr. McLaurin was appointed. Finally Mr. Stockbridge died unexpectedly in Chicago. Added to these vacancies filled by appointment are those created by the resignation of Mr. Walthall of Missis- sippi to retire to private life, and later of Mr. White of Louisiana to accept a place on the Supreme bench. Resignations for Cabinet Honors. When you consider what the average age of a Senator is, it is rather remarkable that in the history of the Senate for the first century of its existefice the resignations re- ceived were 214 and the deaths in office were only ninety-four. The deaths to date number more than 100, and the resignations more than 225. But the discrepancy is easily explained. Most of the men who have resigned seats in the Senate have done s0 because they received or expected to re- ceive some other office. Some men have played a game of hide and seek in the Sen- ate and the cabinet--resigning from one to enter the other, and vice versa. Mr. Win- dom resigned a place in the Senate to be Secretary of the Treasury under Garfield; he was re-elected to the Senate in the fall of the same year when Arthur became President. Garfield took three men out of the Senate—Blaine, to be Secretary of State; Windom, to be Secretary of the ‘reasury, and Kirkwood, to be Secretary of the Interior. Mr. Cleveland took three Sen- ators into his cabinet in his first term— Bayard, to be Secretary of State; Lamar, to be Secretary of the Interior, and Gar- land, to be Attorney General. None of these men returned to the Senate. Gar- land is practicing law in Washington, Lamar is dead and Bayard is ambassador to England. Arthur took one of his cab- inet from the Senate—Mr. Teller, who was his Secretary of the Interior, and a good one, too. Mr. Harrison took no Senators into his cabinet, although he seriously con- templated at one time the appointment of Mr. Aldrich to be*Secretary of the Treas- ury. Mr. Cleveland invited only one Sen- Carlisle. ator into his second cabinet—Mr. For Other Purposes. Many members of the Senate have re- signed to go on the Supreme bench. Among them were Oliver Eliswo:th of Connecticut, chief justice; Associate Justices McKinley and Woodbury, and the newest justice, Mr. White. Roscoe Conkling declined a Su- preme Court appointment when he was in the Senate, and David Davis of Illinois re- signed his place on the Supreme bench to be a Senator. Three Senators have resigned to be Vice Presidents of the United States—Mr. Wil- son, Mr. King and Mr. Hamlin. One Vice President resigned his high office to be a Senator—John C. Calhoun. There have been some very odd resigna- tions from the Senate. A number of men resigned to be candidates for office in their cities or states—some to be governor, some to be mayor of a city. Hannibai Hamlin resigned his seat in the Senate to be gov- ernor of Maine, but almost immediately re- signed the governorship, having been elected to the Senate for a full term again. But the governorship is a large prize compared with some which have been preferred to the Sen- ate. James J. Wilson resigned his seat in the Senate to be postmaster at Trenton. This was in 1821. James Watson gave up hi New York senatorship in 1800 to be agent at New York—an appointive Theodore Bailey of New York re- signed to be postmaster of New York city. Peter Muhlenberg of Pennsylvania resigned his seat after serving only a few months of his term to accept the position of super- visor of the revenue for-the district of Pennsylvania. Jefferson gave him the ap- pointment. Wilson C. Nicholas of Virginia resigned a senatorship to be collector of the Forts of Norfolk and Portsmouth. The of- fice of Senator has greater value now, or appointive local offices have less value. It is not uncommon for a Senator to resign to accept a foreign mission or a place in a Presijent's cabinet. But a Senator would hardly resign his seat to be mayor of New York city, as DeWitt Clinton did in 1808. Certainly he would not resign to accept the position of collector of the port for Norfolk and Portsmouth. About one-third of the people who have resigned from the Senate have accepted po- sitions as cabinet officers, ministers abroad or governors of states or territories, and the number of these is about equally di- vided. Senators Who Have Been Presidents. Eight men who were afterward Presi- dents of the United States are in the list of Senators who have resigned. Mr. Adams resigned because the legislature of Massa- chusetts chose James Lloyd, jr., to be his successor—action which was commonly in- terpreted to be an insult to Mr. Adams. Andrew Jackson resigned from the Senate |to be justice of the supreme court of Ten- |messee. He resigned a seat to which he was elected later to enter the White House. It may interest Senator Hill to know (if he does not know it now) that Mr. Jackson is the only man who ever went from the Sen- fe to the White House. Pierce resigned a | seat in the Senate with the idea of return- ing to private life. Martin Van Buren re- signed to be governor of New York; Wm. |H. Herrison to be minister to Colombia. Monroe resigned to be minister to France: Buchanan to be Secretary of State. Tyler resigned because he would not follow the instructions of his state legislature. In these enlightened days the Senator ignores the legislature and keeps right on serving in the Senate. Four Senators from North Carolina have resigned because they did not agree with the legislatures of their state. The list of those who have “died with harness on their backs” includes some not- able names. There was D. C. Broderick of California, who was killed in a duel with Judge Terry of his state in 1857. There was famous Ben, Hill of Georgia, who died just as his term was coming to an end. There was Roger Sherman of Connecticut, who served less than two years. There was Felix Grundy of Tennessee, once Attorney General. There was “| Fessenden of Maine. There was Charles Sumner of Massachusetts (just beginning his 24th year of service). There was Zach. Chandler of Michigan, whose daughter married Senator Hale. There were the two Claytons, mem- bers of a family whose name is indissol- ubly linked with that of Deleware. There was Stephen A. Douglas of Illinois. There was Oliver P. Morton of Indiana. There was Henry Anthony of Rhode Island. The Greatest Death Record. The record of vacancies caused by death im the present Congress is not so great as the record which can be shown for the Thirtieth Congress. On the Sth of May, 1847, Jesse Speight of Mississippi died. On the 24 of November Senator Huntington of ! Connecticut died. On the 24th of December | Senator Fairfield of Maine ‘died. On the | 20th of April, 1848, Chester Ashley of | Arkansas died. On the 25th of October, | 1848, Senator D. H. Lewis of Alabama died So in the term of this one Congress five Senators died in office. The record of the Fifty-third Congress thus far is only three. | To be sure, all three died this year and| \ within a few months of each other, But then four Senators died in office in 1826 and four in 1847. Three Senators cied in office in 110, 1857, 1861, 1866 and 1875, respective- ly. The three who died in 1875 were O. S. Ferry of Connecticut (November 21), W. A. Buckingham of Connecticut (February 5) and A. Johnson of Tennessee (July 7). Thus Connecticut lost both of her Senators by Geath in one year. Some ingenious Congressman figured out some years ago the amount of time wasted by the two houses of Congress in obituary services over dead members. Not a Con- gress passes that several members of the two houses do not die, and, according to itvariable custom, a day is set aside in each house for memorial services over cach man who dies. Of course the death rate in the Senate is not so great as the rate in the House. But if a day be taken from the sessions of Congress for each of the Sen- ators in the list of those who have died in the service, almost @ legislative year is Tepresented—a pretty serious matter when the amount of unconsidered business in the two houses is considered. But then a great many people profess to believe that the lesr Congress does the better for the country. Faneral Expenses. A consideration which is not invariable when Senators die is that of funeral ex- penses. When a Senator dies in Washing- ton his remains.are put in charge of @ congressional committee and escorted to the place of burial with great pomp. All of this is at the expense of the government. An average senatorial funeral will cost the government $1,500 for transportation, $490 for the casket and an additional $ for the undertaker’s work here, $140 for the local undertaker at the place of interment, $100 for flowers, $150 for supplies for the con- gressional committee en route, $0 for hote} bills, Then there may be such extras as @ choir or a special organist at the church. Altogether, a respectable funeral costs the government close to $3,000. If the Senator to be buried is from California, the expenses can easily reach $5,000 or $6,000. Some times, as in the case of Mr. Stockbridge, the Senator dies at or near his own home. Thea the Senate simply sends a committee to at- tend the funeral. There was another ex- pense attending the death of those members of the two houses who died in office before 1876. This was for the erection of cenotaph® in the Congressional cemetery in memory of deceased Congressmen who were not buried there. The last bid received for these cenotaphs was $164.50. Probably when they were first erected they cost less. There was no good reason for putting up these memorial stones, because the Congressional cemetery was in no sense exclusively a ¢ov- ernment affair. But Congress had been making this appropriation for so many years that no one thought of questioning it until 1876, when it was found that the amount appropriated would not furnish quite all the stones that were needed. The matter was referred back to the House, and having its attention called to the matter, Congress promptly abolished the useless cenotaph. GEORGE GRANTHAM BAIN. ————— RAP GENTLY ON THE WALL. An Easy Way to Rouse Sleepers When the Door Bell Fails. From the New York Budget. A man who lives halfway between 59th street and Harlem, New York, spent last summer in town alone in @ big brown-stone house with two servants. He likes to sit up late at night writing. At 2 o'clock the other morning he finished a batch of let- ters he thought important, and wishing to catch the early mail he started out in smok- ing jacket and slippers. As soon as he had closed the front door behind him he remem- bered that he had left his keys in a side pocket of his street coat. He posted the let- ters at the street corner, went back and rang the bell. The house, as silent as the tomb, gave back mocking echoes of the gong that jingled in the basement as he pushed the button. The servants on the ‘oo floor both slept atul, a window, are you? I wouldn't lik that,” said the homeless one, anxiously, “Never fear,” was the reply. The reporter climbed the stoop and rapped once, twice, gy ew gently with the stone against the stone front wall. went You can hardly hear it from the street, but it sounds like an earthquake inside the house—that rap on the wall. It’s an old trick, found useful by reporters late at night to wake up some prominent citizen when important news requires that he be seen at once The leaden butt of cab- by’s whip is the favorite weapon.