Evening Star Newspaper, March 4, 1923, Page 76

2 0ld Man Thornycroft Announced He *Would Have the Law on That Boy™ Before the Setting of Another Sun. T was a plain case of affinity be- tween Davy Allen and Old Man Thornycroft's hound dog Buck. Davy hurrying home along the vountry road one cold winter after- noon, his mind intent on finishing his chores before dark, looked back -af- ter passing Old Man Thornycroft's house to find Buck trying to follow him—trying to, because the old man, who hated to see anybody or any- thing but himself have his way, had <hained a heavy block to him to keep | ‘*him from doing what nature had in- tended him to do—roam the woods and poke his long nose in every briar patch after rabbits At the sight Davy stopped. and the dog came on, dragging Lehind him in the road the block of wood fastened by a chain to his collar and trying &t the same time to wag his tail. He was a tan-colored, lean as a rail, long-eared, a hound every inch; and Davy was a ragged country boy who lived alone with his mother, and who had an old single-barrel shotgun, and who had in his boy's eyes a look, ciear and unmistakable, of woods and fields. To say.it was love at first sight when that hound, dragging his prison areund with him, looked up into the voy's face, and when that ragged boy who loved the woods and had a gun at ome looked down into-the hound's eyes. would hardlly be puiting it strong love—it n more than tanding. perfect comprehension vour dog.” said the hound's upraised. mel- ancholy eyves. “I'll jump rabbits and bring them around for you to #hoot, T follow you everywhere you ®o0. I'm your dog if you want me Yours to the end of my daye" And Davy. looking down into those upraised. beseeching eves, and at that block of wood. and at the raw the collar had worn on the then at old man Thornyeroft's bleak. unpainted house on the hill, with the unhomelike yard and the tumble-down fences. felt a great pity. the pity of the free for the impris- oned, and a great longing to own. not a dog. but this dog “Want to come along?” he grinned The hound sat down on his haunches, elevated his long nose, and poured out to the cold winter sky the passion and longing of his soul. Davy inderstood. shook his head. looked :nce more into the pleading eves, then the bleak house from which this prisoner had dragged himself. “That ol' devil!” he said. “He ain't fitten to own a dog. Oh. | wish he was min A moment he h ted there in the road. then he turned and hurried away from temptation ‘He ain't mine.” he muitered dammit all:” enough was was perfect under: ‘m heavy place neck, Oh UT temptation followed him has followed many boy and A little way down the road was pasture through which by a foot- path he could cut off half a mile of the three miles that lay between him «nd home. Poised on top of the high il fence that bordered the road. he looked back. The hound was still trying to follow, walking straddle- legged. head down, all entangled with the taut chain that dragged the heavy block. The boy watched the frantic efforts. pity and longing on his face, then he jumped off the fence inside the pasture and hurried on down the hill, face set straight ahead. He had entered a pine thicket when he heard behind the frantic. choking velps of a dog in dire distress. Know- ing what had happened, he ran back Within the pasture the hound, only his hind feet fouching the ground, was struggling and paswing at the fence. He had jumped, the block had caught and was hanging him, Davy rushed to him. Breathing fast, he unsnapped the chain. The block and chain fell on the other side of the fence and the dog was free. Shrewd- Iy the boy looked back up the road; the woods hid the old man's house from view and no one was to be seen. With a little grin of triumph he turned and broke into a run down the pasture hill toward the pines. the wind blowing gloriously into his face, the dog galloping beside him Still running, the two came out into the road that led home, and suddenly Davy stopped short and his face flushed. Yonder around the bend on his gray mare jogged Squire Kirby toward them, his pipe in his mouth, his white beard stuck cozily inside the hosom of his big overcoat. There was 1o use to runm, no use to try to make the dog hide, no use to try to hide himself. The old man had seen them both. Suppose he knew whose dog this was! Heart pounding, Davy waited beside the road. Mr, Kirby drew rein opposite them and looked down with eyes that twinkled under his bushy white brows. He always stopped to ask the boy how his mother was and how they were getting along. Davy had beon to his house many a time with «ggs and chickens to sell or with a load of seasoned oak wood. Many a time he had warmed himself before Mr. Kirby's fire in the big living room and bedroom combined and eaten Mrs. Kirby's fine white cake covered with frosting. Never before had he felt ill.at ease In the presence of the kindly old man. “That's a genuine hound you got there, son, ain’t it “Yes, sir,” said Dav. “Good for rabbits and ‘possums an’ coons, eh “He shore is!" “Well, next big fat ‘'possum you an’ him ketch, you bring that ‘possum ‘round an’ me an’ you'll talk business. Maybe we'll strike a bargain. Got any good sweet potatoes? Well. you bring four or five bushels along to WAl that ’possum -with, Haulin’ any man. as ir| wood these days? or two of good. dry son. hear? How" That's good. Here—-" He reached deep down in a pocket of his enormous faded overcoat, brought out two red apples, and leaned down out of his saddle which creaked under the strain of his weight. “Try one of yourself an’ take | one of ‘'em home to your ma. Git up. Mag®” Bring me a loud vak, pick it out, your ma? All right? ‘em * = Hr-: jogged on down the gad, and the boy, sobered. walked on. One thing was certain, though, Mr. Kirby hadn't known whose dog this was. What difference did it make. how? He hadn’t stolen anything. He couldn’t let a dog choke to death before his eyes. What did Old Man Thornycroft care about a dog. any- how, the hard-hearted old skinflint! He remembered the trouble his mother had had when his father died and Old Man Thornycroft pushed her for a note he had given. He had heard people talk about it at the time, #rd e remembered how white his mother's face had been. Old Man Thornycroft had refused to wait, and his mother had had to sell five acres | of the best land on the little farm | to pay the note. it was after the sale that Mr. Kirby, who lived five miles away. had ridden over “Why Aden? Earle? any- didn’t you let me know. Mrs he bl demanded. “Or Steve Either vne of us would have | loaned you the money—glady, glad- 151" He had risen from the fire and pulled on the same overcoat he wore mow. it was faded then. and that {was two vears ago 1t was sunset when Davy home to find hix mother out in the clean-swept vard picking up chips| in her apron. From the bedroom win- | dow of the little one-storied un-| painted house came a bright red | | Blow, and from the kitchen the smelt | |of cooking meat. His mother straight- | ened up from her task with a smile | when with his new-found partner he entered the yvard ! “Why, Davy.” she did you get him” I e o asiironiowen But whose dog is h | “He's mine, Ma—he | with me.” “Where. “Oh. way a pasture’ “He must “He's just that's all he is reached asked. “where me. Ma just took up | | Davy ” back down the roud —in | belung somebody ol hound dog. Ma. | Lots of hounds don't | belong to nobody —everybody knows | that, Ma. Look at him, Ma. Mighty inigh starved to death. Lemme keep | him. We can feed him on scrape. He can sleep under the house. We an’ him | will keep you in rabbits. You won't | have to kill no more chickens. No- | body don't want him but me!” | From her gaunt height she looked down into the boy's eager eves, then | |at the dog beside Lim. “All right, | son." she said. “If he don’t belong to |anybody.” k ¢ night Davy alternately whist- |led and talked to the dog beside | |him as he husked the corn he had |raised with bhis own hands, and | chopped the wood he had cut and | hauled—for since his father's death | Ihe had kept things going. He ate upper in a sort of daze; he hurried | out with a tin plate of scraps: he ifed the grateful. hungry dog on the | | kitchen steps. He begged some vase- | iline from his mother and rubbed it on the sore neck. He then got two | or three empty gunnisacks oul of the cornerib. crawled unde the | house to a warm place beside the| chimney. and spread them out for a| | bed. 1Te went into the house whistling | {he didn't hear a word of the chapter his mother read out of the Bible. Be- fore he went to bed in the shedroom he raised the window. | “You all right, 0ld feller>" he called. U'nderneath the house he heard the! responsive tap-tap of a tail in the dry dust. He climbed out of his clothes. leaving them in a pile in the middle of the floor, turabled into bed and pulled | the covers high over him “Golly!" he said. “Oh. golly o | N TEXT day he hunted till sundown. LN The Christmas holidays were on and there was no thought of school. He went only now and then, anywa for since his father's death there was too much for him to do at home. Te hunted in the opposite direction frong 01d Man Thornveroft's. It was three miles away: barriers of woods and bottoms and hills lay between, and the old man seldom stirred beyond the boundaries of his own farm: but Davy wanted to be on the safe side. There were moments, though. when he thought of the old man and wondered if he had missed the, dog and whether he would make any search for him. There were sober mo- ments, too, when he thought of his mother and Mr. Kirby, and wished he had told the truth. But then the long-] drawn bay of the hound would come from the bottoms ahead and he would hurry to the summons, his face flush- ed and eager. The music of the dog running, the Sound of the shots and his own triumphant yells started many an echo among the silent, frost- ed hills that day. He came home with enough meat to last & week—six rab- bits. As he hurried into the yard he held them up for the inspection of his mother, who was feeding the chick- ens. “He's the finest rabbit dog ever was, Ma!" Oh, golly, he can follow a trail! I never see anything like it, Ma. I never did. T'll skin 'em an’ clean ‘em after supper. You ought to have saw him, Ma! Golly! And while he chopped the wood, and milked the cow, and fed the mule; and skinned the rabbits, he saw other days ahead like this, and whistled and sang and talked to the hound, who followed close at his heels every step he took. Then one afternoon, while he was patching the lot fence, with Buck sunning himself near the woodpile came Old Man Thornycroft. Davy recognized his buggy as it turned the bend in the road. He quickly dropped his tools, called Buck to him and got behind the house, where he could see ‘without being seen. The buggy stop- ped in the road and the old man, his hard, pinched face working, his buggy whip In his hand, came down the walk and called Mrs. Allen out on the porch. T just come to tel! you.” he cried, “that your boy Davy run off with my dog las’ Friday evenin'! There ain't | Your boy Davy | where he tolled him off* THE SUNDAY - STAR, - WASHINGTdN -Dx € no use to deny it. | know.all about | it. T seen him when he passed in front of the house. 1 found the block I had chained to the dog beside the road. I heered Squire Jim Kirby talk in’ to some men in Tom Belcher's sto’ this very mornin’; just happened to overhear him as I come in. ‘A boy an® a dog.’ he says, ‘is the happiest com- binatien in nate Then he went on to tell about your boy an’ a tan dog. He had met 'em in the road. Met 'em when? Last Friday evenin’. Oh, there ain't no use to deny it. Mrs. Allen! ~he stole my dog!" “Mr. Thornycroft’—Davy could not | see his mother, but he could hear her | voice tremble—“he did mnot know | whose dog it was A | the “He didn't? He didu't?” yvelled A i oyttt Nlo s | oid man i Right ever’ dog for ten miles around! in front of my house, 1 tell vou— that's where he picked him up—that's Didn't T tell you, woman, 1 seen him pass? Didn't 1 tell you 1 found the block down the | road? Did whose dog it was? | Ridiculous Call him. ask} him. face him with it. Likely he'll lie —but 1 Call him, | that's all 1 ask “Davy!” called Mrs. A “Davy!" Just a moment the boy hesitated Then he went around the house. The hound stuck very close to him, eyes tull of terror. tail tucked as he looked | at the old man “There he rid ous! youwll see his fad Call him n —with my dog'" ecried the old man. “You didn’t know whose dog it was. did you, son? Eh? You didn’t know. now, did you? “Yes!" cried the boy. “Hear that. Mrs. Allen? Did he know? What do say now? He stole my dog. didn’ ? That's what he done, didn't he? Answer me, wom- an! You come here,” he velled, his face livid, and started, whip raised, toward boy and dog. There were smooth white stones. the size of hen eggs, arranged around a flower bed in the vard, and Davy stood near stones—and now, quick as a flash. he stooped down and picked one up. “You stop!” he panted white. His mother cried out and came run- ning toward him, but Thornycroft had stopped. No man in, his right mind wants to advance on a country boy with a rock. Goliath tried it once “All right!" screamed the old man. “You steal first—then you try to as- sault an old man! 1 didn't come here to raise no row. I just came here to warn you, Mrs. Allen. [I'll have the law on that boy—I'll have the law on him before another sun sets!” “I knowed. some these his face very * ok ok % E turned and hurried toward the buggy. Davy dropped the rock. Mrs. Allen stood looking at the o}d miser, who was clambering into his buggy, with a sort of horror. Then she ran toward the boy. “Oh, Davy! Run after him. Take the dog to him. He's terrible, Davy, terrible! Run after him—anything— anything:"” But the boy looked up at her grim mouth and hard eyes. “I ain't a-goin' to do it, said. 1t was after supper that very night that the summons came. Bob Kelley, rural policeman, brought it. “Me an’ Squire Kirby went to Greenville this mornin’,” he said, “to/ look up some things about court in the mornin’. This evenin’ we run into, old man Thornycroft on the street, lookin' for us. He was awful excited. He had been to Mr. Kirby's house, an’ found out Mr. Kirby was in town, an’ followed us. He wanted a war- rant sworn out right there. Mr. Kirby tried to argue with him, but it warn't no use, So at last Mr. Kirby furned to me. ‘You go back, Bob, he said. This'll give me some more looking up to do. Tell my wife I'll just spend the night with Judge Fowler, an’ git back in time for court in Belcher's in the mornin'. An’, Bob, you stop by Mre. Allen’s—she’s guardian of the boy—and tel? her I h Ma!" he | throat say to bring him to Belcher's sto’ to- morrow morning at 9. You be there, too, Mr. Thornycroft—an’, by the way, bring that block of wood you been talkin' about. “That was all the squire had sa declared the rural polieeman. “No, he hadn’t sent any other message—just said he would read up on the case.” The rural policeman went out and closed the door behind him. It had been informal. haphazard, like the life of the community in which they lived. But, for all that, the law had knoched at the door of the Widow Allen and left a white-faced mother and a bewildered boy behind They tried to resume their employments. Mrs. Allen sat down beside the table, picked up her sew- ing and put glasses on, but her hands trembled when she tried to thread the needle. Davy sat on a split-bottonied chair in the corner, his feet up on the rungs. and tried to be still: but his heart was pound- ing fast and there was a lump in his Presently he got up and went out of doors to get some kindling on the back porch before it snowed, he told his mother. But he went because usual her | he couldn't sit there any longer, be- cause he was about to explode with rage and grief and fear and bitter- ness. He did not go toward the wood pile—what difference did dry kindling make now? At the side of the house he stooped down and softly called Buck. The hound came to him, wrig- gling along under the beams, and he leaned against the house and lovingly pulled the briar-torn ears. A long time he stayed there, feeling on his face already the fine mist of snow. Tomorrow the ground would be white: it didn’t snow often that countr. day after tomorrow everybody would hunt rabbits—everybody but him and Buck. [ Curi )T long ago there was launched in Massachusetts watersa v sel to cruise for whales. This is a reminder of the vitality certain callings possess even when they have sunk from their old-time prominence. The whaleships of New Bedford are no lenger found in every sea, as in the era before the advent of petroleum, but a serviceable fleet that searches for spermacetti and whalebone still makes that city its hailing port. Certain of these vessels pay very handsome returns to their owners and crews and New Bedford has an interest in the whalers that make the Paclfic coast thelr base of operations. Steam has been applied to the busi- ness carried on in the Pacific arctic waters, but on the old whaling grounds sailing vessels are free from competition. Provincetown is also the home of many whalemen who find the calling profitable, even if they do not push their voyages 5o far as the old-timers who flew the house flags famous in New Bedford's annals. Nan- tucket's glory departed long ago. Whales come to Nantucket, but. Nan- tucket no longer goes after whales. New Bedford is now a great mill city and promises to be still greater, but all its people have not lost their hankering for the sea. The old say- ing, “A stove boat or a dead whale,” New Bedford's equivalent for “Victory or Westminster Abbey,” has still its charm, even iIf the number of those to whom it appeals is small compared with the time when the “harpooner” was the local hero. MARCH 4, It was snowing hard when at last he went back into the warm room, so warm that he pulled off his coat. Once more he tried to sit still in the split-bottom chair. But there is no rage that consumes like the rage of a boy. In its presence he is so help- less. 1If he were a man, thought Davy. he would go to Old Man Thornyeroft's house this night, call him out, and thragh him in the road ey ///; 1923— PAR & summons with—no message for him. “God!” he said. “God!" And pulled his hair, down there under the covers; and he hated the law that would take a dog from him and give it back to that old man—the law that Mr.Kirby represented CREE T was still snowing morning he and his mother drove of the yard and he turned the when, next out “I'LL TELL YOU.” HE CRIED. "THAT'SA DANGEROUS CHARACTER. THAT If he were a man, he would curse, he would do something. He looked wildly about the room. the hopeless- ness of it all coming over him in a wave. Then suddenly, because he wasn't @ man. because he couldn't do what he wanted to do. he began to ery. not as a bov cries, but more as a man cries, in shame and bitter- ness, his shoulders shaken by great convulsive sobs, his head buried in his hands, his fingers running through his tangled mop of hair. “Davy; Davy!" The sewing and the scissors slipped to the floor. His mother was down on her knees beside him. one arm about his shoulders. trying to look into his eves. “You're my man, Davy! You're the only man. the only help I've got. You're my life, Davy. Poor boy! Poor child!” He caught hold of her convulsive- 1y, and she pressed his head against her breast. Then he saw that she waw crying, and he grew quiet. and wiped his eyes with his ragged sleeve. “I'm all right now. ma.” he said: but he looked at her wildly tle unceiled bedroom. She must have known that he had reached that age where no woman could help him. It must be & man now to whom he could pin his faith. And while he lay awake, tumbling and tossing. along with bitter thoughts of Old Man ‘Thornycroft came other bitter thoughts of Mr. Kirby, whom, deep down in his boy's heart, he had wor- shiped—Mr. Kirby. who had sided with Old Man Thornycroft and sent ous Callings Survive Whale oil its uses and whalebone prices that make the search for it well worth the ocapital invested. Once a calling has answered a great deman® it seldom disappears utterly from human activi- | ties. When new inventions supersede its first great utility modern com- merce turns its attention to the op- portunities presented for by-products. Thus we find that the candle busi- ness, despite the progress of kero- sene, gas and electricity as illumi- nants, is an industry that very profi- tably refuses to vanish. though fallen from its bighest estate. There is a demand for candles that is aesthetic and there is another that is economic. There are persons who regard burn- ing candles as very ornamental and there are others who find burning candles very useful. In parts of Europe the candle busi- ness is conducted by large establish- ments with abundant capital. In Great Britain there was quite recently what we would call a candle trust that ylelded good -returns.. Anybody who has sojourned in a very rural English inn will not need to be told whence come some of the demands for candle: Similarly, although modern trans- portation agencies have stolen away the glories of the stage coach with its galloping spans, it can still be found in commission by those who seck it.' In the west and south it is respected, and it runs in the White mountain regions, in Maline, and in southwestern Massachusetts. - still has commands She did not follow him into his lit-| BOY!™ | head of the reluctant old mule in the | direction of Belcher's store. A bitter wind cut their faces. but it wax not | as bitter as the heart of the | Only twice on that five-mile ride did he speak. The first time was when \1..- looked 1o find Buck. whom had thinking he on such behind boy back left at the hous | they would ay a day, following he buggy “Might as said the boy under very close well let him come on.” he second tinie when they came in sight of Belcher's dim yonder through the xwirling snow. Then he Tooked up o his mother's face. was re grimly 1 ain't no She smiled as bravely u& she could with her stiffened face and with the tears so near the surface he told him that she knew it, and that every- body knew it. But there w swering smile on the boy's The squire’s gray mare. huddled up in the midst horses and of buggies under the shed near the store, told that court had probably already couvened. .Hands numb. the boy hitched the old mule to the only rack left under the shed, then made Buck lie down under the buggy. Heart pounding. he went up on the store porch with his mother and pushed the door open There was a commotion when they eutered. The men, standing about the stove. their overcoats steaming. made way for them. Old Man Thornycroft looked quickly and triumphantly around. In the rear of the store the squire rose from a table, in front of which was a cleared space. “Pull up a chair nigh the stove for Mrs. Allen, Tom Belcher.” he said hat < no an- face. nding of other nigger. When 1 get through, Mrs. Allen, if vou're ready, I'll call your case. Davy's heart jumped into his mouth when, after a silence, the magistrate ispoke: “Mr. Thornycroft, step for- ward, sir. Put your hand on the book here. Now, tell us about that dog of yours that was stole.” The old man told, in a high-pitched. excited voice, all the details—his seeing Davy Allen pass in fromt of his house last Friday afternoon, his missing the dog, his finding the block of wood down the road beside the pasture fence, his overhearing the squire's talk right here in the store, his calling on Mrs. Allen, the boy's threatening him, “I tell you,” he cried, “that's a dan- gerous character—that boy!" “Is that all you've got to asked the squire. “It's enough, ain't Thornyeroft, angrily. The squire nodded. “I think he said, quietly. “Stand aside. Allen, step forward. on the book here, old are you?” The boy gulped. old, goin’ on fo'teen. ‘You're old enough, son, to know the nater of the oath you're about to take. For over two years you've been the mainstay an’ support of your mother. You've had to carry the bur- dens and responsibilities of a man, Davy. The testimony you give in this case will be the truth, the whole truth, an’ nothin’ but the truth, so help you God. What about it Davy nodded, his face very white. say?” it?" demanded %0," Davy Put your hand son. Davy, how “Thirteen years “I'm busy tryin’ this chicken-stealin’ | All right. now. Tell us about it. Talk loud, so we can hear—all of us.” The boy's eyes never left Mr. Kirb: while he talked, and there was no sound in the room but the boy’s clear voice. “An at firs “Ye “An’ you didn’'t unfasten the from the block till the dog got in the » “No. “Did | you then ou come off an' left the dog chain aught fence? T didn't.” try to get vou him to follow No, sir He wanted to. Ask him, Mr. Kirby." ‘Thornyeroft, angrily, “if he tried drive him home:" 'l ask him whateyer seems fit 4 right to me sir.” said Mr. Kirby. what did you tell your ma, Davy, when you got home? 1 told her he followed me." “Did tell her whose dog was?" “No, sir “Ain’t that what you ought to have done?” Ain't it?" Davy hesitated. “Yes, sir.” “This block you been tellin® about— how was it fastened to the dog?” 'here was a chain fastened to the block Ly a staple. The other end was fastened to the collar.” heavy do you broke you he Tow think that | About 1 1 reckon “Five croft, with a sneer Mr. Kirby turned him fetched it with you, didn't you? 1 told you to. Ir's evidence. Bob Kel- }lev. go out to Mr. Thornyeroft's bug- &v bring that block of wood into 1 pounds broke in Old Man Thoray- | “You an’ AVERYBODY turned when Kelley B G an e ne ot wosn craned their necks to watch while Kelley weighed the block of wood on the Store scales, which he put on the magistrate’s table. “Fo'teen plunds” said Mr “Take the scales away." t had rubbed all the skin off'n the | | @dog’s neck.” broke in Davy. impul- | sively. “It was all raw an’ bleedin’. that ain't so* cried Thorr All Kirby. out asiked Mr. . sir; under the bugey Bob Kelley. you go out | that dog into court’ | The rural policeman went | came back with the hound, looked eagerly up from one face to the other, then, seeing Davy, came to him and stood against him “Bring the dog here, son!" | manded Mr. Kirby. He examined the | raw place on the neck. “Anw of you gentlemen care to take a look?’ he asked Old Man Thornycroft pushed for- ward, face quivering. “Whats all this got to do with that boy stealin’ that dog?’ he demanded. “That's| | what T want to know—what's it got| to do with it?” “Mr. Thornyeroft,” said Kirby, “at 9 o'clock this mornin’ this place ceased to be Tom Belcher's sto’. and became | a court of justice. Some things are seemly in a court, some not. Youl| stand back there!” | The old man stepped back 1o the counter. and stood pulling his chin. his eyes running over the crowd of | faces. “Davy Allen.” spoke Mr. Kirby, stand back there with your ma. Tom | Belcher. make way for him And, Tom. «pose you put another ick of wood in that stove an’ poke up the| fire He took off his glasses, blew on them. polished them with his| handkerchief and readjusted them Then, leaning back in his chair, he spoke. “Gentlemen! From the beginnin' of |time, as fur back as records go, & | dog 1 the friend, companion an protector of man. “Last night in the liberry of my old friend Judge Fowler in Greenville T looked up some things about this dog question. T find that there have | been some queer decisions handed {down by the courts. showin’ that the |law does recognize the fact that a dog is different from other four-footed eritters. For instance, has been held that a dog has a right to pro- tect not only his life, but his dignity; that where a man worries a dog be- yond what would be reasonable to ex- pect any self-respectin’ critter to stand, that dog has a right to bite that man. an’ that man can't collect any damages—provided the bitin" is done at the time of the worryin' and in sudden heat an’ passion. That has been held in the courts, gentiemen. The law that holds for man holds for dogs. “Another thing: If the engineer of a raiiroad train sees a cow or a horse lor a sheep dn the track, or hog, he {must stop the train or the road is liable for any damage done ‘em. But if he sees a man walkin' along the jtrack. he has a right to presume that the man, bein’ & critter of more or }less intelligence, will glt off, an’ he 1s not cailed on to stop under ordinary circumstances. The same thing holds true of a dog. The engineer has & right to presume that the dog, being a critter of intelligence, will get off the track. Here again the law is the same for dog an’ man. “But if the engineer has reason to belleve that the man's mind is took up with some object of an engrossin’ nater, he is supposed to stop the train till the man comes to himself an’ looks around. The same thing holds true of a dog. That case has been tested in this very state, where a dog was~on the track settin' a covey of birds in the adjoinin’ field. The rail- road was held responsible for the death of the dog. because the engi- neer ought to have known by the action of the dog that his mind was on somethin’ else beside railroad traing an’ locomotives.” “The p'int I'm gettin' to is thi went on Mr. Kirby, “a dog is not like a cow or a horse or any.four four- footed critter. He's a Jndividual, an’ %0 the courts have held him in spirit if not in actual worde. An' I hold that since a dog 1s de facto an’ de jury an individual, he has a right to life, liberty an’ the pursuit of happiness. “Therefore, gentlemen, T hold that that hound dog Buck had a perfect right to follow that boy, Davy Allen, there; an’ I hold that Davy Allen was not called on to drive that dog back. or interfere in any way with that dog followin’ him if the dog so chose. an’ bring d | an, which | com- | “you | | s be . You've heard the evidence of the boy. | Tom | As such an officer i1's my d | vou to know, BY SAMUEL A. DERIEUX. You know, an’ T know, he has €pore the truth this day. The boy did not entice the dog. He even went down the road, leavin® him behind. He rum back only when sie dog was in dire need an’ chokin’ to death. He no more stole that dog than 1 stole him. I dismiss this case, Mr. Thornyeroft, this case you've brought against Davy Allen. T declara him fnnocent of the charge of thefr. 1 it down right here on the records of this court." “Davy!” gasped Mrs. Allen. “Davy But old man Thornveroft startad forward, and the dog, panting. shrank between the hov and “Jim Kirby!” eried old “You'r- magistrate. What you say Bur that dog thar—he's mine property—mine by law!" He a pl of rope out of his overcoat pocket and came pn toward the cow ering dog. “Davy The Trial in Tom Belcher’s Store set mother. the goes. He's rhed Mrs. Allen was hoiding the “Don’t—don’t say an¥thine You're free 1o go home. Your record < clear. The dog's his!” “Hold on!" Mr. Kirby had risen fron his chair. “Mr. Thornycroft, tl court’s not adjourned vet. Tl stick a fine to you for contempt vou'll re- member the rest of your days. You stand where you ar: s JIVERING, the old man stood. Ms Kirby eat down flushed. lazing. “Punc that fir Belcher,” i I ain through vet.’ The hound face up eves h came trembiingly baci to Davy. The magistrate resumed “Whit 1 was goin' to say. gentie men, is this. “I'm an officer in an or ganization known as the Society nr the Prevention of Cruelty to Animais to re port an’ bring to trial any nan who treats a dumb brute in a cruel an® in human way. Mr. Thornycroft, judgin by the looks of that houn’, vou ain't give him enough to eat to keep a cat allve. You condemned that po'-beast for no fault of his own, to the life of a felon. This houn's neck 1s rubbi raw. A man that would treat a dog that way ain’t fitten to own one. An I hereby notify you that I will"indict vyou for breakin’ the law regardin’ the« treatment of animals: an’ [ motify vou, furthermore. that as magistrate I'll put the law on you for that same thing. An’ it might be interestin’ 1o » that 1 can fine you as much as five hundred dollars, » «end you to jall for une year. or bo'h if 1 see fit, sit He looked ste Thornycrof “Now, if you will give up that houx Buck—to me, say—T wil] let the ma ter drop: but if you don’t * 3it out of my way!” cried Old AMa Thornyeroft. “All of you —I'm goin® ‘Hold on!” said Mr. Kirby in the presence these. turn over this dog to me ing all claims to tions named? There was a moment the old man cried out “Take the old hound' He ui; the salt his vittles He jerked the door oper, “Yes!” yelled the old mau slammed the door behind hin 'One minute, gentlemen” ea d Kirby, rising from the table gathering his pavers and records gether. “Just one thing anybody here has uny vidence knows of any, tendir this boy Davy Alien person fo turn over hope he will speak moment. “In objecti, I'm goo “Do y witnesse relinquis the cond Yes or no s silence, the of him, o Answer and more show that * dog to He waites absence of s not ihe b up the of ar . an’ considerin’ the ev hat's been given here this . I'll just let that dog 5o back the way he come. Thank you, gent men. Court's adjourned!” (Copyright. Al Rights Reservei morn Easy Way to Make Life Masks. 'L vyou know that you were a po- _ tential sculptor? Tt does not re- quire ten years' study in Paris make a cast of a friend's face. you need is eight pounds of plaste paris. a rubber bathing cap friend. to AN of and . This is how you make life masks Le_l your friend grease his face we!! with vaseline or cold cream—to pre- vent the plaster from adhering to the skin. Then cover the hair with the rubber cap. Mix four pounds of the plaster with sufficient water to form a paste so thin that it will pour and not so thick that it won't spread. Let the subject lie down and place a towel under a newspaper under his head. Then apply the plaster. Start at the forehead and allow the plaster to run down over the closed eyes. radually cover the entire face and as much of the throat desired, leaving small openings at the nostrils So thac the subject can breathe easily; but safer still, place quills in the nostrils and another in the mouth. These holes are filled in when the mold i« removed It usually requires about fifteen minutes for the plaster to harden sufficiently for removal. When it s thoroughly dry gently lift it off It may stick a bit, but it will come off in good shape. This is called the negative or mold. An easier method of working is to lay a string down the center of thé vasaline face. Iuil this up while the plaster stin moist. This will enable the cast of the fact to come'away in halves, and it will be easier. They can be joined up with string or a bed of clay eor plaster. = When you have removed the plaster. fill in the holes left at the nostrile and allow to stand for an hour until most of the damp has gone from it. To make the finished product much the same procedure is followed. Grease the inside of the mold well and mix and pour four pounds of plaster. Before the plaster in the, mold is dry insert a loop of wire or strong cord, so that the cast can be hung on the wall. If you have an oven it will speed up production to dry out the plaster in the mold, for it must be dry. When you are satisfied that the plaster is dry. chip off the mold with a knife and hammer) don’t he afraid’ to treat it a bit roughly), and you are finished except of uneven edges, using a knife Get the best plaster—it is worth it. Plaster of parls when mixed wilk water and hardened is insoluble. plenty of vaseline. Dont’ forsSeems a two it is for a little trimming . ’