Evening Star Newspaper, November 25, 1923, Page 80

Love and Humor and Golf Skillfully, Combined, a Conspiracy Which E Oldest Member, from his faverite chafr on the club- house tefrace, turned to his young companion. Golf (he #id) is the Great Mystory. Like some capricious goddess, It bestows its favors withdut discrimination. Men capable eof Foverning empires £ to control a small White ball ‘which presents no dificulties what- ever to others with only one ounce more of braln than & cuckeo-clock. Mysterious, but there it is. There was no apparent reason why Ferdinand Dibble should not bave been a competent golfer. [ had streng wrists and a good eye. Never- thaless the fact remains that he was a dub. 7 was siting bere one evening, thinging of this and that, when by the corner of the clubhouse 1 observed young Dibbla in conversation with a eir! in white. Presently they parted. and Ferdinand came slowly s where I sat. He took the n. 1o mine and for several minutes sat staring moodily down into the been talking to Barbara he said, suddenly break-| ing the silence. 1 “Tndeed’ T it she's oing to Marvis Bay. e will take the sunshine \-.nh‘ Eer i “You're sure tooting s will!” faid Ferdinand Dibble, with extra- | ordtnary warmt Presently Ferdinand uttered a hol- low groan. love her. darn itV brokenly. “Oh, golly. Faid detightful way for the summer he muttered how I love And does she veturn your love? “I dom't know. I baven't asked her. . Why not? oint not I shoutd have thought i ne ithout its interest for ¥ _Ferdinand gnawed the s putter distractedly. “T haven't the nerve” he burst out at length. “1 simply can't summon .p the cold gall to ask an angél like Ler to marry me. You see, thts: Bverr time [ work m! to the point of hoving a dash at I go out and get trimmed by soms one giving a stroke a hole. Ivery time ¥ feel T mustered up enough pep to propote, I take a ten on & par three. Every time I think I'm in #00d midseagon form for putting my fate to the test. to win or lose it ail. romething goes blooey with my swing end I slice into the rough at every tac. And then my self-confidence leaves me. 1 become nervous, ton- gue-tied, diffident. T wish to good- ness I knew the man who invented this infernal game; I'd strangle him. Rut T suppose he's been dead for ages. | Stiil, I could go and jumo on hia grave. Tt was at this point that T under- stood all, and the heart within me sank Iike lead. The truth was out: Ferdinand Dibble was a goot. PR : TOW, & goof is one of those nn- fortunate beirgs who have al- lowed thie noblest of sperts to get too great a grip upon them, Who have permitted It to eat Into their souls. The goof. You must under- stand, is not llke you and me. e trood He becomes morbld. His goofery unfits him for the dattles of | Iife. “Come, Terdinand weakness."” handle of i i come, my bo: Dibble 4 I =aid to faster this ! ava tried” i o gnawed his putter again. i “She way asking me just now if 1} couldn’t manage to come to Marvis | Tay, too," he sald | surely is encouraging. TIt| that she is not entirely in- different to your society.” | “Yes, but what's the use? Do vou | Inow,” he said, a gleam coming into | his eves for a moment. "I have a| feeling that if T ever could beat| some really fairly good player—| iust onea—t could bring the thing| “It” The gleam faded. “But what | chauce is there of tha | It was a question which I did not| care to answer. I patted his shoulder | sympathetically, and after & little! while he Jeft me and walked away. | 1 was still sltting there when Bar-; hara Medway came out of the club. use. She took the chalr which| Terdinand had vacated, and nghedJ wearlly. “Have you ever felt” she asked, “that you would like to bang & man on ‘the head With something heavy | nnd hard? With knobs on {t?” I sald I bad sometimes experi-| enced such a destre, and asked it she | had any particular man in mind. “Why are men such chumps?’ she | exclaimed. Yoy still have not told me who it 45 that has caused thees harsh words. To I know Eim?" “Of course you do. been talking to him. “Ferdinand Dibble? But why should you wish to bang Ferdinand Dibble on the head with something Lard and heavy, with knobs on it?" “Because he’s such a goop.” “You mean a goof?" I queried. “No, a goop. A gbop is a man who's in love with a girl and won't o1l her 0. I am as certain as I am} ‘0f anything that Ferdinand is fond of me—-" 5 ' “Your Instinct is unerring. He has just been confiding in me.” . “Well, why doesn't he confide In me, the poor fish?” cried the high- spirited girl. “T can't be expected to Aing myself into his arms unless he #lves me some sort of hint that he's ready (o catch me.” “Would it help if T were to repeat to him the substance of this conver- zation of ours? “If you breathe & word of it, I'll never speak to you again,” she cried. “T'd rather die an awful death than have any man think I wanted him €0 badly that I had to send relays of messengers begging” him to marry me.” I saw her point. “Then I fear,” I said gravely, “that one can only walt and hope. It may be that in the years to come Ferdl- nand Dibble will cease to be & goot.” “You miean & goop?” “No, & goof. A goof is a man Who—" And I went on to explain. “But I never heard of anything so ridlculous in my life" she ejaculated. “Do you mean fo say that he is wait- ing till he is good at golf before he asks me to marry him?” “It is not quite sc simple as that” 1 . said sadly. “Many bad golfers You've just | vou. | of waeks. | all had it in for Ferdinand. And one Witk Fasled marry, feeling that a wife' solicitude may tmprove their game. But they are rugsed, thick-skinned men, not sensitive and introspective like Ferdinand. Ferdinand hes al- lowed himself to become morbid. He feels crushed and worthless.” “Then do you mean that things have got to go on like this forever?’ I thought for & moment. “It is a pity,” I said. “that you could not have induced Ferdinand to g0 to Marvis Bay for & month or two." “Why?" Because It seems to me. thinking the thing over, that it is just possible that Marvis Bay might cure him. At the hotel there he would find col- lected s mob of golfers—I use the, term in ite broadest sense, to em- brace the paralytics and the men who play left-handed—whom even he would be able to beat. If Ferdinand can polish up his game so as to g0 round In a fairly steady 105, T fancy there is hope. But I understand he is not golng to Marvis Bay." “Oh, ves, he Is” sald the girl. | “Indeed? He did not tell mo that.| when we were talking fust now.” | “He didn’t know it then. He will| when T have had a few words with | him.” H And sbe walked with firm steps back | to the clubhouse % Ferdinand Dibble Marvis Bay was a revelation. The hotel was fuil of stout, middle-aged men wbo, after a misspent youth devoted to making money, had taken to the game. Out on the course each morn- ing you could mee representatives of overy nightmare style. There was the man who wielded his midiron ke one killing snakes. There was the man who addressed his ball as if he were stroking a cat, the man who drove as if he were cracking a whip, the man who brooded over cach shot like one whose heart is bowed down { by bad news from home and the man who scooped ith his masl as 1f he were ladling soup. By the end of | the first week Ferdinand Dibble was| the acknowledged champlon of the place. He had zone through the en- tire menagerie like a bullet through a cream puff. With gradualiy growing confidence, be had tackled in turn the Cat- stroker, the Whip-cracker, the Heart Bowed Down and the Soup-scooper and walked all over thelr faces with tplked shoes. And as these were the leading local amateurs, Ferdinand Dibble was faced on the elghth morn- ing of his visit by the startling fact that he bad no more worlds to con-;{ auer. And. what is more. had wor | Bls Brst trophy—the prize in thel great medal-play bandicap tourna-| ment, {n which he had nosed in ahead of the fleld by two strokes. The prize was a handsome pewter mug about the size of the old oaken bucket, and Ferdinand used to go to his room im- mediately after dinner to croon over it ltke a mother over her child. You are wondering, no doubt, why Dhe did not take advantage of the new epirit of exhilarated pride and pro- pose to Barbara Medway. I will tell Barbara was not taere. At the last moment she had been detatned at home to nurse & sick parent, and had postponed Ler visit for a couple| Ha co , no doubt, have proposed in one of the daily lotters which he wrote to her, but somehow he used up S0 much space describing | his best shots on the links that it was difficult to squeeze in a declara- tion of undying pession. After all, you can hardly cram that sort of thing into a postscript. He decided, therefore, to wait till she arrived. The longer he waited, * “TAKE SOME OF THE CONCEIT OUT OF HIN the better in one wa morning &nd afternoon that passed was adding new layers to his self- esteem. Mesnwhile, however, dark clouds were gathering. Ferdinand's chesti- ness had not escaped the notice of his defeated rivals. He had developed a habit of holding the game up in order to give his opponent advice. The Whip-cracker never would forgive the well meant but galling criticism ot his back-swing. The Scooper re- sented being told by a snip of a boy that the mashie stroke should be a smooth, unhurried swing. The Snake- killer—it is enough to say that they night after dinner they met in the lounge to decide what was to be done about It. “Yes, but what can we do?" queried an octogenarian. “That's the trouble,” sighed the Scooper. ‘What can we do? And fhere was s sorrowful shaking of heads. “I know exclaimed the Cat- stroker. “I have it! There's a boy in my office—young Parsloe—who could beat this man Dtbble hollow. Tl wire him to come down here, and we'll spring him on this fellow and knock some of the comceit out of him.” There was a chorus of approval, “But. are you sure he can beat him?" asked 'Snake-killer anxiously. “It would never do to make a mis- take™ ' “DOESN'T THE SUN LOOK PRET- TY ON THE WAYER?" SAID BARBARA. “LEAVE ME™ HE SAID, HOLLOWLY. “Ot course, I'm sure,” sald the Cat- | stroker. “George Parsiote once went | round in 94. } “Ninety-tour?” sald the Scooper in- credulously. “Do you mean counting every stroke?” ounting every stroka’ ot conceding himself any putts™ 'Not one,” “Wire him to come at once!” sal the meeting with one voice. That night the Cat-stroker ap- proached Ferdinand, smooth, subtle, | lawyer-like. “Ob, Dibble!” he said. “Just the man I wanted to see. Dibble, there's a young friend of mine coming down | here who goes in for golf a little. George Paralos is his name. 1 was wondering if you could spare time to| give bim a game. e isjust a novice, | you know.” | “I shall- be delighted to play a round with him.” said Ferdinand. | “He might pick up a pointer or two | from watching vou,” said the Cat-! stroker. . | “True, true,” said Ferdinand. ‘Then I'll introduce you when h shows up." “Delighted.” said Ferdinand. He was In excellent humor that! night, for he had had a letter from | Barbara, saying that she was arriv-! {ng on the next day but one. ASKED BARBARA. JT was Ferdinand's healthy custom | of a morning to take a dip In the sea before breakfast. On the morn- | ing of the day of Barbara's arrival he crossed the llnks, for the nearest route to the water was through the fairway of the seventh. Thero was & sudden cry of “Fore!” and the next moment a golf ball, missing him by inches, sailed up the falrway and came to rest fifty yards from where he stood. He looked round and ob- served a flgure coming toward. him from the tee. = The distance from the tee wWwas fully a hundred and thirty yards. Add fifty to that, and you have a hundred and eighty yards. Fer- dinand’s first emotion was ono of cordial admiration. By some kindly miracle, he supposed, one of his hotel acquaintances had been permitted for onoe in his life to time a drive right. It was only when the other man came up that there began to steal over him a sickening apprehension. The fact that this fellow was = stranger seemed to point to bis being the man he had agreed to play. “Sorry,” said the man. He was & tall, strikingly handsome youth. “Oh, that's all right,” sald Fer- dinand. “Er—do you always darive like that?” *“Well, I generally got a bit longer ball, but I'm off my drive this morn- ing. It's lucky I came out and got this practice. I'm playing & match tomorrow with a fellow named | Dibble, who's a local champion or | | something.” “Me,” sald Ferdinand humbly “Eh? Oh, you?' Mr. Parsloe eyed him appraisingly. “Well, may the best man win.” As this was precisely what Fer- dinand was afrald was going to happen, he nodded in & sickly manner and tottered off to his bath. For ,” GURGLED THE OCTOGENARIAN. “OUT OF WHOM?" Ferdinand’s inferiority complex waa back again, doing business at the old and. For ten days Barbara Medway had been living for that meeting with Ferdinand when, getting out of the train, she would sese him with the lovelight sparkling in his eyes. The poor girl never doubted for an in- stant that he would unleash his pent-up emotions inside the first five minutes. “Well, here T am at last,” she cried gayly. “Hullo,” said Ferdinand with a twisted smile. The girl looked at bhim, chilled. How could she know that his peculiar manner was due entirely to his meet- ing with George Parsloe that morn- ing? “1 got your letters,’ severing bravely. *I thought you would,” said Fer- dinand absently. “You certainly seem to have been doing wonders.” “Yes.’ There was a silence. “Have a nice journey?’ said Fer- dinand. she sald, per- “Very,” sald Barbara. She spoke coldly, for she was mad. She saw it all mow. In the ten days since they had parted his love had waned. She became so glaclal that Ferdinand, who had been on the point of telling her the secret of his gloom, retired into his shell. And then there was another lengthy | stlence. “How is my uncle?" asked Barbara at last. 1 omitted to mention that the | individua! to whom I have referred |as the Cat-stroker was Barbara's { mother's brother, and her host at Marvis Bay. “Your uncle?” “His name is Tuttle him?” “Oh, yes. I've seen a good deal of him. He has a friend staying with him.” said Ferdinand, his mind re- | turning to the matter nearest his heart, “a fellow named Parsloe.” “Oh. {8 George Parsloe here? Joliyt™ “Do you know him?" barked Fer- dinand hollowly. There had been a horribly joyful ring in her voice. “Ot course 1 do” said Barbara. “Why, there he is. The cab had drawn up at the door of the hotel, and on the porch George Parsloe was airing his graceful per- son. To Ferdinand's fevered eye he looked like a Greek god “Geor-gee!" cried Barbara blithely. Tullo, George!” “Why, hullo, Barbara!" They fell into pleasant conversa- tion, while Ferdinand bung miserably about in the offing, and presently slunk awa; George Parsloe dined at the Cat- stroker’s table that night, and it was with George Parsloe that Barbara roamed In the moonlight after dinnsr. Ferdinand went early to his room. He somberly practiced putting into his tooth-glass for a while: then, going to bed, fell into a troubled sleep. Have you met How * oW k¥ ARBARA slept late the next mor- ing and breakfasted in her room. Coming down toward noon, she found a strange emptiness in the hotel. The only occupant of the lounge was the octogenarian. “Good morning,” she said politely. “Hey' “Good morning!” “Ah! Yes, it's a very fine morn- ing, a very fine morning. It it wasn't for missing my bumn and glass of milk at twelve sharp,” said the octo- genarian, “I'd be down on the links.” This refreshment arriving at this moment, he began to restore his tis- su “Watching the match,” he explained. “What match?” The octogenarian sipped his milk. “What match?" repeated Barbara. “Take some of the conceit out of him,” the octogeharian gurgled. “Out of whom?” asked Barbara. “Ah! This young fellow Dibble. Very concelted. Your uncle wired to young Parsloe to come down, and he's arranged a match between them. Dib- ble doesn’t know that Parsloe once went rourid in ninety-four!” “What!" Everything seemed to go black to Barbara. Then her eyes cleared, and she found herself clutching for sup- port at the back of the chalr. She understood now. It was not far to the links, and Barbara covered the distance on fly- ing feet. She saw & group of specta- tors clustered about a green in the distance. As she hurried toward them she could see Ferdinand ad- vancing to the next tee. With a thrill she realized that he had the homor. So he must have won one hole, at any rate. Then she saw her uncle. “How are they?” she gasped. “All square at the fifteenth,” he replied gloomily. ‘Yes. Young Parsloe' said Mr. ‘Tuttle with a sour look in the direc- tion of that lissome athlete, “has been putting like a sheep with the botts.” But mere bad putting on the part ot George Parsloe was not sufficient to explaln the mystery of how Fer- dinand Dibble had managed to hold \his long-driving adversary up to the fifteenth green. There was another | very important factor in the situa- tion—to wit, that Ferdinand Dibble had started right off from the first | tee playing the game of a lifetime. | Today he had been swinging with a |careless frecdom, and his chips had !been true and clean. The thing had |puzzled him all the way round. It | had not elated him, for owing to Bar- |bara’s aloofness, and the way in whicjyehe had gambeled about George | Parsloe, he was In too deep a state {of dejection to be elated by any- {thing. And now, in & flash of clear | vision, he perceived the reason why |he had been playing so well today. It was siinply because he was so | profoundly ‘miscrable. | * % % % MEANWHILE, George Parslos had driven off and the match was progressing. George was foeling a |little flustered by now. He had been igiven to understand that this bird |Dibble was a hundred-at-his-best, 'and, all the way. round, the fellow had been shooting 5s In great pro- tusion, and had once actuslly got la 4 With the haughty spirit of | ene who had onco done = ninety-four, | George Parsloe had anticipated belng at least 3 up at the turn. Instead {of which, he had been 2 down and | had had to fight strenuously to draw |1eve! | Nevertheless he drove steadily and |well, and would certainly have won | the hole had it not been for his weak |and sinful putting. The same de- |tect caused him to halve the seven- teenth after being om in two, with | Ferdinand wandering in the desert |and only reaching the green with his |fourth. There, however, Ferdinand holed out from a distance of seven yards, getting a 0 which George's three putts just enabled him to equal. Barbara had been watching the pro- | ceedings with a beating heart. At first she had looked on from afa: |but now she approached the tee. held her breath. Ferdinand held his Ferdinand was driving off. She breath. And, all around, one could see their respective breaths being held by George Parsloe, Mr. Tuttle and the enthralled crowd of specta- tors. acutest temsion, and it was broken by the crack of Ferdinand's driver as it met the ball and sent it hopping |along the ground for a mere thirty yards. At this supreme crisis in the | match Ferdinand Dibble had topped. George Parsloe teed up his ball. He snuggled the driver in his hands and gave it a preliminary swish. This, telt George Parsloe, was where the happy ending came. He drew back his club with infinite caution, polsed it at the top of the swing— “1 always wonder—" sald a clear girlish voice, ripping the silence lke the explosion of & bomb. George Parsloe started. His club wabbled. It descended. The ball trickled into the long grass in front of the tes. There was a grim pause. “You were saying, Mies Medway?" sald George Parsloe in a small, flat volce. “Oh, I'm so sorry,” sald Barbara. “I'm afraid I put you off.” “A *little, perhaps. The merest triffie. But you were saying you ‘wondered about something. Can I be of any assistance?” “I was only saying that I always wonder why tees are called tees.” George Parsloe swallowed once or twice. He blinked. “I am afraid I canuot tell you off- hand,” he eaid. “But I will make a point of consulting some good en- cyclopedia at the earliest oppor- tunity.” -“Thank you so much.” “Not at all. It will be a pleasu In case you were thinking of inquir- ing, at the moment when I am putting, why greens are called greens, may I venture the suggestion now {that it is because they are green?" And so saying, George Parsloe stalked to his ball and found it nestling in the heart of some shrub of which, not being a botanist, I cannot give you the name. It was a close-knit, adhesive shrub, and it twined its tenacles so lovingly around George Parsloe's niblick that he missed his first shot altogether. His seccond made the ball rock, and his third dislodged it. Playing a full swing with his brassic, he missed his fourth. His fifth came to within a few inches of Ferdinand's drive, and he picked it up and hurled it from him into the rough as if {t had been something venomous. “Your hole and match,” said George Parsloe thinly. * % % % ERDINAND DIBBLE sat_beside the glittering ocean. He had hurried off the course the moment George Parslot had spoken those bitter words. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts. They were mixed thoughts. Joy that he had won a tough match came to the surface, only to sink again as he remembered that Barbara Medway loved another. “Mr. Dibble?" He looked up. She was standing at his side. He gulped and rose to his feet. “Yes?” There was a silence. “Doesn’t the sun look pretty on the water?" said Barbara. Ferdinand groaned. “Leave me,” he sald hollowly. back to your Parsice, the man with whom you walked in the moonlight beside this same water.” “I've a perfect right to walk with Mr. Parsloe beside this same water,” asserted Barbara with splirit. “Ile and I are old friends.” Ferdinand groaned again “Exactly! There you are! together as children and what not” “No, we didn't. that draws us together.” Ferdinand uttered a strangled er: Parsloe engaged to be married! Yes. The wedding takes place next month.” “But look here.” Ferdinand's forehead was wrinkled. *Look here, if Parsloe’s engaged to your great- Supporter to It was a moment of the| MAGN! (Continued from First Page.) in the senatorial campaign by the ma- jority of 95,846. Mr. Loftus did not live to see his predictions and prophesies come true. He will not be here to see Magnus Johnson take the oath of office as United States senator. But his widow will. In appointing Josephine Loftus s his assistant secretary, Mr. John- son as nearly as is humanly possible is paying the debt he owes George Loftus. There were hundreds of other ap- i plicants for the position, but it was handed to Mrs. Loftus on a silver platter—coming as a complete sur- prise. She was holding a position in the Veterans’ Bureau in MMinneapolis, where her four step-children also live and work, even down to the youngest boy, Robert, aged fourteen, who was a messenger in the same department with his mother, Robert is coming to Washington to live, and will get a civil service position and take a busi- ness course at night achool. As will also La Follette, another son named after Senator La Follette, because he happened to be born in the senator's home. Mrs. Loftus is naturally bright, logical and broad, and has her hus- band's slant on public questions that is going to be pretty useful to the senator. Her special job, she says, is to look after departmental matters. The writer found Mrs. Loftus much more inclined to talk about the chief and his family than about herself. She s loyal to the core, and gave a true picture of the Johnsons that obliterates the caricatures that have been published. “The secret of Senator Jobnson's success,” she sald, that he has lived by the golden rule. He has made that the precept of his life —political and private. He has no creed, but he is naturally religlous at heart. Practical Christianity hasbeen his governing principle.” “1 suppose his fight here will be mostly for the dowatrodden,” I gested. “Economio justice heads his pro- gram, but justice for all classes, not merely for the farmer and the laborer. Contrary to expectations, Senator Johnson will take an active interest in general legislation and be found willing and ready to help all classes.” “Will he be in favor of the eo- called woman's legislation?” “He was very much in favor of woman suffrage,” Mrs. Loftus Te- plied, “and anything affecting equal rights for women I think he will Played | _ T've known him | only five years. Biit he {s engaged to | be married to my greatest chum, so | est chum, he can't be in love with you” “No." ‘And you aren’t In love with hi 0. Then, by gad” “how about 1t “What do you mean?” “Will you marry me?’ Ferdinand. “Yes."” “You will?” “Ot course I will.” “Darling!” cried Ferdinand. And he folded her In his arms. using the interlocking grip. “There is only one thing that bothers me,” sald Ferdinand thought- fully as they strolled together over the meadows. “I've just discovered the great secret of golf. You can't play a really hot game uniess you'ro 80 miserable that you don't worry over your shots. Take the case of a_chip-shot, for Instance. If you'ra really wretched, you dom't care where -the ball is going, and so you don't ralse your head to see. Grief automatically prevents pressing and overswinging. Look at the top notchers. Have you ever seen happy pro?” I don't think I have™ “Well, then!" “But pros are all Barbara. “It doesn't matter. I'm sure I'u |right. And I'm going to be so in- | fernally happy all the rest of m= life that I suppose my handicap wii! €0 up to thirty or something.” Barbara squeezed his bhand lov | ingl “Don't worry, precious,” she sa! soothingly. “I am a woman, onee we are married, I shall be abl to think of at least a hundred way of snootering you to such an ext that you'll be fit to win the amate championship. “You wi xiously. “Quite, Barbara. “My angel” said Ferdinand (Copsright. 1823.) sald Ferdinan: bellgwe. Scots,” argued said Ferdinand an- “You're su quite sure, dearest,” ‘Widow of Magnus Johnson’s Chief Serve Senator Here MRS. JOSEPHINE LOFTUS, PRIVATE SECRETARY TO SENATOR 'S JOHNSON OF MINNESOTA. }-.vm-k for as actively as be will fer men.” The conversation turned to | Johnson. She was returning with t | senator and was bringing their tuo | young daughters. The eldest ag.d | twenty-three, would remain at hou to look after the boys. Great pre- - sure was being brought to bear ou | Magnus, jr.. to join them now t! | crops were all in, but he was to | interested in raising blooded stock {1t was hardly probable that he could |bo lured away by anything like = winter in Washington, to say noth- ing of public buildings and debu | tantes. Nelther was Mrs. Johnson attracted by the social season, mor had any idea of taking part. She was coming | to Washington to rest and to catch iun with her reading. Although Mrs. Johnson has never been off the farm except for brief shopping trips to Twin Citles, and was born on the very mext farm to that on which she now lives, sho has a “sweot graclousness of manner, A quiet dignity and natural poise.” €ays Mrs, Loftus. that will win her friends wherever she goes. She comes of fine old stock, hav- ing the same ancestor on her family tree @s President Coolidge—namely. Gen, Putnam of revolutionary fame. Her mother came from Kentucky, b father from Maine. Corrosion of Metals. RON and stee! are almost equalls resistant to the effects of corrod- ing Influences. As far back as 1881 the engineer-surveyors of Lloyds in- vestigated no less than 1,100 marine Bteel bollers In actual use and found it impossible to distinguish between them and the iron boilers, so far as liability to corrosion was concerned. In 1891 thirty-seven of the leading American and British shipbuilders were asked for their opinion on the subject. Seven held stoel to be more corrodible than iron, elght held the opposite view, eight were uncertain and fourteen could report no dlffer- ence between the two metals. In 1921 a careful examination of eighty- nine samples of pipes from hot-water systems in New York city revealed no appreciable difference between fron and steel. Last year an investi- gation of twenty-one samples of wrought, fron that had seen much service showed that the mean depth of the pittings was 0.094 inches, whereas the pittings in twenty-one steel samples showed & mean depth of 0.0093.