Evening Star Newspaper, October 17, 1926, Page 94

THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. OCTOBER _17, C., 1926—PART 5. _ The Adventure of e Caveman By E. Phillips Oppenheim *SOMETHING CAME UP OUT OF THE EARTH—SOMETHING THAT MUST "AVE BEEN A MAN, BUT, STRIKE ME, 'E DIDN'T LOOK IT!” e LIP, old lady, you're getting fat,” Nicholas Goade mur- mured reflectively to the small white dog that sat by ' his side. Flip hated personalities. She snapped at a passing fly, and, missing it, yawned. Goade rose to his feet and knocked the ash from his pipe. “Putting on weight myself,” he continued. “We'll leave the car where it is today and go for a tramp.” Man and dog presently left the vil- lage, where they had spent the night, and mounted to the moorlands. They left the road and tramped through the sunlit spaces of rich meadowland, skirted a cornfleld and followed the wanderings of a trout stream, flecked with sllver and clear as polished glass. Deserting 1t when it entered the pur- lieus of a private domain, they made for the higher land, climbing for an hour or more until they reached at last a plateau of wilder and more broken country, which stretched to the foot of a distant range of hills. Goade, mop- ping the perspiration from his fore- head, threw himself upon the turf with his arms extended and his face upturned to the sun. “Doing us both good,” he murmured lazily. Fiip, sitting on_her haunches breathing rapidly, suddenly sniffed the heather-scented air, turned her head and emitted a short bark. Goade turned lazily over on his side to as- certain the cause of the disturbance. His frame stiffened a little as he watched. He frowned slightly. Pres- ently he scrambled to his feet. “‘Looks odd, Flippy,” he murmured, “very odd.” 113 * K Xk % MAN running in the vicinity of a rallway station, pursuing a bus, or moving with the somber enthusi- asm of an athlete in training, is an ordinary sight, but a man running 10ross a great expanse of empty coun- try without any apparent destination, and following no definite track, is a very different matter. Half-hidden by the shadow of a rock, Goade watched the approaching figure curiously. ‘The fugitive, if he were one, was a small, dark man, somberly dressed and of weedy build. He ran with much effort and in slipshod fashion, his head down, breathing heavily, taking un- even strides, and more than once dis ppearing altogther from sight as he umbled into a heather bush. His irse, if persevered in, would have him 30 or 40 vards away from Goade was standing, but seeing the man and the dog he gave a little cry and turned straight toward them. Almost at that moment, from some unseen place, there came the report of a gun, and a shower of small shot pattered into the bushes around. Goade, mounting a little knoll, lvoked angrily in the direction from which they seemed to come, but there was no indication of any other human heing within sight. He turned his at- | tention to the young man, who now, | with a desperate effort, had covered 1w few intervening yards and thrown himself upon the ground close at's the matter ked. with you?" “And who was that fir- “lm, Goad T should think—blast 'im!" tilled his pipe deliberately. ‘I may be dense.” he acknowledged, but *'im' seems to me a little vague. 1 +hould like to know who it w out there in the middle of the moor pat- tering us with shot. The young man raised himself upon ‘er out for the afternoon, and I wasn’t going to be shaken like that, so I 'opped along and tried to take ‘er arm. I thought it would be all right if we rested in the shade of one of the boulders, but she wouldn’t listen to me. Mabel Crocombe, ‘er name is, and she’s a looker, I can tell you. Anyway, we walks along a quarter of a mile or so—I trying to kid ’er on to being a bit pally, and she acting like as though she wanted to shake me. ‘You can't go walking about 'ere by yourself, I told ‘er. ‘Anything might ’appen to you.’ ‘You leave me alone,’ she snapped. ‘I know what I want to do.’” He had recovered his breath by this time, and his body had ceased to tremble. He wiped the sweat froth his forehead with a handkerchief which had seen better days. “Bill_Aarons ain't taking that sort of stuff from any skirt what comes out with 'im, so I just let 'er know it. | I 'ad me arm round ’'er waist, and I| was just pointing out a nice place to | sit and talk things over, when, I give you my word, guv'nor, something came up out of the earth—something that must 'ave been a man, but strike me e didn’t look it!” “Out of the earth?” Goade mured reflectively. “That's wot it seemed like,” the young man maintained. “'E just popped out of the middle of that great, slanting boulder you can see yonder; must be a kind of cave. Well, e made a funny sort of noise, and blowed if ‘e didn’t lift me up by the collar and shake me as though I was a puppy dog. He'd got great, brown paws, ‘air all over 'is 'ead,"and I thought at first 'e was naked.” “And was he?” “’E'd no shoes on or stockings, only a pair of corduroy breeches and a kind of shirt. His skin was pretty nearly black, and when ‘e picked me up ‘e was roaring like a bull. Then ‘e set me down and laid 'old of the girl by the wrist. Mabel shrieked, but she couldn't get away. Then ‘e bellowed to me: °‘If you're within sight in 10 seconds,’ 'e shouted, ‘I'll mash every bone in your body! Strike me lucky, 'e meant it, too!” “What did you do?” Goade inquired. “What did I do?” the young man repeated scornfully. “That's a good 'un! I legged it as 'ard as I could.” “‘And left the girl there?” “What good could I 'ave done? I tell you, ’e’s a wild man, a giant. His arms were bigger than my legs. He could put me in a sandwich and eat me.” Goade rose to his feet and gazed at the boulder to which the young man had pointed. Even as he stood up, there was again the report of a gun from the same direction. Bill Aarons, with a yell of terror, fell flat on his face. This time, however, there was no sound.of pattering shot. “Come on, Flip,” Goade called out. “You ain't going there, guv'nor?" the fugitive demanded in an aw stricken tone, “of urse T am,” was the curt reply. ‘““‘What do you suppose is hap- pening to the girl?” “Don’t you butt in, mate,” the young man begged. ‘“You're & big fellow, but ‘e could do you in 10 seconds.” mur- * K k¥ OADE, ignoring his companion, started off briskly. The latter hesitated, then followed a few yards behind. Presently he stopped. “I tell you you're barmy, guv-nor,” he called out. ; »w; he shuddered. he d, ou've ‘eard of and wild boa: inowledge of n me thus far. tural history carrics Goade ac-, quiesced The ot “You “iared I've seen a wild man. stared at him ouldn't be kidding." he de-| ~if you'd see’d what I've seen. What about “Good for yvou,” Goade replied cool 1v. “He seems to have frightened you protty badly. Tell me about it.” The ng man pointed acro: moorland toward the belt of hil i “I'm staying at a farm there,” he| cxplained. “Doctor thought I might ho turning a bit_consumptiv live | fn the Bethnal Green road—name of | Rill Aarons. Good for business, but it ain't a ‘ealth resort. 1 come down | ere for an ‘olida; { “An excellent idea,” Goade mur-| nured » on.” | ‘I got a motor bike and a side car 1 didn’t mean to bring the side c g, but 1 thought there might be a | bit of skirt "anging around, so I ‘itched 1t on at_the last moment. There's a | girl at the farm—stand-offish, but all | right. 1 tell you, guv'nor, she's a| peach A girl at the farm,” Goade repeat- ed. “Good! We're progressing.” “Can't say as she's seemed partial | to me exactly, but today when I was starting for a ride she said she'd come | miong. I've arsked 'er often enough before, but she didn't seem some'ow | to cotton to me. Well, she would go | er own way—made me strike across a | road that wasn't fit for a.farm wagon. | let alone my outfit. 1 kept on wanting | to stop and talk a bit, but she made | me go on until the road ended. Then she got out and started down this wi ‘I'm going to walk for a short time,’ she said. ‘You can stay here and smoke cigarettes. I may be gone an hour or two.” " “Not very pally, that,” Goade re-| marked. “I thought she was kidding,” the voung man confided. “It's the lone jlest part of the moor I've seen— huge boulders of rocks, very little grass even—but she started off. I don't know whether she expected me 10 LoLOR SRl ALFHEYyd A bro the | | at him, and the young man slunk be- !pleasant place for an adventure, as i the young man Aarons had indicated. | have been the entrance to a cave, and excellent ught ' your little-dogp™ Goade turned around and looked hind a rock. It was certainly, Goade decided as he neared his destination, 2 most un- He turned the corner of the huge boulder _warily and then stopped short. There was an opening which led underground, which might well in front of it a girl lay stretched upon the ground. The girl was alone with the sky above, lying on a carpet of scanty herbage. He leaned over her, felt her pulse and chafed her hands. Al ready she showed symptoms of awakening consciousness. She was a handsome girl of the best Devonshire type, largely made, but shapely, with creamy complexion and good features, Her mouth, a little open, displayed teeth: her hands, though hrown, were well shaped and capable. Suddenly she opened her eyes, and he saw that they were blue. “Where am 17" she asked. “You're quite all right,” he assured . her. “On the moor. You came with a little man, Aarons. Had a scare, hadn't you?” She sat up. Very slowly she turend her head toward the narrow opening underneath the boulder, and as she did so he saw the returning color fade again from her cheeks. He assisted her to her feet and supported her with his arm. “Lean on me and try to walk a few yards,” he begged “I can walk,” don't leave me.” * 'she faltered—"but * * * THEY moved slowly toward the grassy wall, on the other side of which was the motor bicycle. On their way they passed a small tarn. He paused for a moment, soaked his handkerchief in it and bathed her temples. She drew a little sigh of re- lief. Her footsteps became less hesi- tating. She even smiled feebly at Flip, who, with many upward glances, was trotting importantly by her master’s side. ““Where do you come from, you and -she.eakeds i i Again Ni “On a tramp from Chidford,” he answered. “Your escort found us on the edge of the moor. Something seems to have terrified you both. ‘When you feel better I should like you to tell me about it.” She clutched at his arm. “It was nothing,g she declared fever- ishly—"nothing a?® all.” He stopped short. They were close to the gate now. He could see a small, black object making a wide detour round the moor, stumbling on for a while and then hiding—the young man, Aarons. “But there was something,” he per- slsted. ‘“The young man was terrified. ‘A wild man,’” he said, who came out of the ground and stopped you both.” “It was just his story,” she replied. “I was angry with him because he tried to be familiar. I told him to go, and he went, and then suddenly I felt faint.” Goade was silent for a moment. The girl was a bad liar, but what con- cerned him most at the moment was curiosity as to her motives. “It's a lone spot,” he observed, “‘one might easily find a hiding place there.” She shivered. “Why should any one in these parts ‘want to hide?”” she demanded in a low tone. “There isn’t a village for miles.” “‘Some one is hiding there at the | present moment,” he said quietly. “How do you know" she asked with a sort of beathlessness which almost choked her words. “Well, for one thing,” he told her, “the heather just in frent had been pushed on one side and broken down by some one passing in and out. There was the imprint of a man’'s footstep close to the opening, a burnt match, and— ‘Stop!” she interrupted. ‘There is no one there. I am sure there is no one there. It was Mr. Aarons who lit a match and whose footmark you " He looked along the track toward the rapidly approaching figure. ‘“We’ll ask the young man to tell us all about it,” he suggested. She laid her fingers upon his arm. “Don’t,” she pleaded. “Don’t do anything about it. I beg of you that iVou don’t. I have a reason for ask- ng.” ““I coudn’t do that,” he told her. “I am too curious by disposition. Your companion has told me that he saw a wild man jump out of the ground. I find you on the spot in a dead faint. It is a situation which must be cleared v up.” “You are a very foolish person,” she said. “There are many who have lost their lives through curlosity.” He looked back toward the boulder. He almost fancied that the heather | bush, which partly concealed the open- ing, was moving as though some one were looking through. The girl was watching him. “‘Perhaps,” he reflected, “it would be better if I were to make my way to the nearest police station and bring some one with me.” “Don’t do that either,” she implored. lease don't do that.” “There is some one there, then?” he asked swiftly. “I don’t know,” she answered. “If there is, why not leave him alone? What business is it of yours or any one's? I hate people who interfere.” Mr. Bill Aarons from the Bethel Green road came shambling up. “Strike me, mister, but lucky!” he exclaimed, casting one more fearsome glance across the moer. ‘“‘Get in, miss, if you're ready. We'll tootle off. ‘his part of the world ain’t éalthy He bent over the machine, started the engine, swung himself into the saddle and opened the door of the side- car for her. “Now, then,” he begged; “let’s get out of this while we can.” The young woman caught hold of Goade’s arm. “I realize now,” she said, “you came to help me. You thought that 1 was in danger. That was very brave of you. There was nothing there really to be afraid of, though.” Aarons swung round in his saddle. “What!” he cried. “Nothing to be afrald of You may call me a cow- ard, both of you. I dare say I am. I tell you, if ever I see a sight like that again it'll be the end of me. Step in, miss. If I think of ’im I'll get the shakes again.” As she took her place she leaned toward Goade. “Don't go back there!” she pleaded. “I can't promise,” he answered. She looked at him in obvious dis- tress. Iy name is Crocombe,” she said— abel Crocombe. We live at the Wood farm behind the trees yonder. Will you come and see me?” He nodded, and stood with his hat in his hand, watching them climb the path, the engine knocking and a little cloud of blue smoke coming out | you're | of the exhaust. .They completed the ascent, however, ‘and reached the brow of the hill. * x % % AFTER\\’ARD, with a sigh, Goade did what he had known all the time he would do—he swung over the grassy wall, gripped his stick and, with Flip at his heels, picked his way across the moor toward the boulder. He paused outside and listened. There was no sound to be heard. Then he raised his voice. “Hullo, there!” There was no reply for a moment. He kicked against the side of the rock. Suddenly a voice issued from the darkness—a voice which came to him as a shock. “Hullo yourself! What do you want?"” “A word with you.” There was the sound now of light footsteps. Goade drew back, puzzled. The voice which had answered him had been the voice of no yokel, no wild, half-civilized creature. It had both the cadence and the quality of a voice belonging to a man of edu- cation. Nevertheless he stood pre- pared for trouble. Then the heather bushes were parted and Goade, accus- tomed to surprises, gasped. A slim, clean-shaved, well built young man in ancient but excellently cut tweeds calmly presented himself. He was unarmed, and his single monocle looked as though it had never left his eye. “Hullo, Goade!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing in this part of the world?” - Goade for a moment was speechless. He looked the young man up and down, There was no doubt that he ‘was a _person of cultivation and breed- ing. With a few changes of country to town attire, he would have been perfectly in his place in Bond street cholas Goade of Scotland Yard Grapples With Mystery. “To tell you the truth,” he confided, “I'm sick of all ordinary holidays. I was doing a tramp across the moors, and I came upon this place in a thun: derstorm. 1 thought it would be a good idea to settle down here for a week or 10 days and try nature at first hand. You remember I was in ‘The Arcadians,’ and the idea always rather appealed to me. I bought some stores and moved in a week ago. I've had a good time, but I'm off tomor- Fow “Bless my soul!” Goade muttered, still a little dazed. “My bathtub has been the tarn there,” the other continued, leaning back on the bowlder where they were seated, and watching the smoke from his cigarette curl upward; ‘“also, my looking glass. I've got a few odds and ends inside, but nothing worth speaking about. The only thing I re- gret is that I haven't had a camera to take me in my make-up.” “In your what?" “In my make-up,” the young man repeated, coolly. “You see, the first day I was here a tramp tourist and then some children annoyed me and spoiled my fdea of what complete solitude should be, so I wired to Lon- don for an aboriginal disguise a la George Robey—tomahawk and all— and I've had some fun,” he concluded, with a grin, the genuineness of which his companion for some reason felt inclined to doubt. “I should say you have,” Goade re- marked, his sense of puzzlement in- creasing. ‘‘You've frightened a young man out of his senses, and I found a girl in a faint outside.” “I'm sorry about that,” Erriscombe declared. “I meant to frighten the young man, but when I heard nothing more of the girl I thought she' made off in the other direction. She didn’t cry out, or anything, or I should have heard it. She’s all right now, I hope?” “A WILD MAN, A GIANT.” or sauntering along Piccadilly. Fur- thermore, his face was not wholly un- familiar. “You seem to know my name,” said Goads “I can't say that I recognize you." We've come across each other once or twice,” the other replied. “My name’s Erriscombe—Cecil Erriscombe. It was in ‘The Brown Mask"” at the Royalty. Some one brought you round the first night.” “I remember, of course,” Goade ad- mitted. ‘“‘All the same, you must for-| give me if I seemed a little taken back. The last person I expected to see crawling out of a hole in the earth was a popular young leading man. What are you doing here man?” Mr, Cecil Erriscombe smiled. He produced a gold case, selected a cigar- ette himself, and extended the case to Goade. “She's all right,” Goade assented tonelessly. ““She's gone off home with the young man.” “And, by Jove,” Erriscombe re- flected, “won’t the countryside be prowling round here in a day or two to see the wild man?” “All right,” Goade acquiesced. “I'll have a look at your quarters,” he added, peering through the heather bush. The voung man indulged in a slight grimace. “I'd rather you don't,” he confessed. “I'm by way of being a little fastidi- ous, and it's more than ordinarily stufty and untidy down there. I've slept out of doors the last two nights.” Goade nodded thoughtfully. Sud- denly Flip darted past him through the opening and disappeared in the gloom. A moment later he heard her sharp bark from down below. “What is it, Flip?"" he called out. There was no reply. Instead, Flip's bark suddenly changed into a howl. Erriscombe’s fingers, which held his cigarette, shook. “Call the little beast,” he begged. “What a hideous sound! Goade rose to his feet and looked at the young man by his side gravely. “I've only once before heard her howl like that,” he sald. “I'll have to go down, Erriscombe.” The young man stood motionless. “What do you mean?”’ he asked after a moment's pause. v “I’ll have to go down and see what my dog's howling at,” Goade ex- plained. “Sorry, Erriscombe.” He suddenly gripped him by the arms and felt him all over. “All right,” he added, as he released him. “You can wait for me, if you like, or come.” Erriscombe shrugged his shoulders and produced an electric torch from his pocket, which he handed to Goade. “You'll want that,” he said. “Be careful of the third step. You needn’t be afraid. “I'll wait for you.” * ok x % OADE took-the torch and stumbled down. The air was good enough, and at the bottom of the three steps the floor was carpeted with dried heather. There was a place in the corner where some one had apparently slept, a few cooking utensils and a basin which had been used to bring water from the tarn. Goade's first glance around showed him these things; his second something far more horrible. From a recess leading apparently into an extension of the cave, stretched a man’s leg, roughly booted, hairy and tanned by the sun. Goade crept for- ward and flashed on his light. A large, scantily dressed man, with a huge crop of hair and beard, lay motionless upon his side. There was a faint smell of gunpowder in the air, a gun and an Italy and France Adopt Motor Road Idea As Relief for Congestion in Big Cities ' TERLING HEILIG. PARIS, October 7. HE American members of the Fifth International Road Con- gress, just closed at Milan, were given a triumphal show of a highway exclusively for BY automobiles leading straight across| country from the great city to the Itallan lakes, where the world’s tour- ists gather. Its engineers say of this latest pride of Italy: “Here is the final form of high- speed traffic.” The Italian ‘‘Autostrada’” — grand Auto street—is 25 miles long and it has had 1,000 autos passing every day for two years. Now the same engineers propose to repeat it for Paris—from Paris to St. Germain and its forest, 15 miles as the crow flies. The distance by the winding River Seine is nearly 40 miles; but the new auto road, inexo- rably straight, will cut across the * river, three times. The prime difficulties are expense and roadbed able to resist continuous heavy auto traffic. Here (as in every great city) the expense has to be shared between city taxpayers and those of Seine-and-Olse, in which department (or county) more than three-quarters of the road will pass. It was already completely planned for all sorts of vehicles be- fore the war, but now the automobile demands everything. All the land al- ready had been bought, so that build- ing lots, all the way, can give great profits. As to roadbed resistance, Paris and all France have to do something right away. The old roads in their day were the best in the world, but now the thickest and most solid macadam cracks and breaks into holes and ruts. This 1s why Summer tourists have found the greatest Paris avenues so confusedly cut up—workmen seeming to be laying queer roadbed in long sections. The new roadbed sections look queer because much is experimental. The effort is, above all, for durability. Pog_gTess $hing oo Raciaditsiers habitations in reach of business. Since the war Greater Paris has re- ceived a million new inhabitants, and there is no proper room for them all. Paris is congested; can scarcely breathe, and no building boom within can do much. At Milan the auto street goes straight across country which Is | sparsely settled, without much to in- iterest traffic until you reach the rich man’s goal, at the romantic Italian lakes. Between Paris and St. Ger- | main’ there is already an unbroken line of little suburbs or city outskirts | to profit by quick auto locomation. The electric tram which now follows the turning main road has more than | 30 stops, and takes you an hour and a half to go through. The auto street will through in 20 minutes. | money—but pleasure also. But the expense of building the auto street might be prohibitive. The French state has no money to con- tribute, and the city of Paris little | enough. Happidly, the shorter part, | which is inside the limits of greater | Paris, has already a beginning in the long, straight, three-drive avenues already used for traffic. - For example, beginning at Na- poleon's Triumphal Arch, as far as the River Seine, at the end of the | residential suburb of Neuilly, the | present avenue has two side drive- i\\'nys. each wide enough for three motor cars to meet and pass, while the central part, only separated by double rows of trees, easily gives |Toom for six abreast. Beyond the Seine, through villages for 3 miles more, the road is already wide enough for six autos abreast. The remaining 6 miles were already planned and approved as’ “of public | utility,” and most of the land bought, before the war. The surveys were made and cuttings begun. It was to be a geometrically straight highway, with electric tramway in the middle. It is this plan which they will now speed you Time is change into their exclusive auto forms no part of last ~dollars* main is that it will furnish Paris with | tings and a mighty span bridge at Neuilly, so that other traffic may not interfere. Of course, the expense will be great. The Italians have shown the way, although the French made it possible by purchasing the land Lefore the war. The Milan-to-the-Lakes road is the private property of a company which charges each auto 13 cents per mile. For its 25 miles and 1,000 autos per day it makes $375 daily earnings. These, with profits from building lots, which are not as great along the Italian road as they will be along Paris-St. Germain, have balanced the budget. ‘The building of these exclusive auto streets has increased and put into the limelight all the difficulties in making | durable roadbeds for swift and heavy traffic. All sorts of new compounds are be- ing tried. With horse locomotion, a road outside Paris was supposed to stand from five to seven years with- out much need of repairs. Only the roads from the outskirts to the cen- tral markets had ruts and holes in them then. It was the same for all France, where roadbeds were as smooth as the landscape was beauti- ful. How the first automobilists en- Jjoyed French roads! The wear and tear began. A road- bed did well to last two yedrs with- out serious repairs. When the giant trucks came, no macadim could re- sist six months, sometimes not six weeks! It was only then, after the war, that travelers began speaking ‘with less respect of French roads. This year France is trying heroic measures. Last year Paris spent the limit for these hard times—over a mil- lion dollars—just for the central por- tion of Paris. It was considered suf- ficient to double the thickness of the macadam’ beneath the gypsum sur- face, but it ¢id not prevent ruts and holes reappearing. To ha fill up such holes without remaking the road at the same time, they have a machine and a process. Of course, it is only temporary and -work in central year's millfon s is, at any rate, the Paris, far, ‘This year new methods permit Paris to spend only a little more than half the expense of last year. Some of the new methods came from the United States, others from Italy, Belgium or Germany. For stone-block roadbeds,the block!! laid over the macadam in a new me- dlum, $100,000. For wood-block road- beds (wonderfully smooth and elastic), $200,000. It is this, particularly that tourists have noticed in the Champs- Elysees. For smooth-surface experi- ments, like porphyry-asphalt, about $300,000. Such smooth roadbeds must never- theless be solid and resisting beyond anything previously known. They must hold against all traffic and frost and must not let the speeding motor car skid. The most interesting seems to be what they call here “black concrete,’” as distinguished from the “gray con- crete” already in use. It is also called ‘“‘melted concrete,” and is applied from furnace motor trucks, melting great black blocks, on the roadbed itself. The great black stone-like blocks are about 10 inches square by 4 inches thick. They consist of flint already mashed or ground up and run into the melted bituminous mass, and they are brought to the spot of the road where they are to be used. But they are not put down in any- thing like block surface. At that spot of the road, the tractors have lined up the great furnace trucks, which remelt the blocks then and there. So they flow into the roadbed, where their molasses-like mass is spread and smoothed while yet semi-liquid, as is done with all smooth surfaces. “Smooth surface” is a manner of speaking. It is polished and shines, but it is grooved deep diagonally against skidding. These grooves re- main hard edged, which shows the ex- treme resistance of the material. In a word, as the mass of this flint- asphait is hardened from pulverized granite, it is hoped that the heaviest traffic will not wear it skiddable. Tt ever—so | didn’t care; she know it would be empty cartridge case upon the floor, a little wisp of blue smoke still linger- ing in a distant corner. Goade stood upright for a moment, looking around him. Then he turned slowly away and mounted the steps into the daylight. Erriscombe was seated upon the bowlder, the sun flash- ing upon his monocle, but as Goade appeared he rose to his feet as though to greet some’ one. Goade, coming gasping into the sunlight, rubbed his eyes for a moment. A few yards away the girl was hastening toward them, her arms outst hed. ““Cecil!” she cried. cfll” ‘The young man shook his head slow- ly. She came sobbing into his arms. “It couldn't be helped, dear,” he said. “Goade happened along, and that's the end of it.” “You'd better neither of ycu say nything more,” Goade advised them. You know who 1 am, Erriscombe. I'm an officer of Scotland Yard. I’ have to take you back to Chidford.” Erriscombe nodded. The girl was seated upon an adjacent bowlder, rocking slowly in her misery. “That's all right, Goade,” the young man said. “I shall give you no trou- ble. As to keeping silence, that's my affair. I have a fancy to tell you exactly what took place, here on this spot, with Mabel listening.” “Last Summer,” Erriscombe went on, imperturbably, “I came down here for a holiday. I stayed at Wood Farm. I became attached to Mabel, who was, I believe, half engaged to that clod down there—son of a farmer at Chidford. Do you remember any- thing, Goade A newspaper case?” Goade nodded. “I begin to remember,” ‘he acknowl- edged. “Well, we were married. We made a mistake, of course, in not announc- ing our marriage, but 1 was due to open at the Haymarket a month later with a part which was to have been the part of my life. I knew that it would mean permanent success for me, and I knew that I would have a better chance if 1 kept my marriage secret until after the show was thor- oughly started. Of course people gos- siped a little about us, but Mabel all right directly. The trouble came with that brute with. whom I have just squared matters.” Erriscombe paused and looked up to where a hawk was circling over- head, as though wondering what was going on below. Then he continued: “This man—Crang, his name was— went about the country like a crazy loon, and every oné warned me to be careful. He tracked us out here. I did my best, but what was the good of it, Goade? He is 6 feet 6, with the muscles of an ox, and, although I could box a bit, it's never been one of my hobbles. He pounded me pretty well into a jelly—thrashed me, Goade, with Mabel running screaming about. Have you ever been thrashed?” “I don't know that I have,” Goade admitted. “Well, I tell you it's fearful. I had about half an hour of it before the blackness came. Then he must have given me a few kicks before he left me. There was no first night at Hay- market for me. I was in Exeter In- firmary for a month, and Crang went to prison for two years—'attempted manslaughter.” * kK Kk THERE was another silence. A solitary curlew had drifted across the sky with mourntul, little calls. Mabel had begun to sob, and Goade walted gravely. He intended now to hear every word. “You've never been thrashed, you | sald, Goade?” Erriscombe recom- menced. “There’s something in a man’s blood seems to turn sour at | the thought—something in oneself, I suppose, born at one's public school, and carried through the vagsity into life. I have always known what the consequences would be. - I knew there was only one thing to bring me peace of mind again, and I've done it. I had to kill the man who thrashed m A fortnight ago I read that he broken out of prison and was sup- posed to be hiding somewhere around. I telt I knew where I should find him. 1 traveled down here. I had a revol- ver, but I didn't use it. You'll find it in the barn there. I shot him with his own double-barreled gun.” “Who fired the first shot Aarons?” Goade asked. “Crang,” Erriscombe explained. “It | was Mabel and her little cockney who | drew him out of his lair. I was lying walting a few yards away—waiting for him to come out. Mabel hurried ! from the farm to stop the mischief if she could. Crang heard their voices and came up. He scared the little man out of his life, had a shot at him !and left the gun against the bowlder. While he was talking to Mabel, it. He heard me and turned around. | I shot him. It was all I could do to drag him down to his hole, but I did it. Just as I was coming up again I heard you, so I waited. I invented the story about the George Robey out- fit because I knew Aarons would tell you what sort of a man it was who had frightened him. Now, what are you going to do about {t?"" “I don’t know,” Goade confessed. They sat and looked at one another. Erriscombe rose to his feet and crossed to his wife's side. His arm went around her waist, and her head sank upon his shoulder. “I had to do it, dear,” he whispered. “It's a load gone—a great load.” “Let's make sure that the man's dead,” Goade suggested, after a brief pause. “Come and help me, Erris- combe.” They descended the steps and dragged the heavy body into the outer cave. Goade stripped off his coat, examined the wound and turned abruptly around. “Fetch some water in that basin,” he directed. ‘He’s not dead.” For half an hour or more Goade worked, cutting up his own shirt to make bandage. Erriscombe had some brandy, a few drops of which they forced between his teeth at the first sign of regaining consciousness. Finally Goade staggered out into the fresh air. “The man’'s as strong as an ox,” he announced. “He may live. In fact, I feel sure he will.” “And now?" Erriscombe asked again. at Goade pointed across the moor. “You'll ind my car there,” he in- dicated. “Take it and drive around to the farm. Send a wagon and all the strong men you can find down to the lane there. That young man, Aarons, can mount his motor bicycla and fetch a doctor. You'll have ts leave the rest to me. I'll do the best I can.” He held out his hand, which Erris combe gripped. No words passec tween them: only a single g understanding. The girl went b off by her husband's side. waited until they were out of sight Then he made his w to the tarn and fetched more When he returned and descended the steps, the man's eyes were wide open. Goade sprinkled his forehead, felt his pulsc and sat down by his side. “You've been shot,” he sald ‘Aye,” the man muttered. “If I were you.” Goade went on, “I should forget it. The man looked at him vacantly. “You slipped coming down the steps. carrying your gun. It went off, and you were hit. I came along and found you. You see, you're a Devon- shire lad; you understand fair play. You half killed Erriscombe. He can't fight, but he had to get back at you. You're quits now. He's married to Mable. Nothing can alter that.” The man lay quite still. His fea- tures twitched. He looked as though he were trying to understand. “You haven't seen Erriscombe to- day,” Goade persisted. *“You've been alone all the time until I found you. I heard the gun go off, and I came across. You'll get well, but they may ask you questions. You're a sportsman, Crang, I'm sure. Keep your mouth shut, and I'll do my best to help you for breaking jail. I'm a head man at Scotland Yard, and I've influence there. You under- stand?” “If the chap's married right and proper to Mable,” the man said slowly, “I don’t wish e no more harm I fell down them ste master. That's right. I aren’t seen Erriscombe. I got it now.. Gi'e me some more water.” " Goade held the bowl to his lips ‘Then he listened. “They’'re coming to fetch you,” he announced. “You'll be all right, Crang. You'll stick to it?"” “I sure-ly will,"” was the emphatic reply. “It were ordained they should marry, and you can tell Mable it's all right.” The man's strength was amazing. He was almost able to sit up. Geade made his way into the fresh air, and beckoned to the laborers who were al- ready climbing out of the wagon in the lane. (Covyright. 1926.) The Rambler. (Continue 'hird Page.) Farrington, Willlam Ward, Forrest Olden, Jamies Tiaislip, Willlam Hick, Thomas H. Haislip, John Digney, N. N. Claybaugh, O. F. Potter, John A. Marshall, P. C. Arundell, Jackson Benman, Albert G. Gunnell, N. Burn- ham, Dr. Francis C. Neale, Alexander L. McKenzie, James Potter, James Clark, Olive r ieorge W, Talburtt, W. I. asin “rancis A Dickens, Willlam P. Griffith, B. H. Jenkins, Calvert Beach, Vance L. Trumbell, Mansfield Tracy Walworth, Miss Ada M. Hewitt, John Moriarty, Abraham Hornbeck, Mahlon H. Jan ney, Malcom Ives, M. J. Woodward, Samuel T. Crim. James Cockrill, Franeis L. Harrison, Thomas J. Ma- gruder, Thomas Hancock, Warren Curtis, John Young, Dennis Farrell Willlam Joy, Samuel Ogden, R. D. 8hepard, jr., and A. Shepard. The above report gives “a list of persons received at the Old Capito* Prison, other than prisoners of war between March 1, 1861, and Febru: 19, 1862.” 1 assumed that March was the date of the opening of th Old Capitol Prison and searched th file of The Star for that month and then for February and April, withouy finding mentioh of the prison or are rest of persons for expressing sece sion sentiments or alding the enem: Through January, 1861, there w much news of District militia making ready to guard the Capital. There were rumors that the city would be occupled by Southern troops, and sto ries that Washingtor would be plun- dered and burnt. One reason for form- ing and arming militia companies was to insure a peaceful inauguration of Lincoln. Small detachments of Army troops and of marines were arriving at Washington from distant posts. In April, May and June there was news of volunteer troops arriving from the North and West. On May 23-24 Union troops crossed Chain and Long Bridges and went to Alexandria by steam- boat, taking possession of the Arling ton Ridge and Plateaus from above Chain Bridge to the Arlington line May and June were months of incom ing_troops from the North and the gathering of Confederate troops ai Manassas, and small bodles of (on federates west of the Arlington line to oppose the Northern “invaston.” I May, June and early July were nu merous skirmishes at Fairfax, Vienna Arlington Mills, Aquia and other points. On July 18 the first collision took place on the Bull Run line at Blackburns Ford, and on July 21 was the first battle of Bull Run, on the Henry farm, the Matthew and Chinn places and along the Warrenton pike from its junction with the Sudley road to Stone Bridge, Cub Run and points near Centerville. It was in June and July that arrests of suspected seces slonists in Washington City and County, Prince Georges, Montgomery, Fairfax and Alexandria Counties were numerous, and it was in The Star of July 24, 1861, that I found the earliest reference to military prisoners being lodged at “the new prison”"—meaning the Old Capitol. Rattlesnake Serum. THE dread of the rattler may soos be greatly reduced, if not totally eliminated. Anti-rattlesnake bite se rum in portable cases can now be purchased by hikers and outdoor workers. The San Diego Zoological Soclety makes a business of extraet: “And now?” the girl repeated, her eyes fixed upon Goade. “Can you drive a car?” the latter inquired. “Any was the confident repiy make,” A ing poison from the fang sack of rattlers, preparing the serum from it, and then selling it at little more than cost, put up in little cases that can be easily carried by all yho venture intg rattlesnake territory. \