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PR, 'D. €, APRIL . 10 1932 fof/zeHzliza’sofFaz‘e——BY WILLIAM H. HEATH ever could he feel sure these men would enter his life again. Always must he be pared for such an eventuality. Frequently wondered what he would do if he should et one of them, if one of them should cgiize him. Contemplation of this possi- ty was terrifying. [fhe desire for the death of these m>n was a n of his desire to retain his securiiv. Hard- Lk, however, could not imagine killing them v more than he could imagine surrendering wealth or his freedecm; any more than he hld im2gine 30 years before that he would be hief. So dread of meeting one of the men m his past became as great as dread of the nger of such a meeting. So none ever saw n with his head uncovered until that mmer evening when I came upon him jawares. nd so none before me heard his strange [l tragic story. A secret is a terrible guest ess it can be shared with some ove; the e to confession is powerful because confes- n is like laying down a great burden. Hard- k feared this urge, yet yielded to it. He pan to yield, I think, when he parmitted my endship. He craved surcease from loneliness d probably felt he could safely expose him- to the friendship of a man who was in preton but a few weeks each year. And he right, although not in the way he thought; secret, while it was a secret, was safe with Moreton declared him to be an odd charac- , but, withal, Moreton respected him. He ame one of the town’s most prosperous idents and Moreton citizens concluded that man who conducted his own business so pably would be able to conduct the town's finess efficiently; and Aaron Hardwick ame a selectman. e duties of selectman compelled him to Hertake closer relations with his fellowmen, i with women. There were times when the hring of a hat was embarrassing, even to him om the hat was a vital part of attire. So had his housekeeper make him a black ll-cap and when official business made the ring of his hat undesirable, the skull-cap s 1eady. On such occasions, the cap was R under his hat, so that he could remove hat without exposing the scar. During the third year of his term as a ctman, when Hardwick was chairman of board, there occurred in a lonely house near border the murder of a man known as drew Somers. ardwick was at his breakfast when Con- bie Morris called him by telephone and said t Somers had been found dead by a man o wcrked for a farmer by the name of zen and who said he had discovered the iy when he stopped at Somers’ home for tches. pomers had not been long in Moreton. He i appeared in town as quietly as Hardwick [l 30 years before. After a week he had hght the house in which he had met death H thereafter was seen little by town's people. was generally believed that he was engaged smuggling liquor from Canada. Hardwick [ never seen Somers although he had heard him and knew his reputation. e told Morris to notify the coroner and then led the district attorney at the county seat miles away, briefly recounting what Morris d told him and adding: This Scmers is said to be a rum runner. If the prohibition authorities may be interested the case. It might not be a bad idea to ify them.” ‘T'll do that,” said the prosecutor. “A new orcement officer for the district arrived in vesterday. He and State Detective Carter puld be in Moreton in an hour. Perhaps had better meet them at the hotel.” ardwick agreed then set out in his auto- bile for the scene of the murder. t was a drive of 10 miles over uncertain ds to the ho in which Somers had lived, he covered the distance in 20 minutes. He almost trembling with excitement as he pped his car before the door of the silent, ather-beaten structure. Hardwick was more hn 50 years old but he had never looked upon hth. [he back door opened directly into the hen. On the table lay the body of a man. parently he had been struck down as he ned against the table, for the feet almost ched the floor. On the table lay a revolver ere it had slipped from the lifeless hand as ceath blow had been delivered. On the br by the table lay a bloody hatchet. ARDWICK cried out to God when he saw the face of the dead man. In the cry were horror and exultation. For the face of the dead man was the face of Ed Rogers! A little older, a little harder, the lines more sharply etched. But the face of Ed Rogers! Well, Aaron Hardwick would never be black- mailed by Ed Rogers. A few minutes later Hardwick drew up be- fore the home of Andrew Hazen, whose hired man said he had found the corpse, Mrs. Hazen came to the door. “You have a man working here,” sajd Hard- wick, “who said he found Somers murdered. What's the man’s name and where can I find him?” “He calls himself John Hodgdon, but that don't mean much, I guess. He's a kind of tramp and may have a lot cof names for all I know. He's up in the north lot planting potatoes; leastwise, he went up there. Do you want me to send for him?” “No, I'll go up there,” said Hard- wick. He left his car in the yard and set out on foot through the fields to the north lof. As he walked he tried to de- vise some procedure for ioni: Hodgdon. qul:':gw;::i w:sdg inclined to believe that Rogers, or Somers, had been killed in a bootlegging row and that Hodgdon'; story 'l; :ue. Hodgdon was a tramp, however, an ":ingp might be something of a criminal. He might even have been an associate of Rogers at sometime—an associate of Rogers—Tom Nelson. . . . The suggestion was absurd, of course. Yet, it had been queer, his findirg of Rogers. Queer things happen, queer things, indeed. Hardwick quickened his step, his excitement growing. He shifted his revolver from his hip to his coat pocket, shifted it impulsively, in- stinctively, without conscious purpose to use the wea s He “]:ox;n the north lot now, striding over the soft, freshly-harrowed earth toward a man who was sitting beside a sa;:k n(;l potatoes, them preparatory to planting. cu'tit-ll:g man lgokpe: up quickly as Hardwick stopped in front of him and he who had been Peter Skinner perceived that the destiny which directed the business in the drama of his life had plotted an incredible situation. He controlled himself with an effort. “You are Hodgdon?" he asked. The other nodded. “My name is Hardwick and I am one of the selectmen handling the—Somers case until the sheriff gets here. The constable tells me you found the body.” “Yes. I went trcut fishing up the brook early this morning; thought a string would taste good for breakfast and Mrs. Hazen thought so, top. When I got near Somers’ place I found I had run out of matches and couldn't light my pipe. I went up to the house to borrow scme and found him—that's all.” Hardwick spoke sharply. “Why did you kill Rogers, Tom Nelson?” he demanded. The tramp sprange to his feet, stared fiercely into the face of his inquisitor, then before Hardwick could move to defend himself, tora Hardwick’s hat from his head. The zigzag scar was revealed! “Peter Skinner!” he cried. “Peter Skinner!” Then he laughed. “Say,” he said, “I'd just as soon tell you all about it. T did not go out fishing this morning and I did get out cf matches and go to Somers’ house to borrow some. When I got there I found Ed Rogers. I knew I'd find him there. “Remember that payroll job. Well, two days after we hid the cash I woke up in the morning and found Ed Rogers gone. I was suspicious and hurried back to the old cellar. The dough was gone, too. I've been looking for Ed ever since and a short time ago I got a tip that he was Somers, the bootlegger. So I called on him to get my share of the money. I figured it was a good time to collect, because I hap- pened to know that he handled a big shipment of booze last night. I wanted to see him before he had a chance to go to a bank. “He said I was crazy, admitted that he had intended to take the m-ney, but you got ahead of him. That was too rich. The conversation got a little heated, but before it got too heated I'd got my eye on a hatchet on the stove. Ed was quick with his temper and by and by he made a motion with his gun. I just grabbed the hatchet and swung.” Hardwick nodded thoughtfully. He believed this story. “You'll swing again, perhaps,” he remarked. “I'm going to arrest you for murder.” “No you're not. Say, the moment I'm locked up I'll tell the world that Selectman Hardwick is Peter Skinner, pay roll bandit.” The man who had been Peter Skinner hesi- tated, seemed greatly impressed by the other’s threat. After a minute, he nodded slowly. HIRTY years before, in his first adventure in crime., he had been impelled by an urge to “get the money.” Now, he was impelled by an urge to “get the man.” Thirty years bcfore the ycarning fo:® security and the recognition of his duty had been confused—and they were confused now. No more than Peter Skinner did Aaron Hardwick try to separate these con- fused factors in his conduct. As he spoke his hand closed in his pistol in his coat pocket. “Tell all you wish,” he said. “But I'm taking you in.” Nelson grinned and Aaron saw that he thrust his right hand under his frock. “So,” he remarked, “you don't carry a gat when fishing, but do when you plant potatoes. Well, throw it on the ground.” “Yeah?” There was a glint in the sunlight on his weapon. Aaion fired. The first shot luckily knocked the pistol from Nelson's hand. Cursing, the disarmei Nelson leaped at Aaron, but the second shot hit his should®r, spun him half- way around. Instinctively, then, he tried to flee, running across the field toward the woods, the lumbering Hardwick pursuing—and firing, he last shot found its mark and Nelson fell on his face, quivered, relaxed with a shud er. Nelson was dead, dead as Somers back in the lonely kitchen—dead. Hardwick shivered a little and hurried away, back to his automobile. As he started to drive away, Mrs. Hazen came to the door. “Did you find him?” she asked. “Yes—ves, I found him,” said Hardwick. “I— I found him. He tried to get away. I shot him. He's dead—up there in the field.” Then he stepped on the gas and sped away. He was afraid to talk any more. His jerky utterance disturbed him. He was unstrung. Horror and exultation, mingled and confused, possessed him. Almost free was he from the past. No longer would memory of Rogers and Nelson torment him, cram him with dread. Rogers was dead; and Nelson. Nelson—he had killed—calmly, justly, but he had killed. He shuddered, stepped harder on the gas treadle. Almost free of the past was he, free except for Ben Pine. . He stopped his car in front of the hotel. The detective was not in sight. No one, in fact, was in sight except a man, whom he did not recognize, drowsing, hat over eyes, in a porch chair. Aaron went inside, asked the clerk if any one had called for him. “Man’s just stepped across the street; said to tell you he'd be back in a minute,” said the clerk. “Did he bring some one with him?’ “Yes, man sitting on the piazza now.” The prohibition agent, thought Aaron; well, he might as well introduce himself. So he went to the piazza, approached the sleeper. “Pardon me,” he said, “but are you with De- tective Carter ” The sleeper aroused himself, thrust back his hat, rose. Aaron stared. Before him, gray and older and heavier, stood the man he could never forget—Ben Pine! Then, after its immemorial custom, history repeated itself. A guest of wind blew Hard- wick’s hat to the strest. He did not try to re- cover it. It fell at Carter’s feet and the de- tective picked it up., amused by the thought that Aaron Hardwick's hat was off at last. But Aaron Hardwick no long-r existed. “Scar Head Peter Skinner stood face to face with Ben Pine. Before the man whom Peter never could forget had a chance to speak, Peter drew his pistol, pressed it against Pine’s body and pulled the trigzer. When the futile click told him it was empty, he dropped It and seized Pine by the throat Peters strength was the strength of a mad- man. Carter could not break his hold and Pine’s face was turnirg purple. So he picked up the discarded pistol, and with the butt knocked Peter unconscious by a blow on the head—much as Ed Rogers had knocked out the cashier 30 years befcre. Pine straightened his clothing, rubbed his neck, stared at Peter. Stared—and cried: “Scar Head! Scar Head! Carter, put the bracelets on him. I have been hunting for this man for 30 years."” Twenty-four hours later Peter Skinner was on his way back to the scene of his first crime, Before he went, remembering that I was a lawyer, he sent for me. I accompanied him to the city and represented him in the revival of the case of the pay roll robbery. It was an almost forgotten case. The company that was robbed no longer existed. The principal owner, an old man living in seclusion, showed little interest in the matter. I had not much trouble in ending Peter’s connection with the case by restitution of the amount stolen. There were no charges against Peter in Moreton. As far as Pine was concerned, the attack on him was an incident in the day’s work. Peter's explanation of the Moreton kill- ings was accepted. Peter went back to his Moreton farm. He was still well-to-do with years of effective work on his productive farm ahead of him. Precious security is still his, But he still hides the scar. (Copyright, 1932.) Billion Acres ofSoil Surveyed by United States THE thoroughness with which the Department of Agriculture goes about its work is well demonstrated in the activities of the Soil Sur- vey, which during its 30 years of existence has made a detailed map of the condition of the soil in nearly a billion acres, or a territory Toughly equal to the entire area of Germany, France and Great Britain, This tremendous amount of work is accom- plished by a force of only 50 or 60 men in the field and, detailed as their activities are, the average cost is only around 3 or 4 cents an acre. The purpose of the survey is to provide de- tailed information for the preparation of the land-utilization program of the Department and to give to each farmer whose land is visited a report on the character of the soil on his farm, enabling him to plan an Intelli- gent fertilizing program. The survey work is carried on systematically, the South being visited in Winter and the North in the Summer. A county is taken as a unit for the survey and a first rough or pre- liminary survey is made, with a line followed at one, two or three mile intervals. The re- sults of this survey are placed on a general map in which an inch represents, roughly, five miles. On this map only general conditions, such as sandy, clay, marsh and so on are shown, with no attempt to go into variations in smaller areas. The detailed survey, on the other hand, is along parallel lines not more than a quarter of a mile apart. Every quarter section, or 40 acres, is visited, with the maps giving varia- tions in as small areas as 5 or 10 acres. The survey men work in pairs and have as their principal implement a soil auger with which they take samples of the top soil and subsoil. The usual subsoil boring is to a depth of three feet, although in some instances samples are taken to a depth of six feet. The samples gathered by the field men are sent back daily to the laboratories for exam- ination and noting on the maps under prepa- ration. The report accompanying the maps gives detalls, such as drainage, topography, water supply, crops being raised, farm equip- ment markets, transportation and other details of value in preparing the general report. Some of the practical uses of the information gathered by the soil experts include the gather- ing of information for farmers who might wish to migrate to new locations. Canners who are contemplating locating a canning establishment in a given territory can find from thes: maps whether such a project would be feasible. Road engineers can learn of conditions they are to face in building new roads. Land banks can find out with certainty whether the farm being put up as security for loans is really security or just worthless land, with no pros- pects. It 'u believed that the entire survey.will be completed in between 20 and 30 years more. Shoemakin g Art Traced INGONSPICUOUS among the passengers of the third trip of the Mayflower to she United States was a man who proved to be the forerunner of one of the great industries of this country, an industry with probably $200,000,000 invested in its factories and equip- ment and turning out products worth far more than that annually. The man was Thomas Beard, who was the first shoemaker to come to America. In his day all shoes were made entirely by hand, but early in the nineteenth century an English- man named Brunel invented a machine for lasting and nailing shoes. Still the work was done entirely by one man, who followed the shoe from the first cutting of the leather through to the applying of the polish at ths end. The Brunel machine had introduced the ma- chine age to the shoe industry and within two generations after his invention the work of making shoes was divided among several men, each having his own operation or opera- tions. The most important step after the Bru- nel machine was the McKay sewing machine, which way introduced in 1860 and which sewed the upper to the sole by machinery. In the present day only in exceptional cases is there much handwork done on shoes, the machine having taken over most of the work. How Shrike Got Its Name Trm shrike, belying its name, is in reality a song bird, but a bird which has the un- musical nickname of the butcher bird. There are some 230 species of shrike, but only 2 of the family are to be found in the United States, these two keing about 10 inches in length. Its unlovely name comes from a physical weakness which its ingenuity has overcome, It 1s not only an insect eater, but also preys upon mice and small birds. Its feet are its weakness, and it is unable to hold its prey in its talons. Handicapped, the shrike seizes its food in its beak and then impales the hapless victim on a thorn, which serves as its talams.