Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, September 22, 1900, Page 6

CUUTERURE NS ee ee A SIRENS VICTIMS By Frances Warner Walker. CRIVEIVIVIVITIUTELIVETILSD) CHAPTER XI. She sank back with a hopeless moan; she had no power to fight the fearful battle into which she had been thrust unarmed, unprepared. The odds were too terrible. They palsied even the ef- fort of her thought to combat them. “Come!” said the man. “I’m wait- ing, and the word you uttered just now was not a bad one to hear to a man who's been homeless for five years. It brings up a picture of light, and com- fort and warmth.” “Does it?” she cried, rousing herself —does it? I should think your imag- ination would paint a different back- ground to the word—a scene of revelry and rioting, of clinking glasses, and the turn of a wheel, of men to be-allured to their fate, and women to allure them!” ‘And again she shuddered. “I have but to close my eyes to see it all!” “You were treated well enough,” he answered. “You've no cause to com- plain, and in the future—” “The future?” she interrupted him, fiercely. “In mercy’s name, lét there be no future. Go away from me! Oh, if you have one spark of feeling in your soul, go back into the grave where I believed you—” “So you heard that story, eh? and gave it credence. You heard that I ‘was murdered in a fight. To tell the truth, I had an ugly knife-wound, and ‘was not quite sure for a while but that the end had come. Do you know what was my one regret? That I hadn't found you and that I hadn’t killed him. This, I think, was what gave me strength to slowly recover, and this, or”’—with a harsh, forced laugh—be- eause the devil wasn’t quite ready to claim his own. I can hardly believe now in my own luck—can hardly credit that once more we two stand face to face. It’s growing dark. I can’t see you well now. But the first glimpse I had showed how little you were ehanged. You've not lost your beauty, my girl, and you’ve been in luck. Wou’re dresse1 in furs and velvets, with diamonds in your ears; but it’s a strange place, and a strange hour for so fine a lady to be alone. Come, let’s go home; but first, tell me’—and he fairly hissed the question—‘are you afraid because he is there? I will wait no longer. Let us be off!" “Listen!” she cried. “You are all—all wrong! Your suspicions always have been wrong concerning my flight. I fled because the life was hateful and be- cause I hated you! I thanked God — yes, on my knees (I had not knelt be- fore since I was a little child)—when I heard you were dead. I said my life ‘was my own now, to do with as I will. I will forget my past; I will live in the future. Eight months ago, I married @ man rich, honored, boasting a proud old name which is mine to-day. Will filch it from me? will you drag me down into the mud? You shall not, I say—you shall not!” Her listener's breath came short and hard; his face hardened. “So you are married, eh?” he said, efter an almost imperceptible pause. *Well, come, my girl. Introduce me to your husband. Tell him you’ve found brother you thought was dead.” “T'll tell him nothing; nor will I move one step from this place while you stand here. Let me go. Oh, what good ean it do you to drag me down into the mire again? I had almost forgotten it, but now I seem to feel again its slime. © will help you with money if I can, but mever—never let me see your face again “You forget I've some rights a man’s mot likely to give up. You forget I’ve mot seen you for five years. You are brave to tell me what you have just told me. Who is the man that you have married? What is his name “You shall not know his name!” “JT will know it, or to-morrow the pa- pers shall ring with your story, and I’m mot one, as perhaps you remember, to make idle threats. What is this man’s mame?” “His name is Reynolds,” she an- Bwered, then. “TI may as well tell you. ‘Any one else would tell you for the asking.’ Oh, Tom, leave me in peace! Don’t persecute me!” “You'll come home with me_ to- night!" he asserted, slowly, and again he laid his hand heavily on her shoul- Ger. You hear me? You'll come home with me—” “What would be the good?” she ques- tioned, desperately. “Do you know What I would do? I would murder you! ©h, I am not the woman I was five rears ago! I would not bear what I ore then, believe me.” “You were a little wildcat on occa- Bions, then, ma chere, but I’m not very much afraid of your claws.” Again she shrank back, almost as if in absolute fear. ’ “Tom, let us talk sense,” she said. “You say you have fifty-dollars, and foes luck is down. I have nothing but hese jewels in my ears. I'l never go ack to the old life. I’! kill myself first! I'll never go back to your bru- ality. There is no law of God or man %o compel me. You can ruin me here. 4¥ou can blurt out all the truth. You could find witnesses enough to corrob- rate your story if I were fool enough to deny it, so I won’t try. You can “rive me from the home and shelter I ave found, or you can leave me here peace. You can let me help you with gmoney, in such sums as I am able to ‘obtain, and you can pay me with the price of your—silence!” ‘A cool proposition, upon my word!” feplied the man. “I will walk up and ‘Bown the path here for a while and ‘think it over—not going far enough, thowever, to let you out of my sight, ma belle.” She fairly crouched down on the seat s he turned away from her. The nails ff her hands were buried in her flesh ough her white gloves. She was white as marble, cold as stone. She vould not tell how she had the power to argue, to talk. She found herself now counting his footfalls as hespaced up and down, and wondered when they would stop and what he would say. Full fifteen minutes had elapsed be- fore he paused before her. She felt herself hovering on the brink of madness. It seemed to her that if her hand could close on the gleaming weapon she had seen that afternoon in Harvey Barclay’s pocket, she would be- come a murderess. “Well,” he said, “I have decided. I have weited five years; I can afford to wait a little longer. You say you're the wife (emphasizing the latter word) of a rich man. Give me five thousand dollars to-morrow afternoon, at this hour, and J’ll leave you in peace until —my luck changes, or I need more money from your wealthy—husband. Do yon agree to my terms? “Five thousand dollars!” Mechanically she repeated the amount of his demand. “Yes,” he answered, in angry suspi- cion. “If you've not been lying to me, it’s a request moderate enough. At all events, I'll make it no less, and I want your answer quick.” a “I will send it to you to-morrow,” she replied. “Give me an address.” Rapidly he wrote a few words on a slip of paper. “You'd better not fool me in the mat- ter,” he muttered, warningly. “I've been fooled long enough.” “You shall have it,” she replied. “Good-bye, then, my girl!’ he said, mockingly. “I'll only stay in Wash- ington long enough to find out whether he is here, too, and you’il not see me again until the bank’s broke. I rather think I'll have your prayers for my luck.” : His footsteps echoed down the walk. The night had fallen, and the cold was more intense, but she sat motionless fo: full half an hour after he had left her. At last she rese, and slowly and with tottering steps, turned her face in the direction of home. Henceforth she would live with the sword of Damocles suspended by a single hair above her head. The old colored butler stared in amazement at her white face, as he opened the door for her to enter. Her husband, watchful for the sound, advanced rapidly from the library to meet her, but started back as he caught a glimpse of her. “My child!” he cried. ‘“‘“Have you seen a ghost?” “A ghost?” she repeated after him, with a short, unnatural laugh; and then, before he could throw out his arms to catch her, she staggered and fell, face downward, upon the floor. CHAPTER XII. Pale and languid, but with her love- liness only enhane2d thereby, Helen Reynolds lay next morning among the cushions of her lounge. The clock on the mantel struck 11. The day was so far gone, and already nothing had been done. No longer could she hesitate in the work that she must do. No longer lose precious time. Her husband's forgery of Grace Haw- thorne’s. name must at once be ob- tained. Harry himself sat writing at a table close beside her. Once, at least, in ev- ery minute he raised his eyes to look at her. fi Her faint on the previous evening had greatly alarmed him. A physician had been instantly summoned, who de- clared that his ratient seemed to be suffering from intense nervous excite- ment. Helen explained this on her recovery, by stating that she had started from the house for a walk, and,.on passing through Lafayette Square, attracted by its solitude, had sat down upon one of the benches to rest. That she had over- heard, from a bench near by, two men planning a robbery, and had feared to stir, lest they should accost her. She had gotten chilled through, she. said, and the warm air of the house, on en- tering, had overcome her.’ Some simple remedies kad been pre- scribed, and this morning she declared herself fully restored. Only her own soul* knew the long agony of her sleepless night. The mo- ments had lengthened themselves into hours, the hours into years of torture. She had lain with her hands grasping the side of her bed and her face half- buried in her pillow, in the effort to repress the scream which now and then seemed as if it must break from her lips. Let one little sound, even a moan, escape her—give way but a single inch to the tide which she held back by all the power of her self-control—and she knew that she would be powerless to prevent its utter destruction of all her faculties. She would have shrieked out the whole terrible story, and have gone mad as its fitting sequel. With the dawn some of her calm re- turned. Overdome by fatigue, she fall- en into dreamless slumber. It had rest- ed and refreshed her in the relaxation it afforded from the terrible strain. She now could think calmly. “What are you writing, Harry?” she asked, at last. : “Some letters for father,” he an- swered. “Shall I stop, dear? They can wait until to-morrow.” a “Oh, no! do not stop on my account. I was only wondering what mischief your pen was plotting now. I get no more letters, no more notes. I almost fancy, Harry, that I miss them.” “Miss my letters, when you have my- self, darling! That is scarcely a com- pliment, but I will write you one at once, if you say so. What wish of yours would I not gratify, my wife? You hayé made me so supremely hap- py, so supremely blessed!” and he stooped from where he sat to press a kiss upon her lips. Fondly she stroked back the hair from his brow. 4 “Foolish boy!” she murmured. “A lover still, and married almost a year.” “A lover always, my Helen. Do you know, I think it is the fault of the wo. men, not the men, when husbands cease to be lovers.” “I think it is an accomplishment some men never learn. Lovers, Harry, are like poets—born, not made. It is the element of genius; the talent, how- ever great, can never simulate it. But now, go on with your writing, or you will hardly be in a fit frame for a stern business epistle, and, unaware, a sen- tence may creep in to startle its recip- ient.” . He turned back to his task. “By the way,” Harry,” she contin- ued, “you never have shown me your skill in counterfeiting my chirogra- phy. Let me see if you can do it.” “IT never have tried,” he replied. “Write your name for me, and I will make the effort now.” y “My hand is too weak this morning. make the attempt from memory.” Taking up'a blank sheet of paper, he imitated, as closely as he could, her signature, which was, in some respects, both marked and peculiar. “Very good,” she said, examining it critically, as he handed it to her; “but hardly so good, I think, as your coun- terfeit of Grace’s. Write her name on another slip, and let me compare them. I wonder if they would bear no trace of the same hand, and be as thorough- ly unlike as our original specimens would be.” He hesitated not a moment in com- plying with her request. “It is perfect!” she declared; “but we won't leave it as a witness against you.” ; And then followed the sound of tear- ing paper; but, of the two slips which he had handed her, only one was de- stroyed. The other remained intact— the weapon which was to stab Harry Reynolds’ honor to the quick by the hand he best loved on earth. It was now almost the hour ap- pointed for Harvey Barclay’s’ visit, when Helen expressed the wish to go down into the library. She was tired, she said, of her own room, but. really, they must no longer treat her as an invalid. ~ But when she rose to her feet her head swam, and she was glad to have her husband’s arm thrown protecting- ly around her for support. No possible chance could be afforded her of seeing Harvey alone, she knew full well. She must contrive some means of getting the paper to him un- suspected by them all, and of telling him the terrible story of yesterday. With a sigh of relief, she lay back in the arm-chair in which Harry had placed her, and which he had drawn close to the fire. As he bent down to kiss her, Grace entered the room, a great bunch of crimson roses in her hand. “They are to make you ashamed of your pale cheeks, Helen,” she said, sweetly, as she offered her gift; but her own cheeks were equally pale. A strange and sad unrest has pos- sessed her all the day. Her woman's intuition had divyined that Helen suf- fered, and, remembering the secret that she already held locked in her breast, she felt that perhaps Harry had again been tempted, and that his wife's loyalty fain would spare him. Oh, if he needed money, why did he not come to her? Yet, to know that Helen suffered through his fault, caused a new and tenderer feeling for her to spring into life in the girl’s unsuspecting soul. She knelt on the rug beside the fire, an exquisite picture in her rich winter costume, when the butler announced Mr. Barclay. A moment later, with the privilege of one on familiar footing with the house- hold, he entered the room. Harry and Grace alike greeted him with more than usual warmth, the former because of the relief inspired by | the knowledge that Grace had refused. the offer of his hand; Grace, herself, because of her belief that, unwittingly, she had caused him pain. Helen's greeting was almost marked- ly cold. Indeed, after a few minutes, she took up pencil and paper, and be- gan writing on a book she held in her lap. The conversation rested its burden upon the other three. ‘At the end of half an hour their visit- or arose. Asking for an envelope, Helen fold- ed her note, put it within it, sealed, stamped and addressed it. “Will you drop th's into the box for me, Mr. Barclay?” she asked, as she held it toward him. “It is to my dress- maker,” she added, with a smile, therefore, important.” “I will deliver it in person, if needs be,” he answered, taking it from her hand and slipping it into an outside pocket of his coat. “As you please, if your way leads in that direction; but the post will, I imagine, be equally sure. Only, do not let your memory fail; for it is most important and contains minute direc- tions concerning my next new cos- tume.” - “I hope when we next meet to find you fully recovered,” he said, taking her hand in farewell. ‘We depend up- on you to be the married belle of Mrs. Randolph’s ball next week.” “Next week!” she laughed, “I shall be able to vie with the bloom of these roses then.” “The difficulty will lie with the roses in making themselves worthy of such comparison,” he answered, in half- sportive gallantry. 7 And, with a few words of adieu to the others, he took his leave. Rapidly he ‘walked through the streets until he reached his rooms. Then he tore open the letter con- signed to his care, the letter concern- ing which he had received such minute instructions. A flash of triumph gleamed in his eyes as two sheets fell from the en- velope—one closely filled, one blank, except for a single signature, midway down the sheet—the signature “Grace Hawthorne’—and written, seemingly, in Grace Hawthorne’s unmistakable chirography. , But his expression underwent an awful change, as his eyes glanced down that other page, and he gleaned the purport of the characters which filled it. 'The wretched woman who had penned it wrote: _ “Harvey: The story we heard con- cerning Tom’s death was false. I saw him yesterday. Money {s the price which, for ‘a little while, will buy his silence. He has been on my track all these years. He still threatens veng- eance against ——I need not write his name. But it- would be well that he should not see you. His suspicions might take another turn. Make the note for forty-five thousand, and send the five to the address which I enclose to you. For how long? It is this question which is driving me to mad- ness.” * Slowly Harvey Barclay read and re- read the writing on the page. Then he tere it into fragments and cast them into the heart of the burning coals within the grate. “I was not bern a villain!” he mut- tered, his face ashen to the lips. “But fate /and my cursed fortune together, are rapidly making me one!” ; CHAPTER XIII A week passed by—a week during whose passage the very minutes, as they dragged, made themselves into avengers of the past of the wretched ‘woman, whose sin, indeed, had found her out. Her miserablé secret was fast locked in her own breast. She feared to laugh, lest laughter should end in a sob or shriek;she feared to sleep, lest she should, betray herself by some un- conscious whisper; her voice, to her own ears, sounded harsh and unnatur- al. ., But Grace alone noted any change. She was on the alert for some misfor- tune concerning Harry—believed that he had laid again upon his wife’s shoulders the burden of his fault—and so she grew more tender to Helen, whom she fancied a sufferer through her husband’s sin. Harvey Barclay had not been near the house. To its every inmate except one his absence was a relief; but to Helen, who had herself decreed his banishment, it became another lash in the scourge which memory so relent- lessly applied upon her bare and quiv- ering soul. To Harvey she might have poured out some of the thoughts which were surging and seething within her. To touch his hand, knowing that its answering pressure would denote a si- lent sympathy with and knowledge of her suffering; to hear his voice, and trace in words of indifferent meaning some subtle intonation which would convey some comfort; to look into his eyes and discover beneath their lashes one quick glance from heart to heart— would have been as manna in the wild- erness; but even this poor comfort was denied her. ‘ Of the man she had seen in the square she had heard nothing more; therefore she knew that his silence had been bought; and, to buy it ,»Harvey had made use of the signature she had sent him—a signature which granted her three months’ respite—since, if the game of fortune turned its tide against the re-embodied skeleton of her past, how long before the petty thousands she had given him would be swept in to the maelstrom, and he come clamor- ing for more?” It was the night of Mrs. Randolph's ball. She made a low courtesy to her reflection in the pier glass,” as she stood, fully dressed, before it. “You are the embodiment of a living lie,” she said to her reflected self, as she saw before her a beautiful, young and smiling woman, with diamonds glittering in her ears, and her robe of exquisite fabric’ faultlessly outlining the perfect form. ‘And to-night,” she continued, mentally—‘‘to-night you will be greeted everywhere as the wife of Edgar Reynolds’ son. You—you are the possessor of that proud old name? You' He@en—” She paused. A hard light came into her eyes; her hand clenched. “Helen Reynolds,” she said, aloud. “Ah! the name is mine! who shall wrest it from me?” “Ready, Helen?” called a gay voice. She uttered a slight scream as it jarred upon her ear, then rapidly re- covered her calm. “Quite ready. Harry! You startled me by your sudden entrance.’ I be- lieve I am weak enough to be admiring my own reflection in the glass. Shall I confess to such vanity?” “It is pardonable, darling. ,You nev- er looked more beautiful. Let me kiss you once. Stand off, that I may not disarrange this sumptuous toilet.Ah, my love! I shall be proud and jealous at once to-night of every eye that falls upon you. Come! Grace is already awaiting us in the library.” It was late, and Mrs. Randoiph’s rooms were crowded when they en- tered them: Helen’s eyes sought restlessly for one face, one form. Surely, Harvey would be here to-night, and where she could see and speak with him alone. Yes, he was there. She saw his tall figure advancing to meet them. “At last” he said, as she approached. “T had begun to despair of your com- ing.” Ah, she Was not the only one who could act a part, was the swift thought which crossed her brain. Who could dream that this young man’s hand- some, smiling face was a mask? Who could suspect that he had perpetrated a monstrous wrong toward the friend to whom he outstretched his hand in greeting? Harry took it, but coldly, and felt a shadé of annoyance as his wife accept- ed the young officer's arm, and was lost to sight amid the throng. Grace had already joined the dancers in the ball room beyond. For a mo- ment he was alone. “By Jove! What a beautiful wo- man!” he overheard one man say to his companion. “Looks as if she had a history, too. Who is she?” - “A woman with a history, as you say. —a history, I fancy, unsuspected by the man she has beguiled. She is the wife of Edgar, Reynolds’ son. A beau- tiful adventuress. The man with her is Harvey Barclay, of the army. He is one of the boldest gamblers in the city. He must have broken some bank last week, for he went about and paid all his debts, I understand somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty thousand dollars. They were just about to make an investigation into some funds committed to his care, when he ren- dered a full account.’ Of course, these facts are not generaliy known, put he is getting in bad odor, and I don’t be- lieve the army will consider him a de- sirable acquisition much longer. How- ever, it requires some overt act on his part to eject him. He's a great favor- ite in his way, a clever fellow, and perhaps, now that he’s had a rise, he’ll be wise enough to change his course. By the way—" oy ‘And the two men,passed out of hear- ing. ~ $ Harry Reynolds stood rooted to the spot. His first impulse had been to strike the dastardly slanderer in the face; but would not his doing so hurt ee sorely a woman he would pro- tect A beautiful adventures! ‘ Thus the man had termed his wife. ‘What he had heard concerning Barclay confirmed his suspicions. He must » -ve them facts, and then forbid him the house. ; The thought that he was now with his wife maddened him, and, white with anger at the memory of the con- versation which had been so little in- tended to meet his ear, he started in search of them. Mrs. Randolph’s house, like Mrs. Randolph’s charming self, was admir- ably fitted for entertaining. The rooms were large, and opened by wide, fold- ing doors, one into the other, until they made a splendid Whole; but, spite of all their vastness and magnificence, there were many cozy. nooks and se- cluded corners where all the gay and brilliant scene might be shut out, and those occupying them find a solitude almost as complete’ as though the house were deserted. To one of these Harvey Barclay had led Harry Reynolds’ wife. They had spoken no word as they threaded their way through the throng of guests, and only when seated side by side on a lux- urious fauteuil, within a deep bow window, screened from passers-by by luxurious foliage and a bed of fra- grant flowers, did he break the silence. Leaning forward, he took in the un- gloved hands thelittle, icy fingers, whose chill struck him through their kid covering. “My poor Helen!” he said, tenderly. “My poor girl!” Hot tears sprang to her eyes, but res- olutely she forced them back. “Don’t—-don’t speak to me like that, Harvey,” she entreated. “I. can’t bear your tender pity. It unnerves me. You must help me to be strong. What am I to do, Harvey—what am I to do?” “Be your own brave self,” he an- swered. “I can't give you better ad- vice. And don’t give way like this. What cursed luck it was brought him back! But I sent him the money. You are safe for a time, at least. As for myself, I have been in hiding, like a cur... It might have, changed his plans had he seen me.” (To Be Continued.) HOW CROWDS CONGREGATE. Nen York City. The first man to halt probably had more leisure than he knew what to do with. When he laughed two other men, -to whom time was no object, stopped and laughed, too. Then other men and a few women joined the crowd, and in about a minute a fair sized crowd had assembled. The gathering swelled until Mail street was blocked, and hundreds of persons pushed forward to.see what was going on, while newcomers hurried from all the walks through City Hall Park. Under the mail wagon shed in the rear of the postoffice a very small boy, the center of attraction, held the stubby section of a garden hose at- tached to a water plug used by the mail drivers to water their horses. The weather was warm, and the boy, clad only in a waist and tattered knicker- bockers, was gravely taking a shower bath. He seemed to enjoy the notice he was receiving, and the crowd ap-, plauded each new antic he performed. ‘The mail drivers were interested, too. A policeman hurrying up to investi- gate the cause of the excitement was pushing to'the front before the lad saw him. Instantly the bather dropped the hose, and, ducking under a pair of horses, scampered away. The section of the crowd in the foreground jeered at the policeman and then began to disperse. Far in the rear people who arrived late were still inquiring what had happened.—New York Times. A Clock Full of Sparrows. Gen. Thibaudin, 9 former French minister of war, lives now at Montfer- metl, near Raincy, and he there finds a novel way of entertaining his nurner- ous visitors. gAccording to the Gaulots he takes them into an adjacent wood, where stands the house of a master mason, Delavier by name. Here they are shown the singular sight of swal- lows nesting in the chimney clock that ornaments the dining room, and in- habiting it to such an extent that the owner does not wind it up during that period for fear of disturbing the pro- cess of hatching. The presence of thé family at meals is in no way discon- certing to the swallows. At 4 o'clock each morning they strike against the windows as a signal to the master of the house to open the casements and allow them to fly forth and seek nour- ishment for their young. —— The Longest Words. A correspondent gives ‘‘Nonintercom- municability” as the longest word in the English language. While reading the life of the Archbishop Benson I came across the following extract from his diary for September, 1892 (page 461): “But the free kirk of the north of Scot- land are strong antidisestablishmen- tarians’—ten syllables, twenty-six let- ters! The longest Italian word con- tains eleven syllables and twenty-six letters and forms a whole line of rhyme which is a well known proverb: Chi troppo in allo sal, cade sovenie - Precipitevolissimevolmente. (He who rises too high often falls Most precipitately.)—Pall Mall Ga- zette. v Her Idea of Farming. He—I saw that farm that was ad. vertised and I think I will buy it. She—Oh, then we will move away frem the hateful city for good? He—Yes. It’s a fine place; fourteen acres and a pond on it. She Won't that be nice? We can ‘pond lilies and watermelons in it. —Philadelphia Press. Uncongenial Cats. Mrs. Scrappington—No sooner do you get seatedin chureh than you close your eyes— . Mr. Scrappington—Well, you eye oth- er peoples clothes, and— They glared at each other like uncon- genial cats.—Puck. Fetching. : Tom—Dick’s got a fetching name for his country place; he calls it “At the Sign of the White Rabit.” Harry—Well, I'll go him one better; YlLeall mine “At the Sign of the Welsh Rabbit.”—Chicago Record. f he plain, common toiling people un- der Bryan on the other. However, men may admire Debs and however |much they believe in the, principles One Small Boy With a Hose Almost which he advances, the progressive Blockaded 2 Street in people of America will understand that \ “SOCIALISTS ARE FOR BRYAN. | Clarence S. Darrow, who is prob- ably as closely in touch with the so- cialist labor movements as any man in the West, who also is the attorney who defended Debs during the trials following the great railroad strike in . 1894, declares-it to be his opinion that Debs’ strength will nearly all go to the democratic ticket. Mr. Darrow. says: “If every one who believes in socialism were to vote for Mr. Debs he would poll an enormous vote, one that would surprise the enemies of the Republic—the imperialists who have beeen building up socialism without knowing it. “However, as the campaign pro- gresses I believe that the heat of the argument will naturally bring most people to believe that the plutocrats— the men who are intent on money, those who are willing to sacrifice the government—in fact, to sacrifice ev- erything that exists for ‘the sake of money, are with the republican party, and that the friends of liberty and of the people, however they may disagree upon immediate matters, will rally around Bryan. Greed is the same whether in America, England or Ger- many, and the same reasons which caused England to wipe out the Dutch republics are the ones that work to subdue the Philippines. The same man and the same principles would place the American producers in like posi- tion of bondage and vassalage, from which it took so many centuries to raise them to even the poor condition in which they are today. As these is- sues force themselves more clearly to the front, the body of American voters will irresistibly be divided between the friends of the trusts of the corpo- rations, of the money getter, of the land grabber, and the race exploiters, under McKinley on the one hand and without liberty progress is impossible, and that to perpetuate liberty the ov- erthrow of the republican party is ab- solutely imperative. The way to over- throw the republican party is to elect Bryan and Stevenson.” Mr. Darrow’s sentiments are echoed by all those in close touch with the social labor movement, SPAIN LOVES Us. We are doing business with Spain once more and our trade with that country is greater than it was before the war. In 1897, the year preceding the conflict, exports from the United States to Spain footed up $10,912,745. This year the total is $13,399,680. The United States has bought goods from Spain to the value of $5,950,047 this year, against $3,631,973 in 1897. The business men of the two countries are trading away as if nothing had ‘hap- pened and Spain is beginning to think it is better off without those islands than it was with them. A very pleas- ant war, indeed, is one that is satis- factory to all parties concerned.—Min- neapolis Times. Of course Spain is better off. She made a mighty good trade when she sold her equity in an endless war for $20,000,000. But how is it with us who bought that long-winded war? We have fought for 18 months; we have killed thousands of the poor natives; we have lost 4,000 valuable lives; we have sent home thousands of invalid- ed soldiers; we have spent $200,000,- 000; we haven’t pacified an island ex- cept the Sulu group, and we,did that by bribing the sultan with money, after we had granted him the right to keep slaves and concubines. Fortunate Spain—unfortunate Amer- ica, THIS IS FUNNY. “Senator Stewart of Nevada sig- nalizes his return to the Republican fold by a forcible and concise state- ment of reasons why Bryan and his party should be beaten. It is not oft- en that so much political horse sense is found in so little space.—Indianap- olis Journal. O dear! and it is only a little while since all the Republican papers were calling Senator Stewart a windy old: fool. Stewart left us because he says we abandoned silver and the Republic- an organs. curse us because they say we are in favor of silver and ‘hothing else. What a funny campaign? TEDDY A FIRE BUG. “The popocrats propose to start Towne out to backfire when Roosevelt sets the Nebraska prairies aflame. Fire guards will be no protection for the fusiontsts when he once gets started.”—Omaha Bee, ‘ Yes, Teddy is considerable of a fire bug. He started a conflagration at Minneapolis and the Republicans hat been working overtime ever since to put it out. A few more blazes started that burned up the city of Chicago. eS Janne eee ev. John J. Eberle of Pottstown,’ Pa., has for forty years past lived | |