Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, November 23, 1901, Page 3

) = oe —--— 3 TOTS TTS SOS ce & Rickerby’s Folly . By TOM GALLON 000000000000 CHAPTER I. A Footstep on the Stairs. London, on a wild and gusty night tn early spring. A night on which shut- ters were, blown down, and men and women buff2ted at street corners and flung against each other and hurled boisterously into unexvected doorways. A wild night, with Leavy clouds driving fiercely across the moon, and a bitter, stinging rain whipping and cutting into the faces of passers-by. A whirling, shrieking, mad night, to make peaceful folk shiver in their beds, and bless Goa that they had a roof over them. On this night, with their backs set steadily to the driving wind, two men were blown along, side by side, in the direction of a certain house, buried away in the heart of St. John’s Wood. One of them, at least, must have known the way to it; for the pair kept straight on, without turning to the right or left, and without making inquiry of any one | of the few people they met. Only once or twice, the taller man of the two would stop at a street corner, as though fn doubt, and look abouc him perplex- edly; then, while his companion stood still, he would take a step or two in one direetion—shake his i and come back again; nod of satisf: lead the afresh. And thus, feeling their wa ft were, and beating it out ir persistent fashioa, like men their path through some wild place to which they were unaccustomed, they came to the house. A glocmy and weird sort of place it was—relic of some earlier period before the era of villas and semi-detached res- idences; a great nouse for that part of London, set in a neglected wilderness of @ garden, with a high wali all around it. A curious house, :n two parts—one of which had lights in it, while the other was dark and cold, like the face of a man with one blind eye and the other sparkling with life. So much, at least, they could see of it, as they stood back on the cther side of the road and caught a glimpse of its upper windows, over the top of the wall. “Oh! poor old house; Jorn place I once claimed the taller man, as he stared at fts dark roofs outlined against the stormy sky. “How many years since I turned my back upon you; how many years, during which I have seen you, as clearly as I see you now, in strange cit- fes and in wild places of the earth, where no real house ever stood! And mow—to come back to you like this!"” The other man was silent; he merely glanced curiously at the house, while he held his hat on and strove to stand steadily against the wind. “Now you understand what you have to do, Holden?” went on the tall man, after a pause. ‘You have the card; you have the mony. This is merely a whim of mine; I want to prepare the way, as it were—to play the mysterious man, who does a good thing and hides him- sel while it is being done. I’ve earned the right to have thet satisfaction, at least, out of the business. Their visitor 4s expected at midright; it must be clese on that now, and you—” “But I don’t quite see, sir,” broke in the other man, “how I’m to manage the ‘usiness. You have written to say that Gilbert Rickerby will be here’’—point- ing to the house—‘at midnight.” “At midnight—certainly.”” “But Gilbert Rickerby—excuse me for taking such a liberty with the name, sir—won't be there at all, because I—-” “Because you'll go in his place. You can explain that Gilbert Rickerby is a queer scrt of fellow—the queerer the better for this business, Holden!—anad will come later. ‘Don’t you see that, apart from the satisfaction of standing mysteriously ,outside the business, I want to know what. sort of reception my emissary meets with? Hark!there goes the hour at last—midnight—and a wild niglit for a wild business—at least, scme would think it so. Now, then, off with you!” Holden crossed the road and stopped efore a wooden gate in the high wall and rang the bell; the next moment the sound of the bell itself clanked out, even above the noise of the wind. The tall man on the opposite side of the read drew himself back into the shelter of a dccrway, and prepared to make himself as comfortable as possible un- til the other’s return. After what seemed quite a long time a black space opened up in the gray lergth of the wall; swallowed the other man up, and became gray like the rest. Meanwhile, in the house itself, the visitor. was expected—expected with some trepidation, too, to judge from ap- pearances, and yt with the hurry of fevered preparation. «ld house, altogether, at the best of h try another, and, with a ction, way poor, old, for- times: yet, surely, never more ghostly | thar. to-night. For there were mysteri- «us creakings and creepings on the stirs; a whispering of voices behind closed doors; once a lantern, flinging out long shafts of light from three: sides, was swung aloft in the hand of } some person moayjng about the dreary old garden; passed to the gate and paused there, as though the person who held it stood listening; back into the house again. At last, whatever preparations were afoot seemed to be completed; and three men drifted together silently into one room, on the first floor of that light- ed part of the house. They came with- out speaking; and as though, for some strange purpose, they came together for company, to wait out the time, un- til something had to be done. were on a table in this room; but only -one man drank—and that man hurried- ly and furtively, as though he were merving himself, of set purpose, and not a3 though he greatly enjoyed the -drinking. ‘This man who drank was compara- ‘tively ycung, of a strong and active igure, and with a remarkably swarthy cmplexion. Whatever his general de- “iqneanor may have been, on this night he called home!” ex- | It was a ghostly | went jerkily ; Spirits » LIXLLAK LARK LV Kee grees) 0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-00-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0:0-00-0-0-0-0 was never still for an instant; crossing his legs and uncrossing them, getting up and striding about the room, going at times to the door, and standing near it, Hstening intent The other two men were of an entire- ly different stamp. One was a man about sixty years of age, with a face gnarled and knotted and seamed, like the bark of some crabbed old, forest tree; with a figure almost as bent and twisted as such a tree might have been; and with long fect and hands which, to carry, the resemblance farther, were not unlike what the roots and twisted branches might have been. The third man was of about the same age as the flist, but was, apparently, a servant. At all events, he was so far depéndent upon the others, and subservient to them, that he kept his eyes glancing, nervously, frem one io the other, and oceasionally moistened his lips hurried- ly with his tongue. For whatever busi- ress the three men waited, there was this difference between them: that the first waited in craving anxiety, the old man in careless imperturability, and the third man in deadly fear. Indeed, this fear became so apparent presently, thet the first mar turned impatiently about and faced the younger of the oth- er two. “What the dickens are you staring at me like that for?” he demanded. ‘“‘Isn’t it cnough to be in this ghastly place, at such an hour, without having a man in the room shaking and trembling as though he saw ghosts? What on earth is the matter with you?” Eefore the man pad time to reply, the old creature of the gnarled countenance broke in with a sort of gruesome chuck- le. “It's nerves ’e wants, Master Nu- gent,” he said. “Nerves ain’t given to everyone, like you an’ me; they comes nat’ral—or they don’t come at all. Bet~ ter ‘ave left ’im out of it.” | “Never mind what you said; I could not leave him out of it.” He crossed the room swiftly, and dropped his hand on the shoulder of the younger man— dropped it so heavily, and with such a srip in the fimgers, that the other winced and moved uneasily. “Now, listen to me, Miles Probyn,” said he of the swarthy skin, “and, as you value your life, pay heed to it. I have no fear of our friend, Cornelius, here; he’s made of tougher stuff.” He indicated the old man, who acknowl- edged the compliment with a grin. “But with you, one has to be careful; you’re of the scrt that put ropes around honest men’s necks and dig graves for them. Only remember, my friends, that I love company; so we'll sink or swim in this business together. ' “Look at me—see what I am—know me for what I am—guess what I might have been. No—by heavens!” and he breught his fist down heavily upon the table, ‘not wha: I might have been, but what I will be! Not the man keeping a place warm for someone else—holding dead men’s shoes to the fire to warm for another—not Nugent Leathwood, guarding an old foo!’s money, for some- one who has forfeited the right to it. No~a hundred times no! From to- night you shall see another Nugent right to it. Leathwcod taking for him- self that which he has guarded so long, holding the place which !s his, by right of power and conquest.” “And fillin’ it like a man—not like a mitk-and-water babby,” broke in the eld man, in the same voice as before. “Look round this room—look round this house,” cried Nugent, getting up excitedly and waving his arms towards the ceiling. “You know it well; you have seer scenes here such as few men see at all. An old man, who saw in ev- ery living creature something only to be suspicious of; who lived his dark and sombre life day after day, merely because he could not die; who had built at great expense, a second house, with- in a few vards of the one in which he lived, and had shut up his own wife there, out of his sight. You know what they call the place in the neighborhood; what a by-word it has become.” . “‘Rickerby’s Folly.’” broke in old Cornelius, with another of his ghastly chuckles. “That’s it—‘ Rickehby’s Folly.’ Be- fore I came, 2s you know, and before Cornelius came, old Rickerby turned his only son out of doors, to fight his | way through life as best he might. Then, after I had come here, in a sort of Jeath-bed repentance, the old fool hungered for the boy, and wrote to him, craving his forgiveness, and telling him that all he had in the werld was his. And I-I, Nugent Leathwood, poor re- tion—I was to_keep the precious prop- erty in trust for him, and do my best to find him out. That letter was sent | without my knowledge; it chased the wanderer half over the world; it found him, under most extraordinary circum- | stances, in California. Just as I was | congratulating myself on the fact that | the young fool had joined the old fool, in a land where property doesn’t count, he young fellow wrote to say that he and was coming | was clive and well, | home. | “Two years since that there letter came like a thunder-clap,” said Corne- lius, “Two years without a word from ‘im; and to-night——” “To-night he comes here,” said Nu- gent. “To-night, in, his own infernally mysterious fashion, he comes at mid- night—alone—back to Rickerby’s Fol- ly.” “Drops in, friendly-like to ’ave a look at the accounts and ask after ’is gel.” Thus Cornelius, with a leer of the most horrible description. “Yes, that’s the worst part of it. He comes back—in his own good time—to claim money, wife, everything; to say he’s much obliged to me— and to walk away again, To walk away again!” If ever that most blessed thing, a sinile, may be said to be evil, it* was surely an evil smile which crossed the face of Mr. Nugent Leathwood as he Tepeated these words. Cornelius drew’ his hand slowly down his face and glanced at his master; the third man turned a little whiter than before and glanced behind him. “Now, mark this. A man has but one chance of life, so far as I reckon it, on this earth: that chance is mine now. This girl is nothing else than a mere schoolgirl; this property is more than either of you suspect. Between that girl and that property and myself stands an unknown man. And that unknown man enters this room in five minutes.” The younger man of the two listen- ers, seeing his face at that moment, half cried out and started to his feet. Nugent Leathwood stepped forward and caught him by thé shoulders and forced him down again. “Sit down; What have you to be frightened of? This man is nothing to anyone; if the old man hadn't acted like fool the son would have been a wanderer now, and a penniless wan- derer at that. I have never seen him, but I know his fondness for mystery and for hiding and skulking about the world. This visit of his to-night will be a mere flying one; he chooses his hour and he comes alone. No one knows he is in England. He tells me in this letter that he has no wish to see anyone but myself; that the associa- tions of the old place are too painful; that he desires some private talk with me, and then to go away again.” It was curious that not one of the trio spoke definitely as to the business in hard; it was merely tactily under- stood among them. There was a long end awkward pause; and then Nugent Leathwood said his final word. “Understand—this business is mine: I've set my hand toit, and I don’t turn back now. Iam obliged to have you here, the pair of you; there must be no noise, and I may not be able to do what I want alone. There is nothing to fear —nothing to worry about. Bah! why de men make such a fuss about mat- ters of this kind? The only mistake is in being found out. If Gilbert Rickerby nad come back openly, and in the light of day, all would have been well: he chooses to sneak back at night like a thief; and he must take the conse- quences. Now, Cornelius, be ready for the gate—ithe hour has struck. Remem- ber, Cornelius, you bring him up stairs and lead the way into the room. There's the bell.” Without a word Cornelius got up slowly from his chair and shuffied across the floor, opened the door, and diisappeared into the darkness of the staircase. They heard his slow feet go- ing down even while the bell was shak- ing its last notes on the silence. Nu- gent Leathwood had slipped across to the window and was peering out into the darkness. “There they come,” he whispered. “I ean see his lantern dodging about among the trees.” His voice shook a little, despite his endeavor to keep it steady. “But you—you say you don’t—don’t know the man, master?” whispered Probyn, where he stood, near the table, gripping it. “What the dickens does that matter?” exclaimed the other, impatiently. ‘Do you imagine that two men would come to Rickerby’s Folly at midnight, calling themselves Gilbert Rickerby? Now, then—here they come!” The two men waiting above heard the lower dvor closed with a bang; heard the grumbling voice of old Cornelius cursing the wind. Ther, as the men stood up, trembling, near the table, the other got over against the wall, and lit- erally behind the door which gave on to the staircase. In the horrible, deathly silence that reigned in the room they could distinctly hear the shuffling feet of the old man coming up; but no other sound. Then, in a moment, the old man came into the room, holding be- tween a finger and thumb a little white piece of pasteboard. Nugent Leath- wood darted forward at him. “Where is he? What have you done?” “Comin’ up,” answered the old man. “JT said I'd go up an’ see if you was at ‘ome. ’Ere’s ‘is card—all right an’ square, you see.” Nugent Leathwood merely glanced at it, and set his teeth. “Good. Call him up.” Cornelius went to the door and thrust out his head into the darkness; called out, in the blandest, sheeriest fashion— “Come up, sir—come up. Mind the stairs, sir.” So the three waited while brisk steps were heard on the stairs, steps that kept time to the heart-beats of two of them, at least. Then the man crossed the threshold quietly, looking straight in front of him. The first face he saw was that of Miles Probyn—looking, not at him, but at something or some one over his shoulder; and the face was so ghastly and so terror-stricken, that the man swung round instinctively to look behind him. And then, in a moment, he was battling frantically for his life. The shock of it had taken him abso- lutely by surprise. To be caught in a grip like that—a grip that was slowly but surely choking the life out of him; and to.see as he swayed about, with ev- erything distorted and red-streaked in his agonized vision, only two faces be- sides that of his murderer, looking calmly on, and making no attempt either to assist him or his assailant, might have had in sheer wonder. But, as the grip tightened the’ fierce instinct to battle for his life came more fully upon him; he strove to loosen the cruel hands from his throat—strove to speak or to cry out. Slowly and relentlessly, however, the horrible thing was done the room ceased to echo to the tramping feet, and the man who had come in but a few moments ebefore, bright-eyed, quick, alert and eager, lay dead and disfigured at the feet of the three men. Nugent Leathwood shook himself, and put a hand ‘to his collar and gasped a little; staggered to the table, poured out some spirits, and drank rapidly., He took out his handkerchief and slow- ly wiped his hands and his forehead; swayed against the table, and then stood uprfght and essayed to laugh. “Ah! that was pretty rapid. Shut that door. Give me a minute—to get the deadly shaking out of my limbs— and I'll tell you—tell you what to do. You—you’re sure he was alone?” ‘Certain sure” whispered Cornelius. “I asked ‘im—and there wan't nobody else in sight. Halloa—what’s the mat- ter with you?” This question was addressed to Pro- byn, who had slipped down upon his knees on the floor, and had covered his ‘face with hia hands. He. made no-reply, broke down whatever of energy he but merely shivered, and uttered a low, moaning sound, “Let him alone,” said Nugent, hur- riedly. “I'll bring him to his senses presently. This matter won’t wait presently. This matter won’t wait.” Now, Gilbert Rickerby—we'll say good bye to you, for the present, at least!” Between them, the old man and Nu- gent raised the body and staggered with it out of the room and down the stairs; Nugent looking back at the door to say, in a hoarse whisper: “You stay here till I come back; I'H have a word with you then.” The wretched man on his knees heard the hiundering steps going down stairs, heard the opening of doors and the whispering of the men. Then, when all was silent again, he staggered to his feet like a drunken man; went blindly, end with one hand stretched out to feel the way towards the stairs, and, still moaning horribly, crept down and out of the house. The other two, with their burden, heard the bang of the great hall oor; and stopped and looked at each cther. “What was that?” whispered Nugent, bending his face close to that of the other man. , “Someone gone out—or come in!” ‘Without a word, they lowered their burden to the ground and set off run- ning towards the door. Leathwood got to it first and tore it open; saw, in the fitful light of the room, the flying figure reach the gate and dash out into the road. “Probyn!” he gasped, glancing at Cornelius. “I must have him back. Wait here!” But, though he got swiftly to the gate, and looked in all directions, there was no figure in sight; he ran distractedly to the corner of the street, but there Was no one about; the whole place had the aspect of a city of the dead. Trem- bling and fearful, he ran back again and regained the house, and set about completing his work. CHAPTER IL. The House of Pain. The man who waited on the outside of the house in the blustering wind and rain, while his messenger went on his errand, had but,a little time to wait, after all. Expecting some delay, he had drawn himself up as snugly as pos- sible in the she!ter of the doorway on the opposite side of the street; had even made two unsuccessful attempts to light a cigar, but had given it up as hopeless. “T wonder what they’ll say to him,” he muttered, glancing across at the lighted window of the house. “What message will this cousin have to send? Ugh! This is not the pleasantest spot in the world to wait in. I almost wish that I had gone myself. I suppose if I hadn’t lived such a self-centered life, I should long ago have cast off these sus- picions and distrusts. How the wind howls! I'm nearly wet through!” Then, quite suddenly, into the dark and dreary night, was shot forth a man —from the same gateway that had swallowed up his messenger. But this man came out as though fearful of something behind him—dashed out blindly, with one hand half-covering his eyes, and the other stretched out, grop- ingly, before him, turned swiftly and darted off down the street; turned the first corner and was gone. Even as he disappeared, another figure rushed through the gate—looked in all direc- tions, and ran swiftly in the opposite direction; halted a moment, and looked about; and then ran back again, Searcely realizing what he did, the man who had waited in the doorway glided out and ran at top speed ofter the first fugitive. The man had a good start; and, as the streets in that part were short and were bisected, moreover, by narrower streets, the fugitive had a good chance of getting clear away. Indeed, it was only by good luck that the man who followed could have hoped to come up with him. But luck happened to be on his side; eoming to the end of a street and glancing to left and to right in search of his man, he saw him, a little way down the street to the right, sit- ting on the steps of a building that looked like a church, with his head in hit hands. The pursuer crossed the road and made rapidly towards him. He was within a couple of yards of him when the man started to his feet; beat off the other with both hands, and, with a cry of terror, dashed away again. ‘The other set his teeth grimly, and set- tled down as grimly to the chase. Street after street they traversed, racing madly through the driving rain— sometimes in the roadways, sometimes on the pavement—through pools of wa- ter, over heaps of stones, through and over everything that came in the way. And the first man maintained the lead, even though he darted on, in that mad fashion, crying to himself, and with one hand covering his eyes partially, and the other stretched out before him. Then another sound grew out of the night—a sound above the whistling of the wind—above the noise of racing feet. A great roar and rattle of wheels and hoofs, the patter of many fect on the pavement, the shouts and cries of men who ran. The second of the two men;with but a yard dividing him from the man in front, glanced rapidly to the left as he came to the end of a street; saw a gleaming, fiery thing, with brass- helmeted men upon it, sweeping down towards them, and shouted frantically to the man who ran before. In the roar and rush and hurry of the moment he saw and heard only two things: saw.the man in front dart straight before the flying. swaying monster, beat it with his feeble hands, and go down under it; heard the shout that went up from many throats as one of the firemen dropped nimbly off be- hind, and the engine swung along on its way. The crowd divided, some roaring along in the wake of the engine, some gathering about the little group in the roadway. They picked up the poor, broken, bruised, soiled thing and placed it ten- derly in a cab after some little delay. the man who had been the indirect cause of the disaster had pressed for- ward and proffered his services; the firemen had left them, and set off, run- ning in the direction the engine had taken, leaving a policman to take the matter in charge. “Did you.see it, sir?” asked this offi- ‘cial, turning to the man who stood be- side him. “Yes, I—I was close behind him. He —he ran—right into the thing. It was horrible’!' apenes Se Bay Menken ee ee Stee sir?” said the constable, calmly, with 4 glance at him up and down. “You don’t know the man, I suppos? “No, I don’t know him—never saw him before. Here’s the cab; I'll go with you to the hospital, if you like.” Now, in the sudden excitement of this matter, and in the sudden tragic ending it had, the man had quite forgotten where he should have been at that mo- ment, and for whom he should have been waiting. He only knew that this man had dashed out of that mysterious house, in apparently deadly fear, and had gone plunging through the wind and the rain like a maniac; with what might have been his death in that blind hurry. He wanted to know more of him—to see what the end of this business was to be. The policeman only too gladly accepted his offer, and they put the unconscious man in the cab and rode away with him. Into the great, quiet, orderly building the man was carried. Some sort of con- sciousness had come upon him, and he moaned fitfully and flung his head from side to side, and stared about him. While he was being examined the po- liceman glanced curiously once or twice at the other man—partly because it might be necessary, in the official sense, to swear to him, at some time or other; partly because the man was obviously so greatly perturbed by the accident. He was a tall man, as has been said, with well-cut features and a_ skin which, though naturally clear, had been tanned by long exposure to sun and wind; the face had about it something of a curious restraint, and something of melancholy. For the rest, he was a gentlemanly-looking fellow enough, well dressed and with a smooth and easy mcde of speech. ‘The examination was over, the grave- faced, business-like surgeon had pro- nounced the injuries severe, and had given instructions to have the man placed in a certain ward at once. As they were moving him he suddenly flung up one crushed hand and shrieked out a name: “Gilbert Rickerby’’! ‘The tall man of the tanned skin start- ed violently, and bent forward to look at the broken creature more closely; the policemean meditatively fingered the metal ventilator of the top of his hel- met, and looked at the man they were carrying away, musingly. “Now, I wonder,” he said, “whether that hap- pens to be your name?” (TO be Continued:). TRICK OF THE HIGH CLIMBER. Made $40 When the Indicator of tlie Waterworks Got Out of Order. “Say,” he went on, “I fool people great sometimes. High-climbing takes originality. There was a standpipe in the water works of a Pennsylvania town, and its indicator got out of order. Trey sent for me and asked what I would eharge to get a rope up. ‘Forty dollars,’ I says, as soon as I understood the game, ‘and I'll do it to-day: All T want from you is to lower the water in yeur standpipe to ten feet from the bot- tom for a moment, when I give you the word,’ ‘What’s that for?’ the boss says. “Never mind,’ says I, ‘just do it. You can let it go right back to the top again.’ The boss had thought it was going to cost them over $100, and he was so tickled at the idea of getting it done for $40 that he never said another word. “IT went and got a life-preserver and a monkey wrench. I put the life pre- server on, and gave the word to lowe the water. Then, when no one was looking, I unscrewed the little door near the foot of the stand pipe, stepped in- side, told my, assistant to screw up the door again and tell them to raise the water. Say, I floated up to the top of that pipe as nice as you please. I had my rope with a hook on the end of it with me, and I fastened it at the top and came down hand-over-hand. “When are you goin’ to start, young begun with the rigging yet.’ feller?’ said the boss, when I saw him, a few moments later. ‘I see you haven't “«The rope’s up now,’ I says. ‘I'm through.’ “Bless me, how did you do it?’ says he. ‘Do you want to know?’ says I. Well, don’t tell anyone, but in this little bag here I have a suction machine with leather straps. This around, the straps catch on the pipe and pull me up!’ “Say, I think that fellow believed’ all T told him.”—Frank Leslie's. Tommy’s Joke. Tommy is not more than five years old, but he can ask more questions than most boys of ten years. His curiosity is never satisfied, and sometimes, as is quite natural, his mother tires of it. Such was the case one day, when she said: “Now, Tommy, if you would only keep still, and not bother people with your questions, you don’t know how much you might learn.” ‘ommy never said a word, but treas- uréd the advice. A few days later he s sent to the grocer’s. Say, ma,” said he, on his return, “you told me if I’d keep still and not ask questions, I’d learn a lot; but it isn’t true. I went to the grocer’s, and he was talkin’ and talkin’ but I didn’t learn a thing.” “Why, that is strange,” mother, “No, it wasn’t, either,” grinned Tom- my, who was enjoying the joke. ‘‘He was talkin’ Dutch.” said his The Beginning. Pat was a bashful lover and Biddy was coy—but not too coy. “Biddy,” Pat began, timidly, “did ye ivver think av marryin’?” “Sure, now, th’ sugject has nivver entered me thoughts,” demurely replied Biddy. “It's sorry Oi am,” said Pat, turning away. “Wan minute, Paddy!” called softly. ‘‘Ye’ve set me a-‘thinkin’, Bits. “I have a very short memory,” said ‘Willie Wishington, self-accusingly. “One would never think it, from the stories you tell,” answered Miss Cay- enne, sweetly.—Weashington Star. At a French Table d’Hote. She—Oh, horrors! Here is a snail in this salad!" He—Sh! If the head waiter heard you he'd charge us for a portion of snatis.— New York Commercial Advertiser, , had met || machine goes | THE MARKETS. Latest Quotations From Grain and Live Stock Centers, St. Paul, Nov. 21. —- Wheat — No. 1 Northern, 70 3-4@71 1-4c; No. 2 North- ern, 68 1-4@68 3-4c. Corn—No. 3 yellow, 63 1-2@64c; No. 3, 63@631-2c. Oats—No. 3 white. 40@40 1-2c; No, 3, 39 1-2@40c. Minreapolis, Nov 21.—Wheat—No. 1 hard, 715-8c; No. 1 Northern, 70 3-Se, No. 2 Northern, 67 5-8@681-8c. Flax— No. 1, $1.44; rejected, $1.40 1-2@1.41 1- Corn—No. 4, 59¢; No. 3 yellow, 62c; No. 3 yellow, to arrive, 601-2¢. Duluth, Nov Wheat—Cash, Nv. 1 hard, 73 3-4c; No. 1 Northern, 70 3-4c¢; No. 2 Northern, 6§1-4c; No. 3 spring, 65 3-4e; to arrive, No. 1 hard, 73 1-4 No. 4 Northern, 701-4c; , December, 69 3-4e; May, 731-2c; oats, 39@39 1-2; rye, 561-2c; barley, malting, 49@58e: corn, 59 3-4c; flax, cash, $1.44 1-2; to ar- rive, $1.44; November, $1.44; December, $1.41; May, $1.441-2. Milwaukee, Wis., Nov. 21. — Flour is dull. Wheat steady; No.-1 Northern 711-2@72e; No. 2 Northern, 70@7le May, 751-2c. Rye lower; No. 1, 58 1-2@ 59c. Barley firm; No. 2, 59@591-2c sample, 45@59e. Oats steady; No. 2 white, 43@431-2c. Corn—May, 62 1-2c. Chicago, Nov. 21.—C2sh Wheat—No. 2 red, 73 1-4@74 1- No. 3 red, 711 73c; No, 2’ hard winter, 72@73c; No. 3 hard winter, 711-2@72c; No. 1 North- ern spring, 73 1-2@74 1-2c; No. 2 North- ern spring, 71 1-2@73 1-2c; No. 3 spring, 68@72e. Corn—No. 2, 611-4c; No. 3, 6le., Oats—No. 2; 401-2@41c; No. 3, 401-4@ 40 1-2c. Sioux City, fowa, Nov. 21. — Cattle— Beeves, $3.50 @ 6; cows, bulls and mixed, $1.50@3.75; stockers and feeders, $2.5003.85; yearlings and calves, $: 4, Hogs, $5.40@5.55; bulk, $5.42 1-25.45. Chicago, Nov 21. — Cattle — Good to prime steers, $6.25@7.10; poor to medi-- um, $4 @ 6.25; stockers and feeder: $2@4.40:; cows, $1.25@4.80; heifers, $1.50 @5; cannevrs, $1.25@2.25; bulls, $2@4. calves, $2.50@6.25; Westerns, $3.50@5.3: Hogs—Mixed and butchers, $5:50@5:30; good to choice heavy, $5.60@5.90; rough heavy, $5.35@5.55; light, $5.25@5.55; bulk of sales, $5.45@5.75. Sheep, $2.80@4.40; lambs, $2.50@4.65. South St. Paul, Nov. 21. — Cattle — Fancy butcher steers, $5.60@6; prime, $5475.50; good to chojce, $4.25@4.90; com- mon to fair, $3@4; fancy butcher cows and heifers, $4.26@4.75; prime, $3.90@ 4.15; good to choice, $3.25@3.75; fair. $2.65@3.15; canners and cutters, $1.40@ 2.60; good to thoice butcher bulls, $2.50 @3; common ani bologna bulls, $1.75@ 2.25; good to choice veals, $4.50@3: common to fair, $3@4.50; good to choice feeding steers, $3.25@4; common to fair, $2.50@3.20; good to choice stock steers. $2.50@2.90: common to fair, $1.75@2.40; good to choice steer calves, $2.50@2.90; common to fair, $1.75@2.40; good tt choice stock cows and heifers, $2.20@ 2.65; common to fair, $1.75@2.25; good to choice heifer calves, $2.30@2.65; com- mon to fair, $1.75@2.25; stock and feed- ing bulls, $1.50@2.50; good to choice milch cows and springers, $32@40: cormon to fair, $25@30. Hegs — Light, $5.25@5.50; mixed and butchers, $5.30@5.60; heavy, $5.3045.65; rough packing, $5.10@5.20; boars, $2¢ 2.50; stags, $4.50@5; pigs, $4.50@4.75. theep—Good to choice fat lambs, $3.7F@4.10; common to fair, $3.25@3.60: good to chece fat wethers, $3.16@3. ecr-mon to fair, $290@3; good to choice fat ewes, $2.75@3.10; common to fair, $2.60@2.75; killing bucks, $1.75 @ 2.25; good to choice stock and feeding lambs, $3.25@3.75; common to fair, $2.75 @2.15; buck lambs, $2@2.50; good to choice feeding wethers, $2.60@2.20; com- mon to fair, $2.50@2.60; good to ehoice feeding ewes, $2.25@2.60; common to fair, $2@2.25; stock ewes, $2@2.60. Market Letter. The following market letter is fur- nished by Edwards, Wood & Co., grain and stock brokers, 8 Chamber of Com- merce, Minneapolis, and 310 Board of ‘Trade, Duluth: Noy. 18—Yesterday wheat and corn declined 1 cent per bushel for the De- cember and May options, and oats 5-8 from the prices prevailing last week and on Monday of this week. The ex- cuse for the decline was the North- western receipts of 1,400,000 bushels, double those for ‘he corresponding day last year. This also caused Liverpool cables to come lower. Rains were re- ported in the winter wheat districts which. have been reporting injury by drouth and flies. The government crop report on corn was also considered bearish. It makes the average yield of corn 16.4 bushels per acre, and on an estimated acreage of 82,000,000 acres, calls for a crop of 1,360,000,000 bushels. The average yield last year was 25.30 bushels per acre, and for the past ten years 24.4 bushels. This year’s average of 16.4 bushels is the lowest ever re- corded. It should also be remembered that a large part of the estimated acreage has been cut for fodder. Iowa shippers are said to have more orders fiom the South and West than they can fill at prices equivalent to 66 cents in Chicago. It is difficult to find bear arguments in these facts. The Argen- tine wheat crop, which has been re- ported almost destroyed by drouth, is now being further injured by too much rain, according to reports from there. Our visible supply of wheat increased less than a million bushels last week and the English visible decreased 231,- 000 bushels as compared with an in- crease of 872,000 bushels last year. Wheat on passage increased 3,000,000 bushels. The decline yesterday was no more than the natural reaction of a temporarily over-bought market, and we still think that wheat bought on such reactions will make profits. In fact corn has already recovered the loss. If you are unfamiliar with the grain trade write for our free private tele- graph cypher explaining speculation and our free daily market letter. CABLE LAYING. Contract Let for Operatiohns Be- tween San Francisco and Heno- lula. London, Nov. 21. — The Commerciat Pacific Cable company, recently organ- ized in New York to lay a cable from San Francisco to the Philippine is- lands, has: awarded the contract for the manufacture and laying of the first section from San Francisco to Honolulu to an English company which guarantees to complete it in the ter months, The contract price is Nearly $600,000, .