Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, November 5, 1904, Page 3

‘CHAPTER X. On Tuesday mornings Mr. Leife was accustomed to call at the vicarage to present a kind of report of parish work. On this particular Tuesday— the first in October—the report was very brief. . “It’s a strange thing,” said Dr. Champion, looking at a newsletter on his desk, “what a number of mishaps there have been lately. I really don’t remember such a season for them.” “Not only here,” returned the curate, but all round the coast. In fact, the men say it’s been worse around Brix- ham and that coast. Perhaps it may do some good in one way. They’ve been going a bit too far—I wonder the revenue men haven’t caught them.” “Ah, it’s a bad" business,” said the vicar, “and pressed them. I suppose, as far as Whayre itself is concerned, we have been very fortunate.” “Deveril’s body was picked up off the Cruddle, you know, a few months ago, and he had a couple of bullets in him, poor fellow.” “Ah, yes, I forgot. show fight. Are they at games still?” “Unless I'm very much mistaken, they are getting ready for something rather big.” “Ah, it’s a bod business,” said the vicar; “but you really can’t wonder, the temptation is too great. I hope there won't be any serious trouble.” They're sure to their old “I hope not, but it’s new moon, and | ‘ 3 | heard from him before now. the first dirty night some of the boats will be out, or in, I’m pretty sure.” “By the by, Leife,”. said the vicar, changing the subject and taking from a drawer a letter, “you were at West- minster, weren’t you?” “Yes, I was.” “Did you happen to know a lad called Cowper? I fancy he must have been there about your time.” “Cowper—Cowper,” ruminated the curate; “why, yes, to be sure I do. Tom—no—Will—Willie Cowper, of cour: one of my best fights was over him. He was a smart boy, and a fine little footballer, but he used to blush and cry like a girl, and some of the bigger ones used to lead him such a life. There was one in particular— I forget his name—a big, heavy fel- low, with black hair and ink stains al- ways on his face. He and I had an argument over Cowper, and after that he stopped. Why, sir, do you know anything about him? I'd like to see him again.” “Only this,” said the vicar; “here’s some of his verse, sent me by a friend of his and an old crony of mine, and if I’m any judge at all it’s about the best written’ since Dr. Goldsmith died.” “Why, yes,” exclaimed Mr. Leife, who was quite excited. “I remember he used to scribble at school; he’s got a very pretty wit, too, and he used to keep mice. Fancy my forgetting him!” “T don’t think there’s much fear of your doing that, if I’m right about his poetry,” remarked Dr. Champion. At that moment there was a confi- dent little tap at the door. “Ah,” cried the vicar, with a smile, “we can guess who that is. I mustn’t keep you any longer, or I shall get a rating. Come in.” Of course it was Nell. “IT have a message for you from Ruffidge,” said Mr. Leife. “He has made you a rod and line, and he will row you out and give you a lesson in sea fishing any time you like.” “Will you come?” “Oh, certainly, if you invite me.” “No fear about that,” laughed the vicar, “but mind you are back in good time for dinner. It was a lovely morning, the air fresh with the wholesome tartness of the bright autumn, but the sun just beginning to assert himself. The sea looked even more bewitching than was its wont, and it would be hard to say which looked forward to the little ex- pedition with the keener anticipation, the curate or the madeap at his side. They found Ruffidge sitting on the shingle, smoking his pipe and leaning his chin on his hand as he looked out across the sea. Close beside him lay a boat, the water already lapping her bows. He gave a start when the cu- rate touched his arm, and then imme- diately saluted respectfully. ; “Why, Ruffidge,” sdid Mr. Leife, with a laugh at the start, “that’s more like an old woman than a bold sailor.” “Ah, sir,” he returned, “you forget that I’m getting on in years. was a—a time when I could—well—I could almost hear the cats walking on the walls when I was in bed ashore.” “But they don’t make any sound at all,” protested Nell, who was inclined to be literal, “and you can’t hear no noise.” + “Well, miss,” when a sailor’s in his prime, it’s won- derful what he can both see and hear, and when he—well—when he can’t do either he—he can generally feel. But when he gets oldish, especially if he’s on the, sick list, all that goes. How- ever, there’s a good many things left —left us, if we—well—if we can’t keep everything, eh, sir?” There | answered Ruffidge, | | -schoolmistress. B. PAUL NEUMAN. “Yes, indeed, Ruffidge,” said the curate, heartily, “that’s quite the way to look at things. I only wish every one did so.” They pulled out beyond the Cap, and there Nell had her first lesson. As they lay in pleasant idleness, watching. the line, the curate and Ruffidge smok- ing, the latter suddenly broke a long silence. “Tye had one more try, sir.” “What's that?” cried the other, who was half asleep. “Y’ye had one more try to make it up with that—well—that—that humpy little viper. I came upon him the oth- er night tormenting the poor witless lad, and I spoke to him quite kind and mild, but I warned him that—well—if ever I found him at those tricks again, I’d either—either break his ugly back for him or have him up before the justices.” “Is that what you call kind and mild?” asked Mr. Leife, with a smile. “Well, it was afterwards I spoke like that. You see, I—well—the fact is, I thought perhaps I’d gone a little too far, and then some things you and the vicar have said to me came into my head, and I held out my hand and offered to make up the quarrel for— well, for good and all.” “And what did he say?” “Say? Why, he pulled out a knife— a long, wicked-looking blade it was. ‘Look ye here,’ he says, ‘when this is nuzzling in your heart I'll talk about making up, and not till then’ upon that he broke out into a —well— a string of curses such as you have “Yes,” said the curate, after a pause, “Ym afraid you are right about him, after all. I've been watching him for some time, you know, but I think ’'m fairly on his track now, and before long, please .heaven, I'll run him to earth.” Ruffidge’s face expressed the liveli- est interest and satisfaction. “I only hope, sir,” he exclaimed, “that you'll give me the notice when you're going to—well—going to do anything. I'd dearly love to lend a hand.” “So you shall,” returned Mr. Leife, “and perhaps you may not have to wait very long.” “The sooner the better,” cried Ruf- | fidge, and there was a ring of earnest- ness about his voice that made the curate congratulate himself on having so useful an ally. CHAPTER XI. The next day was dull and overcast. An east wind that might have lost its way and arrived on our shores six months too late, blew keen and chill over the grey sea, from which all the beauty seemed to have departed. ; Poor Nell was plunged into the depths of gloom, for not only did the threatening rain completely spoil a low-tide excursion which she had planned, but Mrs. Champion, taking alarm, conceived the happy idea of set- ting her down to write home to her Now, writing was Nell’s special detestation, her formal epistolary style being as little like her very unconventional conversation as this wretched day was like its brilliant predecessor. ‘The long afternoon wore through to its close, and toward sunset the clouds lowered upon the hills and the occa- sional showers settled down into a steady; downpour. Nellfe Champion was not the only individual whose plans were upset by the weather. Mr. Leife had offered to escort Miss Jessica Catell to Eppleton, and his offer had been graciously ac- accepted, “weather allowing.” Now, a long walk with Miss Jessica was the curate’s earthly height of bliss, but it was only too plain that the weather did not allow, so by 8 o'clock the dis- appointed parson, after consoling him- self with an extra dish of strong tea, had lit his pipe and betaken himself to the composition of a sermon. In spite of his education and profession, writing was not very much more agreeable to him than to his young friend at the vicarage, but he had a fine sense of duty which served as a most effective taskmaster, and he was already well into secondly when he became aware of a persistent and pe- culiar whistle outside his window. Lifting the sash and putting his head out, he perceived the tall, stooping figure of Ruffidge looking up toward him. ’ “Come in Ruffidge,’ "he cried; “why didn't you knock?” “T didn’t want to disturb Mrs. Clay” (this was Mr. Leife’s landlady), he re- plied. “The rain has almost stopped. Could—could you step out for a mo- ment?” “Certainly,” answered the curate, pushing secondly back into the drawer with a sigh of relief. Another moment and he was in the road. , Ruflfidge walked on a few paces from the house until they were out of ear- shot. When he spoke it was plain that he was under the influence of some strong feeling. His voice was husky with eagerness, and his hesitancy of speech more marked than ever. “You're right, sir, you're right,” he And | | for myself a bit. him.” § ye “Got whom?” “Broad—Weasel John,. the false, treacherous dog.” And as he spoke his voice spoke with suppressed pas- sion. “What is the matter? What has he been doing now—no violence, I hope?” “Not to me, sir, but—well—worse— worse.” ; Try to collect yourself and tell me about it quietly,” said the curate. His matter-of-fact voice and manner seemed to. have a tonic effect on Ruf- fidge, for when he spoke again it was with more coolness and restraint. ~ “Well, sir, it’s a long story and not much time to tell it in, but if you don’t mind walking toward the cottage I can —well—I can tell you the most of it on the way. It’s—well—it’s like this, you see. I’ve hated this—this Weasel John for a long time now, and that kind o’ makes a man—well—it wakes him ready to believe any evil. So I said—I said to myself, ‘It’s only your dislike of the fellow makes you think what you do think about him.’ But then, again—well—the same notion came back over and over again, and at last—well—I saw the whole thing.” Here,he stopped and peered seaward through the darkness. “But I haven’t an idea what you are talking about, man,” said the curate, a little impatiently. “What was the no- tion of yours that came back over and over again?” “Why, Mr. Leife, you know what a number of losses there have been the last few months. One bad one here, one over at Buddle, one at Brixham. You see, some of these—well—fishing boats are worth getting hold of when they’ve been far enough for their car- goes. They’re too—too sharp for the revenue men, but it looks as if—well— as if some one else was too sharp for them. There’s been—well—piracy, that’s the long and the short of it, within a mil¢ or two of where we're | standing.” “T've thought of that myself,” mut- | tered the curate, under his breath. “Well, sir, last night when I got home I was thinking over what—what you had said about having your suspi- cions and being on his track, da I— well—I began to—to think things over I've got a—well—a ood sort of memory, and a Gases thing struck me. You know that wom- an they call his wife that comes to his —well—to his Bilge, as he calls it. now and again? I don’t know what brought her to my mind, but I seemed to re- member her coming on one occasion in the dark of the morning. I hap- pened—well—I had to be up early my- self that morning, and you must know, sir, ii was on that very day the Cur- lew came to grief. Then about a cou- ple of months ago the Gypsy was lost near Buddle—at least, there she was bound for, and just about that very time this woman was over here again. md2L3,Aiatlas t&gfrmittis m: m mm “Well, last night I was thinking things over and I'd put out my light and was ready to turn in, when I heard a softish step outside, and then a little tap on the next door. By good luck my window was—well—it was a bit open and I can hear more than most. I ran to it and took one—well—obser- vation as you might say, and just caught sight of the woman, but I dursen’t look out for fear of showing myself—those weasel eyes of his, they can see in the dark. I heard the door open and shut ever so quietly. Then all was still. I was kneeling by the} window, and I got so stiff waiting there that I thought I should have to give it up as a bad job. “Just as I was going to get up I heard the door open again and the sound of whispering. They spoke so quiet I couldn’t catch “what they said. But just as she went out at the gate she must have turned her face my way, for her last words reached me quite plainly: ‘To-morrow night at nine, if it’s cloudy.’ “Now, I expect you to know, sir, that the Cowslip is due in to-night after dark from Cherbourg with the best ol of the year, they say, and it sticks in my crop that Broad has some foul trick he means to play her. I couldn’t rest noways till I’d seen you. By luck my nevvies have come over for the night, and I thought, if you felt that way inclined, we four might pull out to meet the Cowslip and perhaps do her a good turn and see whether that chap there is really up to any mis- chief.” It was a long speech, and, after the first, it was hardly broken by any of the usual hesitations and repetitions. The curate thought for a moment. “Right, Ruffidge,” he said, I think it is our duty to see whether there is anything in our suspicions. We may be doing the man a great injustice, and, one way or the other, the ques- tion ought to be decided. Stay, though. I must go back and tell Mrs. Clay.” They were standing outside the cot- tages. In the Bilge the windows were all dark, but the parlor of Anchor Cottage was lit up. “No, sir,” said Ruffidge; “don’t you put yourself out to do that. Come in and write a note. One of my boys will take it round in a minute while we get the boat ready. It strikes me— well—I don’t think we have much time to waste if we want to do any good.” ! And without waiting for an answer he | walked up the path and opened the door. In the room sat two men—tall, strapping fellows, dark haired and brown skinned, with glasses before them. “These are my nevvies, Mr. Leife,” said the proud uncle, “and as fine a pair of youngsters as you'll find round’ the coast, and good lads; too, thank the Lord. That one over there is Dave, the eldest, and this is Sam, the baby. They’re both aboard the Telemachus; no better ship afloat, eh, Sam?” “Right you are, uncle,” said Sam, in a deep, gruff voice. “Captain Pavoir. Eighty gums. Now lying in Bristol port.” ; imparted in short, sharp jerks, but the ‘Speaker smiled, and the curate fancied he could trace a resemblance to the uncle’s facial contortions. “Here, sir,” said Ruffidge, “is a piece of paper. If you will write the note, Dave shall take it for you.” “Right you are, uncle,” said Dave, in a voice so exa¢tly like his brother's that Mr. Leife looked up from the ta- ble where he was writing, with a glance of astonishment. The note was soon ready and Ruffidge proceeded to direct his nephew, but, finding some little difficulty in describ- ing the house, he went a few yards with him. As he came back into the room he exclaimed: “Look here, sir, how would it be just to—well—to see whether the! Weasel is in his—his cage?” “A good idea,” said the curate;.and going out he walked up to the door of The Bilge and gave a sharp knock. There was no answer. “Try the door, sir,” suggested Sam. Mr. Leife raised the latch and push- ed, but the door was securely fastened. He rapped at the window, but there was no response. “Ah,” remarked Ruffidge, “I thought as much. He’s up to his games, de- pend upon it. Maybe we'll spoil ’em fér him, though. Got your pistols, Sam?” Sam nodded. “T don’t know, sir,’ said Ruffidge, suddenly plunged into a perfect bog of stammering and hesitation, “whether —well—whether you carry—well—car- ry xny—any weapons; but—well—l’ve got a—a—well—a pistol—” “Thank you,” answered the curate, “T don’t care about firearms. Have you got a good stout cudgel? It’s a more clerical kind of weapon.” “Here’s the very thing, sir,” said Ruffidge, after a moment’s search in his cupboard. And as he spoke he produced an ugly-looking bludgeon, which he handed to the curate. Sam here emitted a cavernous chuckle. “He’s thinking he wouldn’t care for | a rap with that from an arm like yours, sir,” said the uncle. “Eh, Sam?” ight you are, uncle,” exclaimed Sam, falling back on what seemed to be a favorite formula. “Ah,” sighed Mr. Leife, “I am sadly out of training now. When I left Ox- ford I could have done something with a stick like that.” “We'd best be going, sir,” said Ruf- fidge, who had been standing at the door, looking into the darkness. “I think I can hear Dave, and the boat's lying just in front on the beach.” CHAPTER Xi. / They found the boat lying, as Ruf- fidge had said, on the beach in front of the cottages, and moored to a stout peg driven in the shingle. Before Sam had finished loosening the rope Dave came running to join them, bringing the laconic message from Mrs. Clay, “All right.” “Now, then, sir,” said) Ruffidge, who was evidently in a hurry, “jump in and we'll shove her off.” The curate obeyed, and in another moment the boat was cutting her way through the tumbling waves. It was a, pitch-black night and a fine drizzle was falling, but the wind had dropped and the air felt warmer. Ruffidge steered and his nephews rowed. while Mr. Leife sat in the bows and kept a lookout. “There’s something over there—” he“ began. ‘Best be a bit lower, sir,’ said Ruf- fidge; you can’t be too careful when you go weasel hunting.” They had rounded the Cap and were pulling across a bit inshore so as to get the shelter of Wedge Hill. “Do you see that patch over there?” whispered the curate a moment later. “What can it be? Is it the moon break- ing through the clouds anywhere?” Dave and Sam stopped rowing, and all the four strained their eyes toward the face of the wedge, to which Mr. Leife was pointing. “There’s certainly something un- usual,” said Ruffidge. Then, with a rapid change of tone, he gave a sharp, short gasp. “Good Lordy! What's this?” Suddenly, out of the darkness, a large boat, manned by at least a dozen men in uniform, rushel alongside, while a lanthorn was flashed up and down the skiff and a stern voice called, with a note of command: “Who goes there?” “I am the curate of Chidley,” -an- swered Mr. Leife, for no one else said a word. “Your name?” “The Rev. Elijah Leife.” “What!” said the voice, changing in- stantly from the official to the human; “not Leife of Pembroke, surely?” “The same,” answered the curate; but who are you? Why, I believe it’s Postlethwaite.” : “Of course it is. Postlethwaite of Brasenose. Fancy meeting like this after I don’t know.how many years! Whatever are you doing here such a night as this?” “Hunting one of my parishioners.” “anti And these men? Do you vouch for them?” “Certainly I do,” rate, with a laugh. “All right, then,” cried the other; were are hunting, too—some more of your parishioners, I‘shoudin’t wonder. Good night and good luck to you. We must meet again soon.” “Yes, indeed—the sooner the bet- ter,” shouted the curate, but the big poat had vanished as quickly as she had appeared. Without a word Sam and Dave re- sumed their rowing, and the skiff made way steadily toward the face of the headland. * “T wonder what those fellows were ay hes Pee Wienke oer a answered the cu- after?” said Mr. Leife; of-war’s boat.” _ Not a word came in answer, and the curate took the hint. The faint patch of light had disap- peared and nothing was visible be- yond the white crest of the waves ex- cept the vague, dark mass of Wedge Hill on their left. At length they came out from the shelter of the hill and could see the profile of the face defined, by the whit« line of breakers. In obedience io Ruffidge’s whispered directions the rowers pulled slowly, while the curatg, as before, kept a sharp lookout from the bow. And suddenly, from the very rock itself, so it seemed—a light gleamed forth, pale and flickering, then suddenly disappeared. “There it is!” cried Ruffidge, his voice tense with excitement; steady, now, lads, pull steady.” The yseemed to be making dead for the rock, against which the waves were breaking, angrily. “Look out, man,” the curate cried, turning to Ruf- fidge; “another moment and we shall be smashed like an egg shell.” “You come over here, sir, and take my place, while I take yours,” he said. “We shan’t come to any harm; as quick as you can, sir,” he added, with a touch of impatience, for Mr. Leife hesitated. Thus urged, however, he obeyed, and with some difficulty. made his way be- tween and across the rowers to the stern. As he faced round again he was immediately conscious of a change. For one thing, they were evi- dently in some sheltered position. Not only had the wind-tossed spray van- ished, but the water was as nearly as possible calm and still. /Then, dark as it had been before, it was still dark- er now. it was a man- (To Be Continued.) WRITES UNDER A SPELL. Author of “Maryland, My Maryland,” Was Inspired. The author of the song “Maryland, My Maryland,” is still living and still writing. He is James R. Randall, and his home is in Augusta, Ga. He is, as his song suggests, a native of Mary- land, Baltimore being his birthplace. At the time the song was written Mr. Randall was a professor of English literature and the classics in Poydras college in Louisiana. While there, in April of the year 1861, he read of the aitack on the Massachusetts troops as they passed through Baltimore. This event excited Mr. Randall, as it did thousands of others, and he writes thus of the occurrence: “T had long been absent from my na- tive city and the startling events thete inflamed my mind. That night I could not sleep, for my nerves were all unstrung and J, could not dismiss what I had read in the paper from my mind. About midnight I rose, lighted a candle, and went to my desk. Some powerful spirit appeared to possess me, and almost involuntarily I wrote the song, ‘My Maryland.’ I remember that the idea appeared to first take shape as music in the brain—some wild air that I cannot now recall. The whole poem was dashed off rapidly when once begun. I was stirred with a desire to in some way link my name with the grandeur of my native state.” —Chicago Journal. A Bright Tommy. A colonel, on his tour of inspection, unexpectedly entered the drill room, when he came across a couple of sol- diers, one of them reading a letter aloud, while the other one was listen- ing, and at the same time stopping up the ears of the reader. “What are you doing there?” the puzzled officer inquired of the former. “You see; colonel, I’m reading to Atkins—who can’t read himself—a let- ter which has arrived from this after- noon’s post from his sweetheart.” “And you, Atkins, what in the world are you doing?” “Please, colonel, I am stopping up Murphy’s ears with, both hands, be- cause I don’t mind his reading my sweetheart’s letter, but I don’t want him to hear a single word of what she has written.” Too Smart. The conjurer stepped forward to the front of the stage and said: “Ladies and gentlemen, if there is in this audience any young man who would like to know the name of his future wife, I will undertake to tel] him.” Up jumped a young man. “Thank you!” said the conjurer. “Now, I always like to do things in a proper business fashion. Will you kindly give me your name?” “Yes, certainly,” said the young man, “my name is Johnson.” “Thank you,” said the conjurer, “Then the name of your future wife will be—Mrs. Johnson.” Not Premeditated. Justice of the Peace—What do you mean by saying it was not premedi- tated, ’Rastus? You -acknowledged that you broke into the plaintiff’s hardware store and stole a bunch of keys. *Rastus—Yassuh, yassuh, but dat wuzn't my fault, jedge. Mistah Smiff done put locks on his chicken coop dat none ob mah keys would fit, an’ dere wuzn’t no udder way ter get in wid- out his heahin’ me ’ceptin by borrer- in’ dem keys. Yassah, dat’s de truf.— Judge. » Out at First. “Sinte meeting you,” he said, “I am sorry that I have a wife.” “So am I,” rejoined the beautiful girl. “Are you, really?” he asked, eager- ly. a “Yes,” she answered. “I am really and truly sorry—for your wife.”—Co- lumbus Dispatch. . PRESIDENT ON THANKSGIVING. Proclamation Says We Are Blessed Beyond All Others. Washington, Noy. 2.—The president yesterday issued the Thanksgiving day proclamation setting aside Thurs- day, Nov. 24, to be observed as a day of festival and thanksgiving by all the people of the United States at home and abroad. The proclamation was issued from the state department by Secretary Hay. It acknowledges the debt of the American people to God for the blessings upon the nation during the last year in which “reward has waited upon honest effort,” and ealls on the nation devoutly to give thanks unto Almighty God for the benefits he has conferred upon us as individuals and as a nation, and to beseech him that in the future his di- vine favor may be continued to us. SIGN TREATY TO ARBITRATE. Pact Concluded Between the United States and France. Washington, Nov. 2—An arbitration treaty between the United States and France, following the lines laid down by the Hague convention, was signed yesterday by Secretary Hay and Am- bassador Jesserand. It is the shortest treaty that has ever been negotiated in Washington, and is the first one to be concluded under the terms of the Hague agreement. It will be immedi- ately followed by exactly similar treaties with all of the powers of Eu- rope, several of which are completed and await only the special authoriza- tion to the ambassadors and ministers to sign them. The treaty with Italy probably will be the next one signed, after which will come those with Switzerland, The Netherlands, Ger- many and Great Britain in about the order named. In the meantime the negotiations with the other powers will be continued until the list is com- plete. VETERAN PUGILIST DEAD. Former Champion Passes Away in a Newark Hospital. New York, Nov. 2.—George Rooke, sixty-two years old, who at one time claimed to be the middleweight cham- pion pugilist of the world, is dead in a Newark, N. J., hospital. He was comparatively unknown to the young- er generation of pugilists and sport- ing men in general, but a quarter of a century ago he was a star in pugilistic circles. All his contests were fought with bare knuckles His last fight was when he defeated “Paddy” Ryan in Chi o twenty years ago. MANGLED BY CAR. Motorman Thought Man Lying on the Tracks Was a Dummy. Columbus, Ohio, Nov. 2.—Thinking that an object was a Halloween dum- my on ihe tracks, Motorman William Griley did not stop his car last night and van over and killed an unknown man. He let the car run until the mangled body stopped the wheels. THE MARKETS. Latest Quotations From Grain and Live Stock Centers. St. Paul, Nov. 2. — Wheat — No. 1 Northern, $1.17@1.18; No. 2 Northern, $1.12@1.14 1-2; $1.04 @ 1.07. Corn—No. 3 Oats—No. 3 white, 28 1-2@29c. Minneapolis, Nov, 2— Wheat — No. 1 hard, $1.2 No. 1 Northern, $1.16 3-4@1.173-4; No. 2 Northern, $1.11 3-4@1.12 3-4. Oats—No. 3 white, 28 1-8e. Duluth, Nov. 2. —- Wheat — No. 1 hard, $1.20; No. 1 Northern, $1.16 7-8; No. 2 Northern, $1.08 7-8; flax, $1.14; oats, 29 1-4c; rye, 79 1- — Wheat—No. . Milwaukee, Nov. 2. 1 Northern, $1.171-2; No. 2 Northern, $1.12@1.1 Rye o. 1, 84c. Barley —No. 2, 55c. Oats—Standard, 31 @ 3811-4c. Corn—No. 3, 56@57c. Chicago, Nov. 2. — Wheat — No. 2 red, $1.16@1.18; No. 3 red, $1.121-2@ 1.16; No. 2 hard, $1.12@1.15; No. 3 hard, $1.08@1.12: No. 1 Northern, $1.16@1.18; No.2 Northern, $1.12@ 1.15. Corn—No. 2, 541-2 @ 543-4c. Oats—No. 2, 29@29 1-2c, Sioux City, Iowa, Nov. 2. —Beeves, $3.50@5.7. mixed, $2.20@3. — Cattle cows, bulls and stockers and feed- ers, $2.75@38.70; calves and yearlings, $2.50 @ 3.2 Hogs — Bulk, $4.70 @ 4.80. Chicago, Nov. 2 attle—Good to , $5.80@ ; stockers and , $5.80@6.60; stockers and feeders, $2@4; cows, $2.25 @ 4.50; heifers, $2@5; calves, $3@7.50. Hogs —Mixed and butchers, $4.80@5.10; pulg of sales, $4.60@5.05. Sheep—Good to choice wethers, $3.50@4.15; native lambs, $3.50@6; Western lambs, $4 @5.60. South St. Paul, Nov. 2. — Cattle — Good to choice @steers,, $5.50 @ 6; good to choice cows and heifers, $2.59 @8.25; butcher bulls, $2.25@3; veals, $2 @ 5; good to choice stock steers, $2.50 @ 3,10; good to choice stock cows and heifers, $1.50@2.25; good to choice milch cows, $80@40. Hogs— Range price, $4.50@4.95; bulk, $4.60 @4.65. Sheep—Good to choice lambs, $4.65 @ 5 fair to good, $4.25 @ 4.65; good to choice yearling wethers, $3.40 @ 3.85; good to choice ewes, $3.30 @ 3.50. . KILLED IN ROW OVER BILL. Kansas County Chairman Shot to Death by Farmer. Washington, Kan., Nov. 2—Dr. E.N. Smith, chairman of the county central committee, was shot and killed here yesterday by S. T. Bonhar, a farmer. They quarreled over a bill, and Bon- har fired at the doctor twice, one bul- let entering his : abdomen, ive other piercing his left arm. Bonhar, who is an old soldier, surrendered and was locked up.