(This interesting story was commenced in No. 153 ofNick Carter Stories. Back numbers can always be obtained from your news dealer or the publishers.)
During the two hours in which Hawley had been confined in a cell at police headquarters, waiting to be taken to court, Gale had suggested to Chief of Police Hodgins that it would be a good plan to take the prisoner’s camera to a professional photographer and have the film developed so as to make the case against the Camera Chap as complete as possible.
The chief had agreed that this would be a wise precaution. He had a friend who ran a portrait studio a few doors from police headquarters, and he and Gale proceeded to this place.
Without the slightest suspicion as to its contents, they handed Hawley’s camera to the photographer and accompanied him into his dark room so as to be able to swear conscientiously in court, later on, that they had been present when the film was taken out and developed, and could positively identify it.
Great was their astonishment when the camera was opened and out popped a jack-in-the-box, with its fingers derisively extending from its nose.
In addition to the cheap film camera—the one which Chief Hodgins now held as evidence—the Camera Chap had also purchased a toy which is to be found in every toy shop in the world.
This article comes in all sizes. The jack-in-the-box which Hawley selected was small, and fitted snugly inside the cheap film camera after the roll of film had been removed.
Before leaving the store, Hawley had taken out his pocketknife and removed the lid of the jack-in-the-box. Then he stuffed the rest of the toy inside the camera, compressing the spring so that when the little trapdoor in the camera was opened Jack would immediately pop out in a startling manner.
By the light of the photographer’s ruby lamp, Hodgins and Gale exchanged glances of blank dismay.
For a few moments the chief’s emotion was so profound that he was quite incapable of speech. He stood scowling at the papier-mâché figure, and from his throat came strange noises as though he were about to have a fit.
“It looks as if we’ve been handed a nice, juicy lemon,” exclaimed Gale, with a grim laugh. “There’s no film there, of course.”
“Not a bit of film,” replied the photographer to whom this question was addressed. “This funny little jumping jack occupies all the space where the film roll should go.”
Gale turned regretfully to Hodgins. “Guess we do[Pg 40]n’t get Hawley this time, chief. I understand now why that stiff was so amused over his arrest. He didn’t expect that we’d open the camera before we got to court, and he figured on making us look like a couple of fools there.”
What Chief Hodgins said in response cannot be printed here. He had recovered his power of speech by this time, and proceeded to make good use—or, rather, bad use—of it.
“Well, at all events,” said Gale soothingly, “you’re lucky to have discovered this miserable trick here and now, instead of later on in court. You have at least saved your dignity, chief.”
“Dignity my eye!” growled Hodgins, refusing to find any comfort in this reflection. “I wanted that impudent loafer in jail—I’d almost give my right hand to be able to put him there—and this is a terrible disappointment. Honest, young feller, it’s enough to make a man feel discouraged.”
Then it was that Gale had an inspiration. Taking Hawley’s camera from the table, he hurried out of the studio, signaling to Hodgins to follow him.
When they reached the sidewalk, Gale explained his plan, and the chief slapped him on the back approvingly.
“You’re all right, young feller,” he declared warmly. “I see you’ve got nerve as well as brains. Under ordinary circumstances, of course, I don’t approve of frame-ups. Honesty’s the best policy—that’s my motto. But these ain’t ordinary circumstances. That’ darned Camera Chap is a menace to society. It would be a real calamity to have him at large. Consequently it is my duty to the public to keep him behind bars; and when duty calls upon Bill Hodgins, he don’t stop at nothin’. So go ahead, young feller, and carry out this idea of yours.”
Gale’s plan, it is perhaps unnecessary to explain, was to manufacture the evidence necessary to convict the Camera Chap. With this object in view, he visited a dealer in photographic supplies and had Hawley’s camera loaded with film.
Then he proceeded to the city hall and took a snapshot of that edifice, taking care to stand in exactly the same spot which the Camera Chap had occupied.
When the film was developed, Hodgins and Gale had taken their prisoner to court, both of them highly elated by the thought of the surprise they were going to spring on Hawley.
As soon as the film was offered in evidence, the Camera Chap guessed at once what had been done; but he realized that it would be futile to try to make the judge believe that he was the victim of a frame-up. He foresaw that his story would be received with derision, and he looked upon himself as lost.
Judge Wall glanced at the negative which Hodgins had handed to him, and smiled approvingly at that official.
“I must compliment you, chief, upon the thoroughness with which you have prepared this case,” he said. “The evidence which you have offered leaves no possible doubt in the court’s mind as to the guilt of the defendant.”
Then his face grew stern as he turned to the Camera Chap. In his most impressive tone he proceeded to deliver a little speech to that young man. His honor greatly prided himself upon his ability as an orator, and he had no intention of missing this rare opportunity to display eloquence before an audience which included the[Pg 41]mayor and several of the prominent officials of the city government. Besides, he saw two reporters—one from theChronicleand one from theBulletin—busily making notes, and he realized that his words were about to be handed down to posterity.
“The city of Oldham,” he began, “has good cause to congratulate itself upon the wisdom of its city fathers—as that body of public-spirited men who comprise the city council has been affectionately nicknamed. Never has that wisdom been more strikingly manifested than by the framing of the recent ordinance regulating the use of cameras upon our public highways and within our public buildings.”
The magistrate paused long enough to enable the reporters to catch up with him. Then he went on:
“Like the sword, the revolver, and other deadly weapons, the camera is an instrument of both good and evil. In the hands of decent men it is a blessing to humanity. In the hands of the vicious it is a menace to society.”
As the magistrate uttered these words, Chief Hodgins was so stirred that he clapped his hands applaudingly, and had to be reminded by his honor that such conduct was unseemly in a courtroom.
“It is possible that the city of Oldham—always progressive—is the first city in the United States to enact legislation controlling the use of the camera,” the magistrate continued. “But it can safely be predicted that other cities will soon follow our example. They will realize that if it is proper to require licenses for dogs, firearms, automobiles, and alcohol, there is every reason why cameras should be licensed, too. For the camera is quite as dangerous as a revolver or a mad dog—when it is used by such reckless rascals as the prisoner at the bar.”
Once more Chief Hodgins started to applaud, but managed to control himself just in time to escape another reprimand.
“Your guilt has been fully established,” said his honor to the Camera Chap. “You are the first offender to be brought up for trial under the new law, and I am going to make an example of you. I am going to give you the maximum penalty, to serve as a warning to others of your ilk.”
The magistrate was just about to pass sentence, when the mayor, in a whisper, reminded him that he had not yet given the prisoner a chance to say anything in his defense. The mayor had no desire to befriend the Camera Chap, but he wished the proceedings to be quite regular.
Somewhat crestfallen at his blunder, Judge Wall turned to Hawley with a scowl.
“Is there anything you wish to say before I pass sentence, young man?” he snapped.
Hawley felt so sure that it would be useless for him to declare that the evidence against him had been manufactured, that he was about to shake his head in negation, when it occurred to him to ask to be allowed to examine the film negative which his honor still held in his hand.
Although the chance was slim, he was in hopes that he might be able to detect something on this exhibit which would enable him to prove that he had not taken the snapshot.
The court had no objection to the defendant’s examining the negative, and the strip of film was handed to the Camera Chap.
As he held it up to the light and scrutinized it in[Pg 42]tently, the gaze of Gale and Chief Hodgins was fixed searching upon his face. It was rather an anxious moment for them.
But sneers curled their lips as they observed the baffled expression which came to Hawley’s countenance. It was quite evident that he had found nothing which would enable him to prove that he was the victim of a frame-up.
The Camera Chap was just about to hand back the film to the court officer and prepare to take his medicine, when suddenly Hodgins and Gale saw him start violently. Then once more he held the negative up to the light, and, with sudden apprehension, they observed the grim look on his face give way to a broad grin.
“Your honor,” the Camera Chap cried excitedly, “you ask if I have anything to say before you pass sentence upon me. I have a few words to say now. I wish to point out to your honor that it was two p. m. when I was placed under arrest, and a quarter past two when I arrived at police headquarters and was locked in a cell. The police blotter will prove that.”
“The chief of police has testified as to the time of your arrest,” said the magistrate testily. “It was two p. m., as you say. But what has that to do with the case? I don’t see the significance of that fact.”
The Camera Chap’s grin broadened. “I think your honor will see the significance when I point out that this photograph was taken at three p. m., and, consequently, could not have been taken by me.”
“What nonsense is this?” his honor snapped. “It will do you no good to trifle with the court, young man.”
“I am not trifling with the court,” Hawley replied. “There can’t be any question about the time this snapshot was taken, your honor. If you will hold the negative up to the light, as I have done, you will see plainly that the hands of the clock in the tower of the city hall are pointing to three o’clock. Evidently the gentlemen responsible for this frame-up overlooked that small detail. If they had thought of it, it would have been easy for them to have touched up the negative a bit so as to have spoiled the face of that clock.”
The faces of Gale and Chief Hodgins had turned quite pale. Their pallor increased when Judge Wall examined the negative, and, in a tone of great astonishment, confirmed the defendant’s statement.
“The hands of the clock in this picture certainly are pointing to three o’clock,” his honor declared. “What does it mean, chief?”
“The clock must have been fast,” suggested Hodgins, in an agitated tone.
The judge glanced out of the courtroom window, from which the white clock tower of the city hall was visible. Then he consulted his watch, and the timepiece on the wall of the courtroom.
“The city-hall clock is not fast—it is exactly right!” he declared sharply. “Moreover, I have never heard of that clock being wrong. I don’t believe it has gained or lost a minute in ten years. I can’t understand this thing at all, chief.”
Judge Wall was a friend of Chief Hodgins and the other members of the political ring which theBulletinwas fighting. He was willing to do a lot to accommodate these men, but he emphatically drew the line at sending an innocent man to jail.
Therefore, when he had heard the Camera Chap’s story, he turned to Hodgins with a frown. “I am afraid I[Pg 43]shall have to throw this case out of court, chief,” he said. “There are several things about it which I don’t understand; but, in view of these—ahem—surprising developments, I am convinced that there is not sufficient evidence to justify me in convicting this young man. The prisoner is discharged.”
“I suppose you are going to get after those fellows now and send them both to jail for conspiracy,” said Fred Carroll to Hawley, as he sat chatting in theBulletinoffice half an hour after the Camera Chap’s triumphant departure from the police court. “You’ve certainly a strong case against them.”
“Oh, no! I shan’t bother,” Hawley replied. “I think their disappointment is punishment enough for them. I had the last laugh, and I’m quite satisfied. As far as I’m concerned, the case is closed. Of course, though, it’s possible that the magistrate may deem it his duty to take up the matter on his own hook.”
“There’s not much chance of that,” said Carroll, with a laugh. “Wall and Hodgins are good friends. I guess the judge will be only too glad to let the matter drop, if you don’t press it.
“And I’m mighty glad to hear you say you don’t intend to do so, old man,” the proprietor of theBulletindeclared. “On Melba’s account, I mean. She hasn’t much use for her cousin; but still, she’d be greatly distressed, I guess, if he were sent to jail. She’s a very sensitive girl, and no doubt would feel the disgrace keenly.”
“If I had any desire to prosecute those fellows—which I haven’t—that argument would be quite sufficient to stop me,” the Camera Chap declared. “I wouldn’t for worlds do anything to distress Miss Gale. She’s one of the nicest girls I’ve ever met. You are, indeed, to be congratulated, Fred.”
“Who? Me?” exclaimed Carroll, making a clumsy attempt to appear bewildered. “What the dickens are you talking about, Frank?”
Hawley laughed. “Say, do you think I’m blind? Don’t you suppose I got wise to the situation as soon as I saw you two together to-day? You might as well ’fess up, old scout.”
“I suppose I might as well,” the other answered, grinning sheepishly. “Yes, Frank, you’ve hit it right—though how the deuce you guessed it, you infernal old wizard, I can’t imagine—Melba and I are secretly engaged. She’s the finest girl in the world, and——”
“Why secretly engaged?” the Camera Chap broke in hastily. He had had experience with fellows in love before, and he knew that once they get to talking about the fair one’s charms it is mighty hard to get them to stop.
“I should think you’d be glad to proclaim your engagement to all the world,” he added. “Why on earth are you keeping it a secret?”
“Because Melba insists upon it,” Carroll explained. “You see, poor little girl, she’s an orphan, and her uncle and cousin are the only kin she has. She doesn’t want to be turned out of her uncle’s home, and she has an idea that that’s what would happen if the fact of our engagement were to become known to that old fox.[Pg 44]”
Hawley nodded. “I see. Does the uncle know that you are even on speaking terms with her?”
“Oh, yes! He is aware that we are acquainted. I used to call on her at the house when I first came to Oldham, until he made it quite clear to me that my presence there was not desired—by him.”
“And since then you have kept away?” chuckled Hawley.
“Sure! I didn’t want to embarrass Melba. Of course, we have been meeting frequently outside right along; but I don’t think the old man has any suspicion of that.”
“Well, why don’t you elope with the girl?” the Camera Chap suggested. “It seems to me that, under the circumstances, that’s the only thing to do. If I were in your place, Fred, I’d have married her long ago.”
Carroll frowned. “You’re talking like an idiot,” he declared indignantly. “How can I get married when I haven’t a cent to my name? As I told you the other day, theBulletinisn’t making enough money to support even me alone. If I married Melba in my present circumstances I’d deserve to be sent to State’s prison—or a lunatic asylum.”
“Well, what’s the matter with giving up theBulletinand going back to Park Row?” the Camera Chap suggested, watching his friend’s face narrowly. “As a reporter, you could at least make enough to support a wife.”
To Hawley’s great joy, a grim, fighting look came to Carroll’s face at these words.
“Give up theBulletin!” he exclaimed tensely. “Not while there’s a breath of life left in the old sheet. I’m no quitter, Frank. I thought you knew me better than that. Those fellows have got me groggy, I must admit; but they haven’t got me quite down and out yet. When that happens, I may go back to Park Row and hunt a job as a reporter, but not before.
“And even if I wanted to quit,” he went on, with a whimsical smile, “I couldn’t do it. Melba wouldn’t hear of it. She’s thoroughly in sympathy with the policy of theBulletin, and she wouldn’t have much use for me if I were to give up the fight.”
The Camera Chap grabbed his friend’s hand impulsively. “Old man,” he cried, “I’m tickled to death to hear you talk like that—although it’s only what I expected, of course.
“Tell me, Mr. Editor,” he went on eagerly, “could you use some snapshots on your front page every issue—good, live snapshots taken on the streets of Oldham? It seems to me that they would brighten up the sheet and help circulation.”
“Of course they would,” Carroll declared regarding Hawley with astonishment. “I’d be mighty glad to have them. But where could I get them?”
The Camera Chap made a mock obeisance. “I should feel highly honored, sir, if you would appoint me staff photographer of the OldhamBulletin. The position would be only temporary, of course, and the salary would be nothing.”
“You!” exclaimed Carroll, with an incredulous laugh. “You don’t mean to say that, after the narrow escape you’ve just had, you’d be rash enough to attempt to take any more pictures on the streets of this town?”
“Appoint me as your staff photographer,” said the[Pg 45]Camera Chap earnestly, “and I’ll undertake to supply you with at least one good snapshot for every issue.”
“Taken on the streets of Oldham?”
“Yes—in most cases,” Hawley replied.
Carroll stared at him in astonishment. “What’s the idea, Frank?” he asked. “How on earth do you expect to get away with it?”
The Camera Chap chuckled. “Guerrilla warfare, old man,” he said. “It’ll be the rarest sport I’ve ever had. Guerrilla warfare with a camera.”
The Camera Chap watched the puzzled face of theBulletin’seditor as the latter pondered on his rash proposal. “Do I get the job, Fred?” he inquired eagerly. “May I consider myself a regular staff photographer of the OldhamDaily Bulletin?”
“You may not,” Carroll replied emphatically. “You reckless Indian!” he added, with a laugh. “Do you think for a minute that I’m going to listen to such a proposition? This stunt that you propose is the wildest idea that has ever taken shape in that harum-scarum brain of yours. If I thought that you were tired of liberty and had a feverish longing to spend the next six months in jail, I might be willing to consider your offer. But I have no reason to believe that such is the case.”
Hawley grinned. “I have no desire to go to prison, and no intention of going there if I can possibly keep out,” he declared. “But really I don’t see any reason why the venture should have such a disastrous result.”
“You don’t, eh?” rejoined Carroll with an ironical laugh. “I suppose if that chair you are sitting on were a keg of dynamite, you’d see no particular danger in drumming your heels against its sides. Do you suppose you could go out taking snapshots on the highways of Oldham in defiance of the new anticamera law, and keep out of the clutches of the police? You might possibly get away with the first picture, although even that is doubtful; but you’d surely be nabbed on your second attempt.”
“Why are you so sure of that?” Hadley inquired.
“Why am I sure of it? Why am I sure that a man who couldn’t swim would drown if he were to jump overboard from the hurricane deck of a liner in mid-Atlantic on a dark night? Because, my reckless young friend, my common sense enables me to foresee clearly what would happen in both cases. Our friend, Chief Hodgins, would stay awake night and day in order to take advantage of such a grand opportunity to get even with you. Every policeman of the Oldham force would have instructions to bring you in, alive or dead. My esteemed contemporary, theChronicle, would publish a full description of you, refer to you as ‘the camera bandit,’ and appeal to all good citizens to aid in your capture. The whole city of Oldham would be on the watch for you. What chance would you have?”
A sparkle came to the eyes of the Camera Chap. “By Jove, Fred, that’s an alluring picture you’ve painted!” he exclaimed, with great enthusiasm.
“Alluring?” repeated the other deprecatingly.
“Yes. I hadn’t figured that it would be quite as exciting as all that. But I have no doubt the conditions[Pg 46]will be just as you’ve pictured them, and I can see that I’m going to have even more fun than I expected.”
“Fun! Do you mean to say that you could get any fun out of a situation of that sort?”
“Why, of course,” Hawley replied simply. “Think of the sport of taking snapshots in the face of such difficulties! Think of the fun of dodging those fellows! The greater the danger, you know, Fred, the more fascination there is to the picture game. There’s nothing in taking snapshots which require no risk.”
To some men who did not know Frank Hawley, these words might have sounded suspiciously like bombast; but Carroll knew well that the New YorkSentinel’sstar camera man was no braggart, and that what he had just said simply and truly expressed his viewpoint regarding “the picture game.”
“But, apart from the good time I shall have, think what a great thing this snapshot campaign of mine will be for theBulletin,” the Camera Chap continued earnestly. “I predict a big boom in your paper’s circulation, Fred, as soon as I get started. The more I’m denounced by the police and theChronicle, the more eager people will be to see the pictures taken by ‘the desperate camera bandit.’Bulletinswill sell like hot cakes, Fred, and your coffers will be full of real money. For Miss Melba’s sake, as well as your own, you’ve got to accept my proposition.”
In spite of himself, a wistful expression came to Carroll’s face. He realized the truth of what Hawley said. He had every reason to believe that snapshots taken under such conditions and published daily on the front page of theBulletinwould greatly increase the sale of that paper.
He had been furnished a striking proof of this a few days earlier when he had published those snapshots showing Chief of Police Hodgins asleep at his desk. There had been a big rise in circulation that day. Papers had sold as fast as the newsboys could hand them out. Everybody in Oldham had appreciated the joke on the fat chief of police and rushed to procure copies of those amusing pictures. And the very next day the sale of theBulletinhad fallen off, showing Carroll conclusively that it was Hawley’s snapshots alone which had brought about that sudden and all too transient wave of prosperity.
Therefore the proprietor of theBulletinwas sorely tempted now by the Camera Chap’s offer; but, putting his own interests aside, he shook his head in emphatic negation.
“I admit that it might help our circulation along, old man,” he began; “but you see——”
“It would probably bring you a lot of advertising, too,” Hawley broke in. “Really, Fred, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if this camera campaign resulted in a bunch of nice, fat advertising contracts for theBulletin.”
“I doubt that,” said Carroll. “It is true that increased advertising generally follows increased circulation; but it wouldn’t in my case. As I told you the other day, most of the big advertisers of this town are connected in some way or other with that bunch of grafters theBulletinis fighting, and they wouldn’t advertise in our columns no matter what figures our circulation books might show.”
“Maybe they wouldn’t,” the Camera Chap rejoined; “but there are lots of others who would. I wasn’t thinking about the local advertisers. I have in mind the big con[Pg 47]cerns—the breakfast-food people, the purveyors of potted ham, canned soups, cocoa, and mixed pickles; the manufacturers of safety razors, automobiles, shaving soaps, ready-made clothing, et cetera. That’s the kind of advertising we’ll get for your sheet, Fred.”
Carroll laughed grimly. “Don’t you suppose I’ve been after all those people already? There’s nothing doing with any of them. I’ve called personally on those whose advertising offices are in near-by cities, and spent a small fortune in postage stamps corresponding with the rest. Not one of them could be made to see that it would be to his advantage to advertise in the OldhamBulletin.”
“Of course not,” exclaimed Hawley; “not while your circulation is as low as it is at present. Naturally, they’ve no desire to throw their money away. But wait until we’ve boosted theBulletin’scirculation sky-high. Then we can talk contracts to them, and I’ll wager they’ll be ready enough to listen.
“So, you see, Fred,” he added laughingly, “you really can’t afford to turn down my application for the position of staff photographer on your esteemed paper.”
“Nevertheless, I’m going to turn it down,” Carroll declared firmly. “I won’t hear of your doing this thing, I’m not going to have it on my conscience that I was the cause of your being sent to jail. It’s no use arguing with me, old man; I positively refuse to let you run this risk on my account.”
“Very well,” said the Camera Chap quietly. “Of course, I have no desire to press my services on you if you don’t want them. But I shall go ahead with this camera campaign, just the same. The pictures will make an interesting addition to my scrapbook.”
“You crazy Indian! Surely you don’t mean that?”
“I certainly do. If you think I’m going to miss all this fun just because you won’t give me a job on your paper, you’re very much mistaken. Of course, I should greatly prefer to have the snapshots published in theBulletin. I really think that they’ll be worth publishing. But since you can’t see it that way, I suppose I’ll have to be satisfied with adding them to my private collection.”
Carroll glanced searchingly at his friend’s face and was convinced of his earnestness. Then, with a laugh, he extended his big hand.
“You win, old fellow,” he said. “Since you’re determined to go ahead anyway, I’d be all kinds of a fool if I were to fail to take advantage of this opportunity. The chances are about a million to one that you’ll be nabbed and thrown into jail on your first attempt; but if by a miracle you should succeed in getting any pictures, I’ll be tickled to death to use them in theBulletin.”
“Good boy!” exclaimed Hawley joyously. “That’ll be much more satisfactory to me than pasting them in my scrapbook. And now that I’m a full-fledged member of your staff, Fred—beg pardon; I should say boss—have you any instructions for me? Any particular picture assignment you wish me to go out and cover?”
“Oh, no; I shall not give you any assignments. I’ll leave it entirely to you to select your own subjects. Anything will do. No matter what the snapshots may be[Pg 48]—even if it’s only a picture of an electric-light pole—the extraordinary circumstances will make it of sufficient value to be worth a place on our front page.”
“Very good,” said Hawley; “I am inclined to agree with you that it will be the best policy to give me a free hand. But I assure you,” he added, with a chuckle, “I have no intention of snapshotting such uninteresting subjects as electric-light poles. The kind of pictures I intend to go after will have a little more life to them than that. In fact, I have an idea now for a group of snapshots which I think would be of great interest to theBulletin’sreaders. If I can put it across, I think it will make even more of a hit than those pictures of the sleeping police chief.”
“What’s the idea?” Carroll inquired, with a little more eagerness than he was desirous of manifesting.
The Camera Chap drew his chair nearer, and lowered his voice almost to a whisper: “Do you remember, Fred, that stunt theSentinelpulled off several years ago, when we were roasting the New York police department? I mean those automobiles filled with reporters which theSentinelsent out one night to tour the entire city and count the number of cops who were loafing instead of patrolling their beats?”
“Do I remember it!” exclaimed Carroll, with a reminiscent chuckle. “I should say I do! It was just after I joined theSentinelstaff. I was one of the reporters assigned to the story. I shall never forget that automobile ride. We rode a hundred blocks, and in all that distance only encountered one policeman who was conscientiously attending to business. The exposé theSentinelpublished the next day created a whopping big scandal, and resulted in the biggest shake-up in the history of the New York police department.”
“That’s right,” said Hawley. “Well, what’s the matter, Fred, with pulling off something on those lines right here in Oldham? I’ve got a hunch that this city isn’t being patrolled any too well during the night hours. With a lazy, incompetent fathead like Hodgins at the head of the force, it’s a pretty safe guess that there isn’t much discipline among the rank and file. A tour of the city by night probably would reveal some interesting facts about the Oldham police department.”
Carroll nodded vigorously. “You bet it would. You are quite right in supposing that the cops of this burg are a pretty punk lot. The great majority of them got their appointments to the force by political pull, and—well, as you can readily imagine, they’re not by any means the best material that could have been found for the job. Yes, your suggestion is a mighty good one, Hawley, old man. I deserve to be kicked for not having thought of it myself long ago. An exposé of that sort ought to sell a lot ofBulletins.”
“Sure it would!” declared the Camera Chap enthusiastically. “I’m glad you approve. Thought you’d look at it in that light. Guess there’s no sense in wasting any time,” he added. “I might as well get busy this very night.”
The proprietor of theBulletinlooked at him in astonishment. “You get busy? Why, what is there for you to do, old man! This’ll be a reporter’s task. Pictures, of course, will be quite out of the question.”
“Oh, will they, though?” chuckled Hawley. “I don’t agree with you there. The pictures will be the main feature of this exposé. Of course, we’ll have a story,[Pg 49]too—a couple of columns or so of reading matter to go with the snapshots—but, with all modesty, I think I can say that it will be my camera which will give the people of Oldham the most graphic idea of what the police force is doing while the town slumbers.”
“Nonsense!” Carroll expostulated. “This will be at night. How can you take pictures——”
“How can I?” Hawley interrupted. “What a peculiar question! Surely, my dear Fred, you must be forgetting all about the existence of a certain compound called magnesium powder.”
“What!” cried Carroll, almost rising in his chair. “Man alive! You don’t mean to say you’d be insane enough to attempt to take snapshots on the streets of Oldham by flash light?”
The Camera Chap grinned at his friend’s display of horrified amazement.
“Oh, yes, I’ll have to use that flash-light powder, of course,” he answered. “I don’t know of any other way of taking pictures at night; and we positively must have those snapshots.”
TO BE CONTINUED.
“Come, now, hustle out o’ here!”
“I ain’t doin’ any harm.”
“You git out, I say, an’ don’t ye talk back to me!”
“Please, mister——”
“Git!”
Big Bill Bronson, the dock watchman, raised his heavy hand threateningly, and the forlorn little chap, whom he had addressed in such rough tones, climbed painfully out of the box of straw in which he had taken refuge, as he hoped, for the night.
“We don’t want no young wharf rats like you round here,” Big Bill declared. “So, git along with you!”
It was still early in the evening. Perhaps if Terry Carson had waited until it had grown darker he might have ensconced himself in the box unobserved, and spent the night in comparative comfort. But he had been so tired that he had risked seeking his “lodging” early, with the above result.
For days he had tramped the streets of the seaport town, looking for a job. But nobody seemed to want him, or his services. The past fortnight had been a terrible experience to young Terry.
“I warn’t goin’ for to do any harm, sir,” he said, having gotten out of the box of straw.
“I dunno whether you was or not,” growled Bill. “There’s too many of the like o’ you ’round. Come, move on, or I’ll hand ye over to the cop!”
At this threat, Terry had to give up all hope of his lodging, and moved painfully away.
“I just hate this town!” he muttered. “There ain’t no place in it for me. I wish I could get away from it, so I do.”
His eyes wandered across the broad docks to the shipping beyond—tall-masted, deep-sea vessels all.
“I wish I could get aboard one o’ them boats an’ just sail away from this mean old place.”
It was not too dark yet to reveal the decks pretty[Pg 50]clearly. The fading light revealed Terry’s sturdy figure, too. He was a strong, well-built chap of fifteen.
“Jiminy crickets! I b’lieve I’ll try it!” he muttered, after an instant’s silent scrutiny of the individual on the quarter of the nearest craft; and then, despite the fact that big Bill, the watchman, shouted after him, he turned away from the great gate, which was the only entrance by land to the dock, and marched up the narrow gangplank to the vessel’s deck.
Captain Josh Carlton, who was pacing the deck with a huge cigar between his teeth, suddenly became conscious of the presence of somebody beside himself upon the quarter, by a shrill voice, which piped out:
“Mister, I say!”
“Who the dickens are you?” demanded the captain in surprise, gazing down upon young Terry from his height of six foot four.
“Terrence Carson.”
“Well, you little sawed-off, what d’ye want here?”
Terry drew himself up to his full height. His “stubbedness” was the tender point.
“I want to ship,” he declared.
“You want to ship! Haw, haw, haw!”
Captain Carlton fairly shook with laughter.
“Why, your head hardly reaches the rail,” he said, taking the boy by the arm and twisting him about with his face to the shore. “Now, sonny, that’s the way ashore. You git!”
Poor Terry, urged by the captain’s vigorous shove, walked slowly back to the wharf, and thence to the street. Once outside the gate, he stamped his ill-shod foot determinedly upon the rough pavement.
“I just will do it!” he declared. “They can’t keep me off their old vessel, however hard they try. I’m going to sea in theCalypso, I am!”
Thus it happened that, half an hour later, when Captain Carlton left theCalypsoand went uptown to look over the men whom the shipping agent had gotten together for him, leaving the vessel in sole charge of the steward, a ragged figure, sneaking along beside the piled-up cases on the dock, darted across the gangplank and onto theCalypso’sdeck.
Neither the steward nor Bill Bronson, the burly dock watchman, saw him, for they were conversing very earnestly together forward. Terry was totally unfamiliar with a ship, having always lived back in the country; so he made the mistake of entering the cabin for concealment.
It was a nicely furnished apartment, for Captain Carlton was quite a fastidious man, and at one end a heavy curtain hung before a small lavatory. Behind this curtain Terry darted. He had heard Bill say that theCalypsowould sail early the next morning, and he believed that once the vessel got out of the harbor, she would not be put about for the sake of landing him again.
Hardly had he ensconced himself behind this drapery, when he detected the sound of a footstep softly descending the companion stairs. A moment later, the steward, a low-browed, snaky-looking Italian, appeared. It struck Terry at once that the man’s manner seemed odd. He appeared to be fearful of the presence of some unknown person, and glanced apprehensively around him as he stepped into the center of the room under the swinging lamp.
And what followed made the boy’s suspicions a surety.[Pg 51]The Italian had not entered the cabin during the absence of the captain and officers for any legitimate purpose.
Assuring himself, as he supposed, that he was unobserved, the steward crept softly from door to door, and, opening each, peered into the several staterooms for the purpose of seeing if any were by chance occupied. Confident that this was not the case, he went back to the foot of the companionway and whistled shrilly.
Evidently this was a signal, for at once a heavy step crossed the deck and descended to the cabin. Terry, round-eyed with bewilderment at these proceedings, peered out from behind the curtains and discovered that the newcomer was none other than the watchman, Bill Bronson.
“Eet ees alla quiet, Bill,” the steward declared, reassuringly, as big Bill glanced suspiciously about. “Not a soula here. We ees alla right.”
Bill growled in reply, and stepped at once to the center of the room, shoving aside a heavy chart table which stood there. Beneath the table was a square of matting which seemed but lightly tacked down, for with one twitch the watchman ripped it off the floor, revealing a trapdoor beneath.
“Dere she ees, Bill,” exclaimed the Italian exultantly.
He stooped and raised the trap hastily. The burly watchman squeezed himself into the hole with much grunting and profanity, and, having gotten his head below the level of the floor, began at once to hand out packages, each wrapped carefully in black enamel cloth.
“Work quick, Tonio. No tellin’ when them fellers’ll git back. The boat’s right under the quarter.”
The steward’s reply was to gather several packages in his arms and hastily ascend to the deck.
Terry, meanwhile, had been doing what he called “some tall thinking.” He knew that something remarkably shady was in progress. He could not guess what was in the packages, but that it was something valuable he did not doubt. The treacherous steward and watchman were robbing theCalypso’scommander, or her owners.
Quick as a flash, when Antonio had disappeared, Terry darted out from behind the curtain and slammed down the trapdoor, shooting the strong bolt at once into place, thus securing the trap firmly. Big Bill was a prisoner.
The muffled sounds of the watchman’s voice could not reach the deck, but Terry reached it almost at a single bound. Antonio’s figure was faintly visible as he leaned over the rail, tugging at the painter of the small boat, which had become fouled. The packages had been laid on the deck while he was thus engaged.
Terry’s mind worked quickly, and the moment his feet touched the deck he saw his chance for overcoming the second river pirate. He lowered his head and charged across the deck like a bolt from a cannon.
His head caught Antonio just below the waistband, and, although the shock well-nigh dislocated his neck and sent him flat upon the deck, it also drove the light body of the astonished steward flying overboard, where he landed, frog fashion, in the dirty dock water.
He might have come back and easily overpowered the boy and released his companion, but Antonio didn’t know that. Never for an instant doubting that the gigantic Captain Carlton had returned unexpectedly and kicked[Pg 52]him overboard, the steward swam hastily to a neighboring pier and made good his escape.
Not so big Bill, however. Captain Carlton and his two officers found him, almost suffocated, in the secret compartment, while a greatly demoralized boy stood guard above with a boathook almost as heavy as himself.
When Bill had been pulled out of his prison and marched off under a guard of two blue-coated policemen to a much safer place of durance, Captain Carlton turned to young Terry.
“Well, Shorty,” he said jovially, placing his big hands upon the boy’s shoulders, “so you’re the lad who wanted to ship as an A. B., eh? Got over it?”
“No, sir. I came down here intending to hide away till after you had sailed. I want to get away from this town, so I do.”
“And you shall. You’ve saved the owners a pretty penny,” he added, touching the packages strewn about the floor, with his foot; “and I reckon they won’t begrudge you your passage. I guess he’s paid his fare, sure enough, ain’t he, boys?”
And the two inferior officers agreed warmly. However, before that first trip was over, Terry had made himself so useful to theCalypso’scommander, that he made many more on the same vessel. In fact, he is still with the good ship, and is probably one of the youngest second mates sailing out of the port of Rivermouth.
We read of crimes and cruelties perpetrated in days long, long gone by, and, with a pitying sigh for the wretched sufferers, we thank Heaven that the blessed light of civilization illuminates the nineteenth century. We do not realize that a government, so-called Christian, even to this day, can wantonly cause such heart-rending sufferings as Russia metes out to Poland.
To be exempt from corporal chastisement is one of the privileges of a Russian nobleman; yet this does not prevent the torture being applied to Polish political prisoners even when they are of noble blood.
The subject, albeit a sad one, is not without a certain interest, particularly when we recall the memory of brave men and braver women who have yielded up a weary life while undergoing this, the most cruel of tortures—the knout.
The knout is a strip of hide, a thing which is steeped in some preparation, and strongly glazed, as it were, with metal filings. By this process it becomes both heavy and excessively hard; but before it hardens care is taken to double down the edges, which are left thin, and in this way a groove runs the length of the thong.
The upper part winds around the hand of the executioner; to the other end a small iron hook is fastened. Falling upon the bare back of the sufferer, the knout comes down on its concave side, of which the edges cut like a knife. The thing thus lies in the flesh.
The executioner does not lift it up, but draws it toward him horizontally, so that the hook tears off long strips. If the executioner has not been bribed, the victim loses consciousness after the third stroke, and sometimes dies under the fifth.
The scaffold is an inclined plane, to which the man is tied with his back uncovered. The head and feet are firmly fastened, and the hands, which are knotted together,[Pg 53]go round below the plank, any movement of the body becoming impossible.
After receiving the prescribed number of strokes, the poor wretch is untied, and, on his knees, undergoes the cruel punishment of being marked. The letters “Vor”—meaning thief or malefactor—are printed in sharp, pointed letters on a stamp, which the executioner drives into the forehead, and into both cheeks, and, while the blood runs, a black mixture, of which gunpowder is an ingredient, is rubbed into the wounds; they heal, but the bluish scar remains for life.
An adventure is related by a sportsman which shows that a hunter’s life may depend upon his attention to small details. With one of his friends, he was out shooting, when a solitary bull buffalo appeared on the opposite side of a small stream. The bull was evidently in a state of great excitement, for, as the hunters drew near, he faced them, tore up the turf with his horns, and looked down the perpendicular bank, twelve feet high, as though meditating descent.
The sportsman’s friend, who carried a little rifle—a single barrel, which shot a small, spherical ball—had, by the other’s advice, doubled his charge of powder.
“Aim at the back of the neck if the buffalo lowers his head,” said the sportsman to his companion, throwing a hard clod of earth so that it fell into the water at the foot of the bank. The splash caused the animal to look down, exposing his neck. The friend fired. The bull convulsively turned round and fell upon his side. The two men waded across the stream at a shallow place, and ran to where the prostrate animal was lying, apparently dead. The marksman, standing in front of the bull’s head, reveled in the delight of his first buffalo.
“Never stand at the head of a buffalo, whether dead or alive,” exclaimed the other, whose experience had taught him to be cautious. “Stand upon the side, facing the back of the animal, well away from its legs, as I am standing now.”
Scarcely had he uttered the words, when the bull sprang to his feet, and blundered forward straight at his astonished friend, not three feet distant. He jumped forward to avoid the horns, but tripped and fell upon his back, right in the path of the savage bull.
As quick as lightning, the sportsman drew his long hunting knife, and plunged it behind the buffalo’s shoulder. The animal fell at the blow. He had received his death stroke.
While a certain lady was feeding a hungry tramp the other day, she discovered that he was pocketing her silverware.
Seizing a poker, she exclaimed:
“Drop those spoons, you scoundrel, and leave the house; leave it instantly!”
“But, madame——”
“Leave the house, I say! Leave the house!” screamed the infuriated woman.
“I go, madame,” said the tramp, “never to return; but before I do, I would like to say that I did not intend to take your house.[Pg 54]”
[Pg 55]
The sale of more than eight hundred autograph letters, valued at twelve thousand dollars, advertised to take place at a Philadelphia auction room, was stopped by order of a common pleas court, following injunction proceedings by the State of New Hampshire on the ground that the letters are part of its official archives.
The collection is said to be of great historic importance, and contain letters written by George Washington and other revolutionary statesmen and soldiers. The injunction petition declares that all the letters were originally in the custody of the first governor of New Hampshire. The papers disappeared many years ago, and their whereabouts was not disclosed until May, 1913.
“The greatest good thing that has happened in the world since the resurrection of Christ was the prohibition proclamation of Czar Nicholas, of Russia. One hundred and sixty million people went on the water wagon overnight, and to-day they are all glad of it.”
This statement was only one of many pointed declarations made by Clinton N. Howard, of Rochester, N. Y., at one of the closing meetings of the big Christian Endeavor Convention in Chicago. He addressed delegates from every part of the country. The convention brought more than ten thousand to the Chicago Coliseum.
“We have been applying a small plaster in an effort to cure a big sore,” said Howard, who is known as the “Little Giant.” Tiny of body, he flung down the gauntlet in vigorous terms and predicted a dry United States before long. “We have temporized with John Barleycorn,” he said, “when he has been convicted a million times.
“For many months there has been a terrible war on the other side of the ocean. I venture to predict it will be won by those forces which have forsworn the use of alcoholic liquor.
“Three years before the war began the kaiser, addressing a large body of young men just being graduated into active naval service, said:
“‘I ask that you hereafter dispense wholly with strong drink. I want my men to be able to steer my ships straight, and to shoot straight, and that cannot be done unless a man is sober.’
“To-day there is sitting in the presidential chair of the United States the most princely man who has ever graced that position. He is a good man, a great man, and I would to God he had the same power right now that is vested in Czar Nicholas.
“Alcohol is intrenched on a line which it has held for many years, but the allied forces of decency, honesty, humanity, economy are slowly but surely driving it back.”
Reverend Doctor John Fryer Messick, who has the distinction of being the oldest living college graduate in the United States, died just two days after his one-hundred-and-second-birthday anniversary.
Doctor Messick was born in Albany, N. Y., June 28,[Pg 56]1813, and graduated as valedictorian of the class of 1834 at Rutgers College, New Brunswick, N. J. He graduated from Rutgers Seminary three years later.
In 1836, Doctor Messick cast his first vote for Henry Clay, Whig candidate for President of the United States. He reached his one-hundredth birthday without any physical defect whatever.
Baseball fans used to talk about the same language as the players. But it’s different now. Whether they did it just to be different or just to amuse themselves, the present generation of ball players, including many young gents from our most famous institutions of pure English, have invented a new line of lingo, by which they converse among themselves. Here’s the key to a few of the terms now used by all our best players:
Deceiver—A Pitcher.
Monkey Suits—Baseball uniforms.
Uniform—Civilian clothes.
Dogs—Feet.
Sneaks—Soft-soled shoes.
Wolves—Knocking fans.
Orchard—Ball park.
Glue—Money.
Him or He—The manager of the club.
Agate—Regulation baseball.
Sullivans—Upper berths. Also tourist sleepers which have cane seats.
Ducat—A pass to the game.
Stuff—The curves a pitcher puts on the ball.
Bludgeon—A bat.
Work—The act of playing ball.
Geyser—A spitball pitcher.
Groceries—Meals. Also used to denote prizes offered by merchants for early-season feats.
One never gets too old to attend school is a principle strongly advocated by Joseph Gillet, oldest “schoolboy” in the engineering courses of the continuation school in Milwaukee, Wis. Mr. Gillet has just turned seventy-two, but he has the appearance and memory of a man of fifty. Although he was denied opportunities of learning to a great extent when he was a boy, he has tried to grasp every opportunity in adult life. This is the eighth time he has matriculated at a school which would offer him advancement.
He was born in Alsace, where he was graduated from the public school at fourteen. Later he attended a private continuation school for six months, after which he decided to learn the machinist trade. From 1860 to 1864 he was an apprentice. Three years later he entered a marine-engineering school, where he remained six months. Finally, before leaving France, he tried sea diving.
When Mr. Gillet landed in Montreal in 1872, he at once entered an English school. His progress in the language was so rapid that in a little while he became a teacher in a night school, at the same time studying steam engineering and drafting. In 1906 he began an electrical[Pg 57]course at Marquette College and continued it for six years.
“I have always been accustomed to much work,” declared Mr. Gillet, “and have made it a point to take advantage of it. One can always learn something new in the mechanical trade. I cannot be idle.”
Farmers in the western part of Delaware County, Ind., are up in arms against the ground hog. Hundreds of the pests overrun the farms in that part of the country.
Many farms are literally honeycombed with ground-hog holes. It is said that on one farm not far from Daleville there are as many as five hundred ground-hog dens. The sport of shooting the animals has replaced all others, and hunters who fare afield after these weather prophets seldom go unrewarded.
Apparently the situation has proved to be of keen interest to the squirrels, which are seldom hunted now in that vicinity, the hunters preferring the larger and juicier game, and at the same time conferring a benefit on the farmers by reducing the number of pests which destroy so much corn. According to riflemen and others the squirrels, which are numerous in that part of the country have become positively tame because they have not been hunted. But the ground hogs have become wary and keep sentinels posted, which, by their whistling, warn their comrades of the hunter’s approach.
The ground hog’s call is a clear, distinct whistle, not greatly unlike the singing of a canary bird, only much louder and even sweeter in tone. It is interesting to observe a full-grown ground hog, weighing several pounds, emitting a melodious warble that might well belong to a feathered songster.
Doctor Camdon C. McKinney of Daleville, is perhaps, eastern Indiana’s greatest “ground-hog expert” and what he does not know about these little animals and their ways of living is not worth knowing. Incidentally Doctor McKinney is a crack rifle shot and not only does fried or roasted ground hog grace his family table as often as he may desire, but he supplies a few friends in Muncie and elsewhere with this delicacy on occasion.
“I like to observe the ground hog in his native habitat almost as well as I like to eat his succulent flesh,” said Doctor McKinney. “The farmer’s chief objection to him and the reason that he welcomes hunters who will destroy the ground hog is because the animals insist on destroying corn. As soon as the corn fills out and reaches the roasting-ear stage the ground hogs get busy and devour the ears, either on the spot where they find them or they drag the corn to their dens and eat it there at their leisure, the whole family of the particular den joining in the feast much as the human family does at the same season of year.
“Family by family these little animals will fill their dens to overflowing with the products of the farmer’s toil, and one family will even assist a neighbor who is a little short of help in the ground-hog harvest time. Thus it may be seen that a large colony of ground hogs may cause a great loss in a corn community.]
“Human beings might well learn from the ground hog the Biblical lesson: ‘It is good for brethren to dwell together in amity.’ Ground hogs do not fight among themselves, but they stand up for each other through thick and thin. A personal incident will illustrate this. The[Pg 58]other day while hunting I noticed one of the little animals stick his head cautiously out of his hole. When he finally ventured entirely out, I shot him, but I never saw him afterward. No sooner did he fall than his family rushed out and dragged him back into the den.
“The only way a hunter can get close enough to one of these animals to make a good shot is to hide himself not far from a hole and wait for the ground hog to appear. He first will peer out cautiously, only the end of his snout and his twinkling eyes being visible. Then withdrawing, possibly to report to the others of the family that the coast is clear, he displays a little more of his body at the mouth of the den, and then again runs back. He does this several times, running back each time, and on each reappearance displaying a little more of his body.
“Finally satisfied that there is no enemy in sight, he comes entirely into view, and, standing upright on his hind legs, cocks his head to one side, like a rooster that has been out in the rain. It is then that the hunter’s opportunity has arrived.
“The ground hog is largely a vegetarian although he does eat bugs, but prefers grains, roots, and grasses. Unlike the opossum, he will not touch carrion nor any unwholesome food.”
“A gallon a day will keep the doctor away.”
This is what many physicians say—in one way or another—when asked if it is a good thing to drink much water.
Doctors disagree, however, about whether it is a good thing to drink water with meals, the majority believing that food should not be washed down with liquids, but should be thoroughly chewed and mixed with saliva, which is an aid to digestion. But several doctors who were asked about it asserted that it was good to drink even as much as a quart of water with meals.
All of the seven doctors who were interviewed about the benefits of water drinking agreed that the copious drinking of water was a preventive of disease, and they had known many cases in which health was restored by the drinking of water in large quantities. One doctor advocates the drinking of as much as three gallons of water a day in very warm weather, reducing the amount when the weather is cooler, but never drinking less than a gallon a day.
“Why,” said this physician, “two-thirds of the weight of the body is water. In a very warm day in August an average man who is at work will perspire from two to six quarts of water a day. Where is it all coming from if you don’t drink it? Many poisons generated by the body are exuded through the pores of the skin in perspiration. Many persons think they are not perspiring unless they can see beads of water on the skin. But we perspire at all times, waking and sleeping, and we do not see it because it evaporates immediately. It is almost impossible to drink too much water.”
Another doctor said; “I saw a short article in a newspaper the other evening quoting an eminent medical authority as saying that all girls and women who wished to have a good complexion should drink two quarts of water a day. I would double that and advise them to drink four quarts a day. Give the body plenty of pure water, inside and outside, a gallon a day inside, a thorough[Pg 59]bathing of the whole body at least once a day, and plenty of exercise, preferably by outdoor walking, and you can’t very well be sick. If any one would do that, one-half the doctors would have to seek some other business. If every woman would do that, the rouge and complexion powder factories would shut down. There is nothing so good as plenty of water drunk every day for the complexion.”
One physician said: “I am not claiming that the drinking of plenty of water is a preventive of all diseases; that would be misleading and silly, but I will say this: I have cured several bad cases of rheumatism, and many cases of stomach ailments with water alone. In those cases the patients were in the habit of drinking very little water. I prescribed a quart of water before breakfast each morning and a gallon on going to bed at night. It worked a cure in each case.
“I say this, most emphatically, that a half gallon or a gallon of water a day will help wash out the toxic poisons that are formed in the body, and will tend to keep a person in good health and help him resist disease.
“There is constantly being accumulated in the body not only waste matter, resulting from chemical changes taking place in the upkeep of vital energy, but also the blood takes up toxic poisons from the intestines. Unless those things are thrown off by the lungs, skin, kidneys, et cetera, we become lazy, dyspeptic, and uric acid will accumulate and cause rheumatism, kidney disorders, and other organic disturbances. Now, such conditions would be much less likely to ensue were the simple precaution taken of drinking a pint of water often throughout the day.
“Especially is this true of persons who take little exercise and who live indoors, where they breathe impure air.
“I often prescribe the slow sipping of at least a pint of hot water in the morning while dressing. This washes out the stomach, stimulates the circulation in the lungs and skin and promotes the action of the liver. If a person has a tendency to gout or rheumatism, the water-drinking habit is especially recommended.”
One physician was found who recommended the drinking of a quart of water with each meal, but the majority were opposed to drinking water while eating.
A German military authority estimates that 21,770,000 men stand opposed to each other—12,820,000 on the side of the Allies and 8,950,000 for Germany, Austria, and Turkey. On the naval side the estimates are as follows: