By BERTRAM LEBHAR.
(This interesting story was commenced in No. 153 ofNick Carter Stories. Back numbers can always be obtained from your news dealer or the publishers.)
(This interesting story was commenced in No. 153 ofNick Carter Stories. Back numbers can always be obtained from your news dealer or the publishers.)
Patrolman John Hicks, of the Oldham police force, was a fairly vigilant guardian of the law—in the daytime. But when his turn came to do night duty, which happened regularly every second week, he always felt drowsy, no matter how much sleep he took by day to prepare himself for his nocturnal vigil.
“Which goes to show that night work ain’t the right thing for a man,” Mr. Hicks was in the habit of complaining to his intimate friend. “It’s against nature. The daytime was made for man to work in, and the night for man to sleep in. Even the dumb beasts and the birds close their eyes at night. When you try to reverse this order of things, Nature rebels—and you can’t blame her.”
Being anxious to offend Nature as little as possible, Officer Hicks had cultivated the habit of going to sleep standing up. So proficient had he become in this difficult art that he could lean against a lamp-post and slumber as soundly as if he were in his own comfortable bed at home.
The night which Hawley had selected for his photographic exposé of police conditions in Oldham happened to be one of the nights on which Patrolman Hicks was on duty.
He had selected the most comfortable lamp-post on his beat, and was propped against it, enjoying a deep sleep, when a big, black touring car, containing three men, came along.
The automobile was moving almost noiselessly, but even if the man at the wheel had honked his horn as it drew near, it wouldn’t have caused any discomfort to Officer Hicks. He was too sound a sleeper to be bothered by the ordinary sounds of street traffic.
In his somnolent moments, Mr. Hicks did not present a very picturesque appearance. Only a slender man can lean against a lamp-post and look graceful; and Officer Hicks was almost as fat as Chief of Police Hodgins. Moreover, like the latter, he had the habit of sleeping with his mouth partly open.
But in spite of its lack of picturesqueness, his appear[Pg 41]ance caused great delight to the three men in the black touring car.
That vehicle came to a stop a few feet away from the lamp-post, and one of the men leaned over the side of the tonneau, and pointed a camera toward the slumbering bluecoat.
Then there came a vivid flash of light, a dull, booming sound, and a chuckle of triumph from the man with the camera.
Possibly the dull, booming sound and the chuckle of the man would not have aroused Patrolman Hicks by themselves, but the vivid flash of light hitting him squarely on the eyelids brought him to his senses in an instant.
Springing to an erect position, he stared in ludicrous astonishment at the automobile in front of him.
He was about to step into the roadway and ask the three men what had happened, but before he could carry out his intention the automobile had started off at great speed.
“Oh, well,” Officer Hicks muttered to himself, “I guess it was nothing serious. Probably a fuse blew out, or something of that sort. Them automobiles is queer things.”
With this reflection, he once more settled himself comfortably against the lamp-post, and resumed his interrupted slumbers.
“That was a cinch!” said the Camera Chap to his two companions, as the touring car sped through the quiet street. “Didn’t I tell you, Fred, that there wouldn’t be much danger?”
“Well, we can’t expect that they’ll all be as easy as that one,” Carroll replied. “Ye gods! Just imagine the lives and property of the people of Oldham being intrusted to the care of a lazy, good-for-nothing shirker like that! I hope you got a good picture of him, Frank. It certainly ought to make the taxpayers of Oldham sit up and take notice.”
“At all events, it ought to make ’em buyBulletins,” the Camera Chap chuckled. “I bet you a new hat, Fred, that your paper’s circulation will be more than doubled as a result of this crusade.
“But, say,” he exclaimed, as the touring car swung around a corner, “aren’t we on another cop’s beat now? If so, hadn’t we better slow down, and hunt for him?”
This remark was addressed to Parsons, theBulletin’spolice reporter, who was running the car. Parsons had been “covering police” for some years, and knew the majority of the members of the force by name, and what beat they were supposed to patrol. This expert knowledge made him a valuable member of the expedition. As he was aware also of the habits and weaknesses of many of the bluecoats, he was able to lead the Camera Chap to those who were most likely to be caught shirking their duty.
The reporter glanced quickly up and down both sides of the street, and reduced the speed of the touring car.
“This is ‘Red’ Horgan’s beat,” he announced. “And I guess I can tell you where he is right now. Horgan is the most notorious shirker in the department, and when he’s on night duty he generally spends most of the time in ‘Dutch Louie’s’ place on Allendale Street. I have no doubt that you’ll find him there now playing pinochle in the back room.”
The Camera Chap’s face lighted up at this informa[Pg 42]tion. “Playing pinochle, eh?” he exclaimed eagerly. “That ought to make a bully snapshot. Is it possible for a stranger to get into this Dutch Louie’s place at this hour?”
“Sure!” Parsons answered, with a laugh. “He runs his place wide open all night. Anybody can walk in and order a drink right at the bar, no matter what the hour. Dutch Louie is a politician, as well as a liquor dealer, and he doesn’t have to worry about his joint being pulled for violation of the excise laws.”
“Good!” exclaimed Hawley joyously. “I was afraid I might have difficulty in getting into the place. Is this Allendale Street we’re on now?”
“No; it’s the next corner. Louie’s place is halfway down the block,” the reporter informed him.
“Then I think it would be a good idea to stop the car right here,” said the Camera Chap. “I hardly think it would be a wise plan to ride right up to the door. The sound of our motor might scare Officer Horgan into dropping his pinochle hand.”
“No need to be afraid of that,” declared Parsons, with a laugh. “It would take more than an automobile to faze Red Horgan. He’s a son-in-law of one of the biggest politicians in the county, and has such a strong pull that I guess he wouldn’t care if Chief Hodgins himself came into the back room of the café and caught him playing cards when he ought to be patrolling his beat. I’ve often heard him boast that there isn’t a superior officer in the department that isn’t afraid to call him down, no matter what he does—that if any of them dared to get gay with him, he’d mighty soon show them where they got off at.”
“Must be a pleasant sort of chap,” said Hawley, with an ironical smile. “It’ll be a genuine pleasure to publish his picture, eh, Fred?”
“But surely you’ve no intention of going into Dutch Louie’s place to get it?” Carroll protested anxiously. “That’s out of the question.”
The Camera Chap looked astonished. “Why out of the question? Didn’t you just hear Parsons say that anybody can get into the place?”
“Oh, yes, I haven’t any doubt that you could get in, all right; but if you were rash enough to try to take a flash-light picture inside I rather guess you’d have some difficulty in getting out. Dutch Louie’s few patrons are a pretty tough bunch. They’d probably kick in a few of your ribs before Officer Horgan placed you under arrest for taking photographs without a license. Better pass this one up, old man, and look for something a trifle easier.”
But Hawley had no intention of foregoing this opportunity to procure a snapshot of Mr. Red Horgan in the rôle of a pinochle player. He realized that there were difficulties in the way of his getting the picture, but he was determined to make the attempt.
“It’ll be a gem!” he declared enthusiastically. “If I can get it and it turns out all right, Fred, just imagine what a hit it will make with the readers of theBulletin. Stop the car, please, Parsons. Here we are at the corner. I’m going to get out.”
Carroll clutched at his coat to restrain him, but the Camera Chap laughingly shook off his hold, and got out of the automobile.
“You fellows wait here for me,” he said. “Keep the power turned on, Parsons, and have the car all ready to[Pg 43]start as soon as I come out. It’s possible that we may have to make a hurried get-away, in which case it would be inconvenient to have to wait until you cranked up.”
He was stepping to the sidewalk, when Carroll called to him:
“Hold on, there! If you’re such a stubborn idiot that you can’t be dissuaded from doing this crazy thing, I’m going with you. Do you think I’m going to stay quietly in this car while you’re inside that joint, being killed? I guess not! The chances are a hundred to one that there’ll be a rough-house as soon as you fire the flash,” he said. “I don’t suppose that even with me to help you we’ll stand much chance against that crowd; but, at all events, two’ll be better than one.”
“Three, you mean, Mr. Carroll,” exclaimed Parsons. “If there’s any fighting to be done, I’m in on it, too, of course. I guess nobody’ll steal the machine while we’re away.”
TheBulletin’spolice reporter was such a frail-looking chap that Hawley could scarcely repress a smile at these words, although he greatly appreciated the spirit which prompted them.
“Much obliged to both of you,” the Camera Chap said; “but, really, I prefer to go alone. I think I can easily convince you that it will be a much better plan for you fellows to wait here in the machine.”
“I won’t hear of any such arrangement,” Carroll declared firmly. “If you go, I’m going, too; and if Parsons wants to come along, he’s welcome. The more the merrier. You may have your faults, Frank, old man, but I like you too well to be willing to sit passively here while you’re being beaten to a pulp around the corner.”
“I’m not going to be beaten to a pulp,” the Camera Chap protested, with a laugh. “I intend to use strategy. If I go alone, I feel confident I’ll be able to get away with it; but if you fellows insist upon butting in, you’ll surely queer me. I’m a stranger to that bunch at Dutch Louie’s, but you fellows are not. Both of you would be recognized as soon as you entered the place, and I’d have no chance to take the picture.”
Carroll had to admit that there was a lot in this argument, and, after a little more demurring, he grudgingly consented to let Hawley have his way in the matter.
“But I’m not going to stay here in the car,” he declared. “I’m going to hang around outside that joint, and keep my ears wide open. As soon as I hear the sound of a rough-house I’m coming in, for I’ll know then that, in spite of all your resourcefulness and ingenuity, strategy has failed.”
“All right,” assented Hawley, with a laugh. “If strategy fails, I’ll be glad to have the help of those big fists of yours. But I feel confident there isn’t going to be any violence.”
There was no mistaking Dutch Louie’s place, for it was the only restaurant on the block; moreover, the name of the proprietor was emblazoned in white letters on a flaring red glass sign.
As Parsons had predicted, the place was wide open. Although it was nearly two a. m., and the State excise law forbids business of the kind after one o’clock, the two waiters were very busy serving drinks.[Pg 44]
The Camera Chap walked through the front room, and entered the room beyond. He pretended to be under the influence of liquor—walked like a fellow who has all the sail he can carry. It had occurred to him that this pretense might help his game along, although he had not as yet hit upon any definite plan for the taking of the picture.
In a corner of this rear room several men were seated at a round table, playing cards. One of these players wore a blue coat with brass buttons, and his hair was the color of carrots. By these tokens, Hawley knew that he was in the presence of Patrolman Red Horgan.
The card players were not the only occupants of the room. A dozen men were scattered among the small round tables, sipping their beverages or gulping them down, and paying but scant attention to the pinochle game in progress in the corner.
They were, as Carroll had said, a rough-looking crowd. One had only to glance at their faces to realize that anybody who came into the place looking for trouble would not have to go out unsatisfied.
Hawley, spying an unoccupied table some yards away from the group of pinochle players, made his way toward it, still keeping up the pretense of being tipsy. He seated himself so that he faced the policeman and his cronies, and, summoning a waiter, ordered something. Nobody paid much attention to him. Patrolman Horgan’s gaze happened to wander in his direction, but the glance was merely a cursory one. The policeman was too busy “melding a hundred aces” to have much interest in the harmless-looking, apparently very “tired” young man who had just come in.
In another corner of the room was an automatic piano which was operated on a nickel-in-the-slot basis. Somebody dropped a coin into this machine, and it started to thrum a lively waltz strain.
This music—or near music—appeared to have a peculiar effect upon the Camera Chap. Although the tune was a rousing one, it evidently served as a lullaby in his case, for his eyelids began to droop, and his head rolled from side to side in a ludicrous manner. When the waiter came with what he had ordered, he was sprawled across the table, apparently fast asleep.
The waiter shook him roughly by the shoulder. “Here, young feller,” he growled, “here’s your drink. Wake up! This ain’t no lodging house. If you want to sleep, you’d better hire a room upstairs.”
The Camera Chap roused himself as though by a great effort, and stared stupidly at the glass which had been set before him. As soon as the waiter had gone, he lapsed once more into slumber.
“That fellow over there seems to be dead to the world,” remarked Patrolman Horgan, with a chuckle. “Must be worse than he looked when he came in. Whose deal is it now?”
Needless to say, Hawley was by no means as “dead to the world” as his appearance seemed to indicate. Seldom, in fact, had his brain been more active than it was at this minute. As he sprawled across the table, with his eyes closed, and his head resting on his outstretched arms, he was summoning all his ingenuity in an effort to solve the perplexing problem which confronted him.
“Everything is dead easy except the firing of the flash-light powder,” he mused. “I can get a dandy focus from here without moving an inch, and, with my camera held[Pg 45]beneath the table, Red Horgan wouldn’t even suspect that his picture had been taken—if it weren’t for that telltale flash. That’s the great difficulty. How the deuce am I going to fire the flash and get away with it?”
And then an inspiration came to him, and he began to groan. Usually he was not in the habit of groaning when he had an inspiration, but he had a good reason for doing so now. It was part of the plan which had just suggested itself to his resourceful mind. So he proceeded to groan loud enough to be heard by the group of pinochle players in the corner.
The waiter, hearing these sounds of anguish, once more stepped up to him, and shook him roughly by the shoulder. “Hey, young feller, brace up!” he growled. “What’s the matter with you, anyway? Are you sick, or is it just an ordinary jag?”
Hawley sat up, and clapped both hands to his head, one to each temple. The waiter and the others whose attention had been attracted by his groans could see that his face was distorted as though with great pain.
“Oh, my poor head!” groaned the Camera Chap. “It feels as though it would split in two. For the love of Pete, friend, if there’s any bromo seltzer in the house, bring me some in a hurry.”
“Sure, we keep it,” said the man. “Just keep quiet a minute, young feller, and I’ll fix up a dose.”
The Camera Chap was not surprised to hear that the drug was procurable in Dutch Louie’s place, for he had noticed a sign on the wall as he came in, announcing that it was on sale.
“Never mind about fixing it up,” he said to the waiter. “Just bring me the bottle, a glass, and some water. I’ll do the mixing myself.”
Patrolman Horgan beckoned to the waiter as the latter was going out to fill the order.
“What’s the matter with that guy over there, Harry?” he inquired.
“Oh, nothin’ serious; just a headache.”
“Is that all?” said the patrolman, in a disgusted tone. “From the way he was groaning just now, I thought he was dyin’. Come on, fellers; it’s my meld.”
When the waiter returned with a tray containing a small blue bottle, an empty glass, and a second glass filled with water, Hawley had an unlighted cigar between his teeth, but no one seemed to think it odd for a sick man to indulge in tobacco.
The Camera Chap was not in the habit of smoking cigars, but he always carried a couple in his vest pocket, and he had reasons of his own for transferring this one from his pocket to his mouth.
He took the bottle of bromo seltzer, and emptied some of the white powder into the empty glass. Then he turned to the waiter.
“On second thought, I guess I’ll mix it with vichy instead of plain water,” he said; “I like it better that way.”
The waiter shrugged his shoulders, and went out to get a siphon of vichy. As soon as he had gone, the Camera Chap became very busy, but unobtrusively so.
His left hand stole into the side pocket of his coat, and when it came out again the closed fist held a quantity of silvery powder. He poised this hand over the glass containing the bromo seltzer, and the silvery powder fell on top of the white powder.
Then his right hand went into his coat pocket, and[Pg 46]he stealthily drew out a small pocket camera, which he held beneath the table.
When he had done these things, he gazed anxiously around the room, apprehensive that his actions might have been observed; but, to his great relief, he found that nobody was paying any attention to him.
Then, as he saw the waiter approaching with the siphon of vichy in his hand, Hawley struck a match, held the flame for a moment to the cigar in his mouth, then threw the match away.
Apparently he was careless, for the match, still alight, instead of falling to the floor, dropped into the glass of bromo seltzer in front of him.
Instantly there was a blinding flash which momentarily illuminated the entire room, and a dull explosion. The siphon of seltzer fell from the startled bartender’s hand; several men gave vent to shouts of alarm; chairs and tables went crashing to the floor.
Patrolman Horgan jumped excitedly to his feet, and advanced toward the Camera Chap, who still sat at the table, surrounded by a haze of smoke which was slowly lifting toward the ceiling.
“Great guns! What was that?” the policeman demanded.
Hawley, his face a picture of bewilderment, pointed to the bartender.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” he said indignantly. “What was it? Maybe this man can tell us. I asked for bromo seltzer.”
“It was marked bromo seltzer on the bottle,” the astonished waiter declared. “And I took it from the regular stock.”
He turned to the Camera Chap with sudden suspicion. “But what did you throw that lighted match into it for, anyway, young feller? That was a queer thing to do.”
“The match dropped in,” Hawley explained. “Didn’t you see that I was lighting my cigar? But this is the first time I’ve ever heard of bromo seltzer being an explosive. Mighty queer it should go off like that. It’s a mercy somebody wasn’t killed.”
“Oh, I guess the stuff ain’t dangerous,” remarked Patrolman Horgan, glancing around the room. “Nobody is even hurted, so there’s nothing to get excited about. Let this be a lesson to you, young feller, to be more careful in future where you throw lighted matches.”
“I certainly shall,” the Camera Chap assured him meekly.
“I thought at first it was somebody takin’ one of them flash-light pictures,” said Patrolman Horgan. “It looked something like the kind of light them camera people use.”
Hawley nodded. “Yes, it did look a little like that, didn’t it?” he agreed. “I once saw a man take a flash-light picture, and, now that you speak of it, there was some resemblance.”
A few minutes later Fred Carroll, pacing nervously up and down the sidewalk outside Dutch Louie’s place, was astonished and much relieved to see the Camera Chap step out of the doorway, a smile on his face, and with no signs of having sustained bodily injuries.
“Thank goodness, you’ve come at last!” the proprietor of theBulletinexclaimed. “I was just thinking of coming in for you. I heard the flash go off a few minutes ago, and things were so uncannily quiet afterward that I was beginning to be afraid they had killed you. What on earth happened?”
“I’ll tell you all about it when we’re in the car,” chuckled[Pg 47]Hawley, hurrying toward the corner where the automobile waited. “I don’t think there’s any danger now, but just the same we might as well get away from here as soon as possible. I don’t believe in taking any unnecessary chances.”
Parsons, who was seated at the wheel of the motor car, uttered an ejaculation of joy when he caught sight of the Camera Chap.
“You don’t mean to say that you actually got the picture?” he exclaimed incredulously, as the latter climbed aboard.
Hawley grinned. “I got something,” he said; “but I can’t guarantee that the result will be good. I had to manipulate my camera with one hand, and I had to guess the focus. Under those conditions, the chances are against the negative turning out all right. But it was the best I could do under the circumstances.”
“How on earth did you do it?” Carroll inquired. “I can’t imagine how you got off so easily. Do you mean to say that bunch didn’t jump on you when you set off the flash?”
“Not at all,” replied the Camera Chap, with a laugh. “They were very nice about it. There wasn’t any rough-house at all, Fred. The last I saw of those fellows they were making a scientific experiment.”
“A scientific experiment?” Carroll repeated, with a puzzled frown.
“Exactly,” Hawley chuckled. “They were all gathered around the waiter like students in a chemistry class. And what do you suppose that waiter was doing, Fred?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“He had several bottles of bromo seltzer on the table before him, and he was uncorking each one, and dropping a lighted match into it to see if he couldn’t make it go off like a flash-light powder.”
“Whither next?” the Camera Chap inquired, after he had confided to his two companions in the big touring car the details of what had happened inside Dutch Louie’s café.
“I know a cop who goes to sleep every night in a lumber yard on his beat,” Parson announced.
“Lead us to him!” said Hawley eagerly. “That sounds like an easy one, eh, Fred?”
“I really think we’ve got enough already,” Carroll replied anxiously. “After what you’ve just done, old man, I’m beginning to believe that you can get away with anything; but what’s the use of running any more risk than is necessary? You’ve got two good snapshots, and that is quite enough to illustrate our story. Let’s call it a night’s work, Frank, and not tempt fate any more.”
Hawley laughed at this suggestion. “Nothing doing,” he said. “I shan’t consider that we’ve done our duty until we have at least a round half dozen snapshots of delinquent cops in our collection. No use being a piker, Fred. Two pictures on the front page of theBulletinwould make a measly showing. Besides, as I said before, I am by no means confident that Red Horgan’s picture will turn out well. If it’s too poor a negative for reproduction, that would leave us with only one. Lead the way to the cop in the woodpile, Parsons. We cer[Pg 48]tainly can’t afford to pass him up. Is his beat far from here?”
“Yes; it’s at the extreme northern end of the town,” the police reporter replied.
“Don’t you know any others we’ll pass on the way there?” Hawley inquired. “We might as well take them in regular order. It’s growing late, and we haven’t any time to lose.”
“Yes; there’s Mike Harrington, whose beat is on Cedar Street,” Parsons replied promptly. “He generally hangs out in Windmuller’s Café when he’s on night duty. His brother is employed there.”
“Great stuff!” exclaimed the Camera Chap gleefully. “We’ll pay our respects to Patrolman Harrington before we disturb the slumbers of our friends in the woodpile. Is he a pinochle player, too, Parsons?”
“I don’t think so,” the reporter answered, with a laugh. “You’ll most likely catch him in the act of diminishing Windmuller’s stock of goods. He’d have been ‘broke’ long ago for bad habits if it hadn’t been for his pull. His father is a member of the city council and one of Mayor Henkle’s most energetic political workers.”
“Oldham certainly has some police department!” Hawley chuckled. “Please stop a short distance away from Windmuller’s place, old man. It wouldn’t do to drive right up to the door.”
Carroll turned anxiously to the Camera Chap. “Do me a favor, Frank, and cut this one out,” he pleaded. “There’s no sense in taking such desperate chances. Windmuller’s place is almost as tough a joint as Dutch Louie’s. Let Harrington alone, and pass on to some easier ones.”
“I guess this thing is going to be easy enough,” Hawley said confidently. “I intend to work that bromo-seltzer trick over again. I don’t see why it shouldn’t succeed as well in Windmuller’s place as in Dutch Louie’s. In fact, I stand a much better chance of getting away with it this time, for I know beforehand just what I’m going to do, and can proceed with calm deliberation. Besides, practice makes perfect, you know.”
Carroll shook his head deprecatingly; but he realized that argument was useless, and made no further attempt to dissuade his rash and impetuous friend.
Although the Camera Chap’s adventures that night were eventful enough to be worth recording fully, limitations of space render it inexpedient to describe them all in detail here.
In the main, his experience inside Windmuller’s place was similar to what had happened at Dutch Louie’s. Once more he affected a bad headache, and called upon the waiter to bring him a dose of bromo seltzer; and when the white powder was placed before him, he made the same use of it as he had done in the former instance.
Greatly to the relief of his two companions, he emerged from the place unscathed, and laughingly assured him that he had succeeded in snapshotting Patrolman Harrington, and had reason to believe that the negative would be a fairly good one.
Compared with this exploit, the taking of a flash-light picture of the policeman who was slumbering in a lumber yard at the northern end of the town was not a difficult matter. Hawley succeeded in getting a first-class snapshot of this sleeping beauty, and although the bluecoat was awakened by the setting off of the flash-light powder, and, bellowing with rage, chased the Camera Chap through the piles of lumber, the latter managed[Pg 49]to reach the automobile in time to make a safe get-away.
Although he now had four snapshots of delinquent policemen, and Carroll again pleaded that these were quite sufficient for their purpose, the Camera Chap was firm in his determination not to give up the hunt until theBulletin’scollection consisted of at least six negatives.
Parsons had reached his limit. He was unable to suggest where any more members of the force whom he knew to be chronic shirkers might be found that night; but even this fact could not discourage Hawley. He declared confidently that if they rode around town a bit, and kept their eyes open, they were likely to pick up a couple of random snapshots to complete their night’s work.
So, while the citizens of Oldham slept peacefully on, in utter ignorance of this enterprising effort that was being made to reform conditions in their town—and incidentally to increase the circulation of theBulletin—the big touring car traversed the highways and byways in search of more blue-coated victims of this relentless photographic crusade.
This search was not unproductive. As the Camera Chap and his friends rode through Main Street, they suddenly encountered the most sensational and the most shameful spectacle of the night—a man in the uniform of a captain of police so merry that he could scarcely stand.
“That’s Captain Alf Callman—the worst grafter and the biggest bully of the department, barring Chief Hodgins,” exclaimed Parsons excitedly, as he brought the car to a stop. “Don’t fail to get a good picture of him, Mr. Hawley. This is a rare piece of luck. If ever there was a rascal who deserved to be held up to public scorn and ridicule, it’s that brute there.”
“Yes, Frank,” said Carroll, a scowl upon his face, “we want his picture, by all means. A few weeks ago he beat up a crippled boy unmercifully for sellingBulletinsoutside police headquarters.”
The Camera Chap’s face grew grim. “And you mean to say you let him get away with that?” he exclaimed, in astonishment.
“I did all that I could,” replied the proprietor of theBulletin. “I preferred charges against him in court, and I’ve been roasting him on the front page of the paper every day since. But his pull enabled him to have the case thrown out of court, and theBulletin’sroasts don’t seem to have worried him much. He’s too thick-skinned to care what’s said or printed about him.
“But, thick-skinned as he is,” Carroll went on, “I’ll bet he’ll rave when he sees his picture on our front page, showing him in that condition. That’ll hurt him more than anything else I can think of. So be sure to get a good snapshot of him, Frank; one that’ll show the public just what a beast he is.”
The taking of this flash-light picture was an easy matter, and there was no risk attached, for Captain Alf Callman was too happy to realize what was happening, and merely grinned fatuously when the flash went off. Nevertheless, Hawley had never in all his career as a camera man derived more satisfaction from the taking of a snapshot.
The last picture of the night was that of a policeman whom they discovered a few blocks farther on, fast asleep in a doorway. He was so dazed by the flash light that the Camera Chap had no difficulty in getting away.[Pg 50]
Having added this trophy to his collection, Hawley turned to Carroll with a satisfied smile.
“Now, I guess we can go home,” he said. “I think we’ve done a fairly good night’s work.”
“The best ever!” chuckled the proprietor of theBulletin. “If these pictures of yours turn out all right, I’ve got an idea that they’ll stir this old town as it’s never been stirred before.”
Although theBulletinwas not a profusely illustrated newspaper, it maintained a photo-engraving plant of its own. Carroll had installed this department when he first acquired possession of the paper, and had brought a man named Neilson from New York to take charge of it.
It had been Carroll’s original intention to go in extensively for half-tone illustrations, but his failure to make a financial success of the publication had necessitated a cutting down of expenses wherever possible, and now pictures were seldom used in the pages of theBulletin.
When Carroll informed Neilson that he would have to dispense with his services, candidly telling him the reason, the engraver proposed that he be permitted to take in outside job work in lieu of salary.
This arrangement had turned out satisfactorily for both parties concerned. Neilson had managed to get enough outside work to make it worth his while to stay, and Carroll was glad to have him on the job, because, although he had practically given up illustrations, he occasionally found it necessary to use a cut in the pages of theBulletin. These occasions were so rare, however, that great was Neilson’s surprise when, on the day following Hawley’s night crusade against the Oldham police, Carroll appeared in the photo-engraving department with a half dozen negatives in his hand.
“Here, Ole,” the proprietor of theBulletinsaid, with a smile, “I want these enlarged, and a two-column cut made from each. Make just as good a job of them as you can, and remember that they’re for to-morrow morning’s issue.”
“All for to-morrow morning’s issue?” exclaimed the engraver incredulously.
“Sure thing! And all for the front page, too.” Carroll chuckled. “It’s going to be the bulliest front page theBulletinhas ever had, Ole. Just take a close look at those negatives, old man, and I guess you’ll understand why.”
Neilson stared hard at the small oblongs of film. “They ban look like policemens,” he said.
“They are policemen!” declared Carroll, with another chuckle.
“What you ban going to do,” the engraver inquired, “get out a special cop’s edition?”
“A sort of special cop’s edition,” replied Carroll, with a grin. “But, say, Ole,” he added anxiously, “what do you think of these negatives from a photographic standpoint? Will they make pretty good cuts, do you think?”
Neilson inspected each one critically. “I can’t tell very well, of course, Mr. Carroll, until I see the prints,” he replied, at length. “They ban flash lights, I see; but they look like pretty clear negatives yoost the same. Who took them?[Pg 51]”
“A friend of mine from New York.”
“Did he develop them, too?” the photo-engraver inquired. “They ban a pretty good job for an amateur.”
“Yes, he developed them himself,” Carroll answered. “We were so anxious to see what results we had that we came back here at three o’clock this morning, and Hawley—my friend from New York, I mean—used your dark room. But, say, Ole,” he exclaimed anxiously, pointing to one of the negatives, “how about this one? It isn’t quite as clear as the others. Do you think you’ll be able to get a fairly good cut out of it?”
Neilson once more inspected the negative designated. It was a snapshot of a group of men playing a game of cards. One of the men wore a police uniform.
“I guess I ban able make it all right,” he said. “It isn’t very strong, but I guess I ban able to touch up the print a bit, and get a good result yoost the same.”
Neilson held up another of the negatives. “This ban best one of the lot,” he announced. “I make extra-good cut of him.”
The picture in question was the snapshot of a man in a police captain’s uniform. A scowl came to Carroll’s face as he gazed upon it.
“I’m glad to hear that, Ole,” he said grimly. “I want an extra-good cut of him. And, by the way, make that one three columns wide instead of two. I’m going to use it in the center of the page.”
Then Carroll went into the editorial rooms, and, seating himself at his desk, began to write rapidly. For two hours he was occupied with his task, and what he wrote seemed to afford him much satisfaction, for at frequent intervals the other occupants of the room heard him chuckle immoderately.
At length the long editorial was finished, and as he gathered the closely written pages together, he exhaled a deep breath.
“Hawley said that the pictures would be the main feature of theBulletin’sexposé,” he muttered; “and, of course, he was right. No doubt about that. But at the same time I rather think this editorial of mine is going to make quite a hit, too.”
Hawley heartily indorsed this opinion when, a few minutes later, he dropped into theBulletin’soffice, and Carroll showed him what he had written.
“It’s great stuff!” the Camera Chap exclaimed enthusiastically. “Simply immense! I never had any idea that you could sling English as well as that, Fred.”
Carroll flushed with pleasure at his warm praise. “I guess it’s because I feel so strongly on the subject,” he said simply. “A fellow can write so much better, you know, if he really feels what he writes.”
“People who buy theBulletinto-morrow morning are certainly going to get their money’s worth,” Hawley chuckled. “That editorial alone will be well worth the price of the paper. Your readers ought to paste it in their scrapbooks as a model of satire.”
“Cut out the joshing, old man,” protested Carroll. “If the readers of theBulletinpaste anything in their scrapbooks, it will be those wonderful snapshots of yours. They’re going to create a big sensation, Frank.”
The Camera Chap grinned. “Yes, the snapshots and your editorial combined certainly ought to stir things up. Don’t forget that I’ve bet you a new hat that your circulation figures will be more than doubled to-morrow, Fred.[Pg 52]”
“I’ll be quite satisfied to lose the hat,” Carroll chuckled. “And just to show you that I don’t expect to win the bet, let me tell you that I’ve already given orders to my pressroom to print twice the usual number of papers to-morrow.”
“I guess you’re quite safe in doing so,” said the Camera Chap earnestly. “I don’t think you’ll have many copies left on your hands. But how are the pictures getting along, Fred? Have they been made into cuts yet?”
“Neilson is working on them now,” Carroll answered. “Come on up, and we’ll see how he’s progressing.”
Neilson was working on an outside job—a half-tone cut for the letterhead of a local tailor—when they entered his laboratory. Observing this, Carroll was somewhat annoyed. He had asked Neilson to rush the cuts through, and, while he realized that it was the outside work which paid the expenses of the plant, he felt aggrieved that the tailor’s half tone should be given first attention.
“How about that work I gave you?” he inquired sharply. “Started on it yet, Ole?”
The engraver looked at him in astonishment. “How can I start on it until you give me back them negatives?” he exclaimed. “I ban yoost coming down to ask you for them.”
“Give you back the negatives!” the proprietor of theBulletinrepeated, with a puzzled frown. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“I ban talking about those policemen’s negatives you want made into cuts for to-morrow’s paper, of course,” replied Neilson, a trifle nettled. “How can I make the cuts until I get the pictures?”
“But you have the pictures,” Carroll protested. “Didn’t I give them to you?”
“Sure you gave them to me once. But you ban take them back again, didn’t you?” replied the man indignantly.
“I took them back?”
“Sure! At least, you sent the boy for them—which is yoost the same, of course.”
“The boy?” Carroll was beginning to grow uneasy. “What boy?”
“That boy Miggsy, of course,” Neilson replied, now thoroughly out of temper. “What kind of a yoke you ban try to play with me, Mr. Carroll? I ban serious feller, and don’t like foolin’. Didn’t you send that Miggsy up here half an hour ago to say would I please let you have them negatives back right away?”
Carroll’s face suddenly turned pale. “I certainly did not!” he exclaimed excitedly. “I sent no such message. Do you mean to say that Miggsy told you that I sent him?”
“He sure did. He said you needed the pictures to show to somebody, and must have them right away. I ban yust starting to work on them when he came up, but I gave them to him.”
With an exclamation of alarm, Carroll hurried downstairs to the editorial rooms to interview the office boy. The youngster was not in sight.
“Seen anything of Miggsy?” he inquired anxiously of one of the reporters, whose desk was near the door.
“Not lately. The last time I saw him, Mr. Carroll, was half an hour ago, when he went out to do that errand for you.”
“An errand for me?”
“Yes, that’s what he said. He was going out just as I[Pg 53]came in, and he seemed to be in a great hurry. I stopped him on the stairway, and jokingly asked him what all the rush was about. He begged me not to delay him, as you had just sent him out on an errand of great importance which had to be attended to immediately.”
Carroll turned to Hawley, who had followed him downstairs. They exchanged glances of consternation.
“What do you make of it?” the proprietor of theBulletinsaid hoarsely.
The Camera Chap smiled grimly. “It looks very much as if our young friend Miggsy had gone over to the enemy,” he said.
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” growled Carroll. “I can’t imagine any other reason for his actions. The little ingrate! I’ve been pretty good to that kid. I never thought that he’d do me a trick of this sort.”
He paced the floor nervously, his big fists clenched. “Great grief!” he muttered. “Can it really be possible that all our trouble has been for nothing—that we’re not going to publish those wonderful snapshots, after all?”
Hawley patted his shoulder soothingly. It was in forlorn situations of this sort that the Camera Chap’s sunny disposition showed up to the best advantage.
“Cheer up, old scout!” he said to Carroll. “After all, there’s that corking editorial of yours. Even without the pictures, it’ll make quite a hit in to-morrow’s front page.”
“No, it won’t,” groaned Carroll. “That editorial won’t go on to-morrow’s front page. I might as well tear it up. Don’t you see that I wouldn’t dare publish it without the pictures? Those fellows would sue me for libel. They’d swear that my statements were false, and, without the photographic evidence, I couldn’t prove that they weren’t.”
“I guess you’re right there,” said the Camera Chap thoughtfully. “It’s too bad that that fine piece of writing should go to waste. Well, better luck next time, I—— Where are you going, Fred?” For Carroll, muttering something under his breath, had stepped hastily toward the door.
“I’m going down to the pressroom to cancel that order for extra papers,” the proprietor of theBulletinexplained gloomily.
TO BE CONTINUED.
There was a notice in the barber’s shop window reading “Boots Blacked Inside.” A pedestrian halted and read and reread the notice, and then opened the door and said:
“That ought to be shoes. Not one man in fifty wears boots in the summer.”
The barber didn’t say anything, but, after due reflection, concluded that the man was right, and so changed the notice to read: “Shoes Blacked Inside.” He had scarcely put it up when the same man came along again and opened the door to say:
“No one wants the inside of his shoes blacked. We pay to have the shine on the outside.”
The barber puzzled over it for a while, and realized that the man was right again, and next day the notice was replaced by one reading:
“The outside of shoes blacked inside.”
“That’s perfectly correct,” said the fault finder, as he came along in the afternoon. “Never give yourself away on the English language.[Pg 54]”
[Pg 55]
“Prepare to live and you will be prepared to die,” said the Reverend R. G. Collison, addressing a large congregation in the tabernacle of the Oregon Christian Church Convention, at Turner, Ore. As he spoke he sank to the floor of the pulpit and died within a few seconds. Death was caused by apoplexy.
Aniline dye manufacturers in this country are making a tremendous, and, they believe, an encouraging effort to supply the want of dyes, so greatly needed since the cessation of German exportation of that product.
Some idea of the way in which the domestic industry has been called upon to meet the demand of the textile mills was given by one of the largest American concerns in the dye business, who said that his company has daily to reject orders for some thirty to eighty thousand pounds of dyes because of their inability to manufacture them fast enough.
As an evidence of the satisfactory manner in which the American manufacturers have rallied to meet the situation, he asserted that his company was manufacturing four times as much dyestuffs this year as in any year previous.
Although it has been less than a year since the dyestuff and chemical industries were thrown into confusion by the war, a readjustment has been partly accomplished, which has enabled mill operators to go ahead with the manufacture of textiles.
From the way the American output has increased it would be safe to say that inside of the next eighteen months manufacturers here will be able to supply some $10,000,000 worth annually of dyestuffs to a home market which could use $30,000,000 worth. Now that the American output is expanding, our manufacturers feel confident that the trade lost by Germany will not be regained.
“Eusapia Palladino,” the oldest hen in the town of Killingly, Conn., and perhaps in the entire world, is to have a birthday party on the occasion of her twenty-seventh birthday, which will come in a few days. All the old hens in Killingly are looking forward to the event, and it is probable that a few young chickens will be asked, just to give the party a metropolitan flavor.
Eusapia, though of Spanish origin, lays her eggs in English and began the work when but five months old. Her first egg, which her owner, Mr. James Blanchard still has, was laid in November, 1888, and since then she has laid an average of 144 a year. She has just laid another egg as this story is being written, and only the greatest haste can prevent her laying another before it is completed. She just lays around all day, as might be expected at her great age. Unlike the Madagascar Bingle Hen, which lays square eggs with a monogram, Eusapia lays but one egg at a time.
Eusapia, it will be readily reckoned, was hatched from[Pg 56]a black Spanish egg ten years before the Spanish-American War, when shells burst less frequently. She has seen a very active life, and greatly deplores the dissipation, irregular hours, and loss of sleep incident to the poultry shows which have become popular of late years. She does not smoke, has never on any occasion partaken of alcoholic liquors, and can now read without glasses if she cared to.
Mr. Blanchard has had several disputes lately with persons who, having dined at the Killingly Commercial Inn, questioned that Eusapia was the oldest chicken in the world.
Of late years Eusapia has been given to fits of depression, and the admittance of eggs as parcel-post mail left her on the verge of a nervous breakdown for days.
A thousand chicks have been hatched by Eusapia in her long and useful life. She has always shown a great interest in them, has personally supervised their early education, and has invariably responded, even in late years, to their slightest cluck.
A shark, measuring seven and a half feet long and weighing about two hundred pounds, was killed in Weir Creek, an inlet of Long Island Sound, by David McGowan, a sewer inspector; A. L. Hartman and several Italian laborers, all armed with crowbars. The fight lasted more than a half an hour.
Having a monster rattlesnake as a temporary playmate without being struck by the deadly fangs of the reptile and killed was the unusual experience of the little child of Mr. and Mrs. Roy Hunt, of Scenic, S. D., Mr. Hunt being the depot agent of the Milwaukee Railway Company.
The mother discovered the little girl playing with the rattlesnake in the yard around the Hunt home. The snake appeared to like the companionship of the little girl and made no effort to coil and strike. The mother managed to drag the child from within reach of the snake without arousing the anger of the reptile. The little girl strongly objected to being separated from her strange playmate. After the girl had been removed to a place of safety, the reptile was killed.
The only municipal bat roost in the world was recently erected at San Antonio, Texas, and is expected to have an important part in the city fight against malaria and other diseases. The bat has been discovered by Doctor C. A. Campbell, of San Antonio, to be one of the greatest enemies of the mosquito, which is largely responsible for the spread of malarial and similar germs. For this reason San Antonio is not only protecting the bat by law, but has entered into the proposition of its cultivation.
Doctor Campbell has demonstrated that one bat will consume as many as 250 mosquitoes in one night. He[Pg 57]has estimated that the amount of guano that could be collected from a single bat roost, capable of accommodating 250,000 bats, in a season of nine months, would equal about forty tons—and guano, the highest of all fertilizers, is worth forty dollars a ton. It is Doctor Campbell’s idea that the bat roost is a natural hygienic measure, which should be adopted by governments, municipalities, or corporations controlling large bodies of land, and who are financially able to erect enough of the roosts to protect their tenants. The roosts, however, must be constructed from a scientific standpoint, so that they will not only attract bats, but cause them to remain there permanently.
Francis Wagoner, a farmer of Upper Mount Bethel, near Bangor, Pa., struck by a bolt of lightning during a terrific storm that passed over that section lives to tell his story, but he will be marked for life.
Wagoner was sitting in the kitchen reading a paper when the bolt of lightning struck a section of metal spouting, entered the bathroom window, and went into the kitchen by way of the stovepipe.
From the stove the lightning hit Wagoner on the right leg, then crossed diagonally to his left shoulder. On the way it came in contact with a knife in his pocket, which was partly melted by the bolt. The lightning left reddish streaks over his body, and he was badly stunned.
After five years of roaming about this country and Europe posing as a boy, Edna Puffer, eighteen years old, arrested in the New Haven, Conn., railroad yards just as she was about to hop on a freight train for New York, was thrust back into petticoats as soon as they could be procured. She said she had traveled to Europe on board a cattle ship.
Convinced that Franklin Shaw, the sailor who was arrested in her company, was unaware of his companion’s sex, although he had been with her for nearly three months, Judge Booth, in the city court, continued both cases.
The department of agriculture keeps up a special motion-picture factory at which it makes the films it uses in promoting scientific farming. The department heads use the films to illustrate lectures, and the field force shows them at country schoolhouses and churches, where they have invariably attracted large and interested audiences. Even before the factory was set up, various bureaus of the department made use of films in educating the public. Thus, the bureau of animal industry has a special film to show Southern farmers how to make and use the dipping vats that would free their herds of ticks. It also showed films that illustrated the correct ways of handling meat, breeding cattle, and raising poultry.
The good-roads division and the forest service have made a similar effective use of motion pictures.
Is there really something to the belief that reptiles are sometimes rained down from heaven or has somebody lost two perfectly good alligators in the vicinity[Pg 58]of West Liberty, Iowa? That is a question West Liberty would like to have solved.
Two perfectly sane, entirely responsible, utterly truthful and eminently respectable families report the finding of alligators in their front yards, said front yards being separated only by the width of the passing road.
On the farm of David Nauman an alligator was found prowling about the garden and was destroyed by an excited member of the Nauman family.
On the place of Charles Carter, across the road, Mr. Carter in person made the discovery, captured the alligator, and now has it on exhibition.
West Liberty people say it has rained hard enough of late to account for ’most anything, but, beyond accrediting the advent of the alligators to the sky, are at a loss to advance an acceptable theory.
A doorknob connected with an electric lamp that may be switched on by pressing a button has been patented by a New York inventor. The invention is expected to help materially in the sometimes difficult process of finding the keyhole after dark. The doorknob is illuminated. The same principle is applied to the doors and dials of safes.
A cattle guard invented by an Arkansas man, a section foreman, has been approved by railroads. It is made in three sections, so that it can be removed for track surfacing. The guard consists of rollers, which are made in a frame resting on top of the ties.
A Philadelphia University professor has invented a dust-proof, fire-resisting glass case for museum specimens.
Wireless apparatus that weighs but eight pounds, yet will transmit messages twenty-one miles and has received signals more than three hundred miles, has been invented by a New Jersey man.
A sand box for automobiles, like the familiar device on locomotives, to distribute sand under their tires to prevent skidding, has been patented by a Massachusetts inventor.
What is believed to be the largest conveyer belt in the world, 893 feet long by thirty-six inches wide, has been made for an Ohio stone quarry.
To keep the base lines of ball grounds dry when it rains, a Pennsylvanian has patented a canvas cover, easily rolled for removal.
After more than a half century has passed since the freeing of the slaves, a suit was filed a few days ago in the supreme court of the District of Columbia to gain compensation for work performed by them during the years 1859 to 1868.
The suit was filed by H. N. Johnson, of Louisiana; Rebecca Bowers, of Texas; C. B. Williams, of Mississippi, and Mamie Thompson, of Tennessee, against William M. McAdoo in his official capacity as secretary of the treasury.
The plaintiffs claim to be descendants of slaves who worked in cotton fields of the Southern States, and they hold that they are entitled to money their ancestors earned and which is now in the treasury, listed under the title of “internal revenue tax on raw cotton.”
This money, the complaint says, amounts to $68,072,[Pg 59]388.99, acquired from the seizure of cotton gathered by plaintiffs’ ancestors. The plaintiffs contend it should be paid to the descendants of those by whose labor the cotton-yielding revenue was produced.
The bill asks that the court appoint an examiner to collect evidence; that Secretary McAdoo be ordered to disclose the amount and source of money now in the treasury under the listing of “Internal revenue tax on raw cotton,” and that he be ordered to state any reasons he may believe the plaintiffs are not entitled to the money.
The petition was filed by a Washington attorney representing Cornelius J. Jones, of Muskogee, Okla. Jones, who is said to have prepared the bill of complaint, is a negro lawyer.
Peter White, an aged negro residing near Washington, N. C., died at twelve-thirty p. m., just thirty minutes later than the hour he had appointed. In April, White told friends that he would “give up the ghost” at the stroke of twelve.
About this time Jerry Langley, colored, was giving the police of Washington trouble. Langley had set the hour for his demise. He postponed it several times, each time disappointing a great crowd of blacks gathered for the dramatic exit of Langley. Finally, when he said the thing was final, the crowd blocked the street and the police would not wait for Jerry to die. They hustled him off to the county home. He is still living.
White, the authorities say, may have been prompted by Langley’s example. He had visions of himself being trolleyed aloft in a golden chariot. Old age claimed him, doctors say.
If all the pickles manufactured in the United States were equally divided among the inhabitants, every man, woman, and child would receive about twenty-four, according to the statement of Frank A. Brown, secretary and treasurer of the National Pickle Packers’ Association, which held a business meeting at the Palmer House, Chicago.
“There are three million bushels of pickles raised in this country every year,” he said, “and as there are about eight hundred pickles to a bushel, every person in the United States would get about twenty-four.
“People often ask: ‘What good are pickles?’ They are one of the most beneficial foods in the world, because there is just enough acid in them to properly care for the teeth, and indirectly this improves the health of the whole body.”
Herschell Colyar, of Visalia, Cal., is the inventor of a new fly killer that is guaranteed to get the best of them. The “killer” is a small apparatus composed of a number of wires. It can be hung any place and connected with the “juice,” and when Mr. Fly touches any of said wires, he quickly falls dead.
A barber shop is fitted up with one of them, and it seems to be doing remarkable work.
It is said that some of the largest companies in the country have been working on such an apparatus for[Pg 60]years, and finally had declared that such an outfit could not be made. Colyar has been working on his invention for about three years.
Women carry their loose change in their stockings, children put their money in their mouths, but Norris Bethel, head clerk for Florin Brother, of Fall River Mills, Cal., makes a cash register of his ears.
When he is selling goods and is in a hurry for a nickel or a dime to make change, he reaches to one ear or the other and finds the needed coin.
Or, if he received a small coin, and is at some distance from the cash register, he puts it into one of his ears until he has use for it or until he is close to the cash register and can relieve himself.
The system is considered unique, and it is Bethel’s exclusively.
Asa B. and Frank W. Cutler, brothers, who operate one of the largest fruit ranches in Oregon, have invented and are completing the construction of an apple-sizing machine that works by means of weighing mechanisms. The two young men, graduates in the mechanical-engineering department of the University of Illinois, have been experimenting for several years with grading and sizing machines, and during the past two years have put to practical test graders that made the choice of apples according to the dimensions of the fruit.
“However,” says Frank W. Cutler, “this method proved inaccurate, on account of the different shapes of the fruit. The new method will insure a standard pack, something that has been long sought by fruit districts.”
The new grader is so accurate that it will grade into different bins apples, the weights of which differ only a tenth of an ounce. The local inventors have improved on the receiving bins that are placed at the side of the graders. Their new bin tips itself toward the packer as it fills automatically, the end resting nearest the packer resting on springs.
At the safety exposition held in New York recently, Doctor Charles Frederick Pabst demonstrated how to make fireproof clothing. He poured from one pound to a gallon of cold water in a solution of ammonium phosphate. Then he took an eight-inch strip of ordinary cotton gauze and dipped it in the ammonium-phosphate solution. He dried it with an electric fan and held it in a flame for thirty seconds, but it did not burn. He took another strip of gauze that had not been treated with the solution, and, on igniting it, it burned in four seconds. He advised that the whole family washing should be made fireproof. The expense of an average-size family would be about fifteen cents a week.
About eight years ago a father and his son began to work upon an idea that had occurred to the elder man during his working hours in the mailing division of the Chicago post office. A short time ago the result of their joint effort was put in operation. It is a package-tying machine that does the work of many men. So[Pg 61]convenient is the little contrivance that it has been introduced into the New York post office, too, and the government now is negotiating with the inventors for more of their machines.
The inventors are Romanzo N. Bunn and his son, Benjamin H. Bunn. For years the men have been tying up bundles of outgoing letters for transportation to the trains. Fast as the men worked, it always seemed Bunn thought it should be done faster. His son worked on the mechanical side of the problem. Together father and son toiled in a homemade shop at their home. The little portable “tyer” was what came out of the basement workshop.
The machine is about three feet high and about a foot square. It begins operation after the mail has been distributed in the racks by hand ready for tying to go to the trains. Then the machine is rolled along the line of pigeonholes and fed, by hand, by its retainer. Packs of letters, four inches thick, are placed into position, the machine is set in motion, and then—click, click, clop! That’s the way it sounds. The first two clicks indicate the tying of the packet of letters, sidewise and then lengthwise, and the “clop” the dropping of the bundle into a waiting basket.
Where the best men used to tie five or six packets in a minute, the machine now ties thirty—and it has not tried for a record yet!