General opinion did not, however, share Mr. Orde's optimism. The circumstantial evidence was very strong. Interest in the trial was such that people came from far out in the country to attend it. Every day of the preliminaries the court-room was filled with silent spectators. The boys, eluding the vigilance of the women and utterly disregarding specific commands, found themselves unable to get beyond the outer corridor. Here they hung around for some time in the vain hope of hearing something. The heavy breathing and jostling of the crowd about them was their only reward. Finally they gave it up and wandered out into the grounds.
It was by now nearly December of a remarkably open year. Although Indian summer had long since gone, and although the low black clouds and heavy gales of late autumn had given repeated warnings, winter had somehow failedto arrive. There was as yet no snow; and the sun, turned silver in place of the harvest gold, sometimes, as now, dispersed considerable warmth. In consequence of the mildness without and the crowd within, the windows of the court-room had been lowered at the top. The boys could almost catch the words of whoever was speaking.
"Come on, let's shin up that tree," suggested Johnny.
Immediately they acted on the inspiration. The highest limbs capable of bearing weight were still some three feet below the window-sills. Still, the boys could hear plainly what was going on, and could see into the room on an upward slant.
Evidently the legal processes had been fulfilled, and the first witness was giving his testimony.
"I was working in my field, throwing out manure, when I saw the prisoner come out of the popple thicket on Pritchard's place."
"How far were you from the thicket?"
"My field is right across the county road."
"At what point did the prisoner emerge from the thicket as respects the spot where the body was found?"
"He came out right opposite, a good quarter-mile, I should say."
"Anything unusual in the prisoner's appearance or actions?"
"He didn't have no hat. I noticed that."
After a few more questions the witness was excused. In an instant he appeared in the boys' line of vision and sat down.
Another witness was sworn, and deposed that he had been driving along the county road, and had also seen Mr. Kincaid emerge from the thicket without a hat. This witness likewise, on being excused, crossed the room and took his seat near the window.
This point established, the prosecution called upon the man who had found the body. He stated that he was in the employ of the deceased; had gone out afoot to look up a strayed cow, had come across the body late in the afternoon. Pritchard had been killed by a knife thrust in the throat. He lay on his back. He had carried a 22-calibre rifle with which he was accustomed to shoot hawks and crows. The rifle had been discharged. In looking about for evidence witness had found a cap lying by a stump ten feet or so down hill. He identified the cap. He also took a seat where Bobbyand Johnny could see him—a short thickset man with a swarthy complexion and very oily long black hair.
A witness was called who identified positively the cap as belonging to Mr. Kincaid.
At this point the prosecution rested. A moment later Bobby heard again the measured, calm tones of his friend, called in his own defence.
"I know nothing about it," said Mr. Kincaid after the usual preliminaries, "I was nowhere near the scene of the murder. What the first witness had to say as to personal antagonism between Pritchard and myself was quite true: he had ordered me off his land, and very offensively. We had some words at that time."
"When was that?" asked the attorney.
"Some months back. Therefore I took especial pains to keep off his land, and was at the lower edge of the thicket a good quarter-mile from the place his body was found."
"You did not enter the thicket?"
"Only a few feet, after the dog took my cap."
"How about the cap?"
"My retriever, Curly, was playing with me. I was teasing him by waving the cap before him. He managed to get hold of it and ran with it into the thicket. In a moment or sohe came back without it. I could not find it, nor could I induce him to retrieve it."
"When was this?"
"About two o'clock."
"Two witnesses have sworn they saw you come out of the thicket shortly before sun-down."
"That was on my way home. I tried again to get Curly to hunt up the cap."
"How do you account for the cap's being found at the upper edge of the thicket?"
"I cannot account for it."
"Could the dog have carried it that far in the time before he returned?"
"I do not think so—I am certain not."
"How do you account for the holes?"
"They might have been the marks of Curley's teeth," said Mr. Kincaid doubtfully.
"Look at them,"
A pause ensued.
"They certainly do not look like teeth marks," acknowledged Mr. Kincaid.
At this moment the heavy bell in the engine-house tower boomed out the first strokes of noon. The boys nearly lost their holds from the surprise of it. By the time they had recovered, court had been declared adjourned, and the crowds were pouring forth from the opened double doors.
By remarkable promptitude and the exercise of the marvellous properties ascribed impartially to the worm, the eel, and the snake, Bobby and Johnny succeeded in gaining a place in the court-room for the afternoon session. It was not a very good place. Breast-high in front of them was a rail. Behind them pressed a suffocating crowd. On the other side of the rail were many benches on which was seated another crowd. This second multitude concealed utterly whatever occupied the floor of the court-room. Only when one or another of the actors in the proceedings arose to his feet could the boys make out a head and shoulders. They could see the massive walnut desk and the judge, however; and the lower flat tables at which sat the recording officials. And on the blank white wall ticked solemnly a big round clock. The second-hand moved forward by a series of swift jerks, but watchas he would Bobby could see no perceptible motion of the other two hands. In the monotony of some of the proceedings this bland clock fascinated him.
Likewise the living wall before him caught and held his half-suffocated interest—the slope of their shoulders, the material of their coats, the shape of their heads, the cut of their hair. One by one he passed them in review. Two seats ahead sat a thickset man with very long, oily black hair. He turned his head. Bobby recognized the man who had found Pritchard's body. He nudged Johnny, calling attention to the fact.
The prosecuting attorney was on his feet making a speech. It was interesting enough at first, but after a time Bobby's attention wandered. The prosecuting attorney was a young man, ambitious, and ego was certainly a large proportion ofhiscosmos. Bobby listened to him while he spoke of the obvious motive for the deed; but when he began again, and in detail, to go over the evidence already adduced, Bobby ceased to listen. Only the monotonous cadences of the voice went on and on. The clock tick-tocked. People breathed. It reminded him of church.
A little stir brought him back from final drowsiness. A man in the row ahead of him wanted to get out. The disturber carried an overcoat over his left arm, and it amused Bobby vastly to see the stiff collar of that overcoat rumple the back hair of those who sat in the second row. As he watched, it caught the long oily locks of the witness for the prosecution. With a fierce exclamation the man turned, scowling at the other's whispered excuse. When he had again faced the front, he had rearranged his disturbed locks.
After this slight interruption, Bobby again relapsed into day-dreaming. He fell once more to visualizing the scene of that day. Gradually the court-room faded away. He saw the hillside, the burnt logs on the bare ground, the popples silvery in the sun, the sky blue above the hill. The patch of brown by the rustling scrub oak glimmered before his eyes. He saw again the exact angle it lay above him. For the hundredth time he looked over the sights of the rifle, fair against that spot of brown. "I must have over-shot a foot," he sighed, "or it would have taken him square."
And then as he stared over the sights, his finger on the trigger, the imaginary scene faded, thefamiliar court-room came out of the mists to take its place. Slowly the brown spot at which he aimed dissolved, a man's head took its place; the oily-haired witness for the prosecution happened now to occupy exactly the position relative to Bobby's attitude as had Mr. Kincaid's cap the day of the murder. And through the slightly disarranged long hair, and exactly in line with the imaginary rifle sights Bobby could just make out a dull red furrow running along the scalp. At this instant, as though uneasy at a scrutiny instinctively felt, the man reached back to smooth his locks. The scar at once disappeared.
For perhaps ten seconds Bobby sat absolutely motionless while a new thought was born. Then, oblivious of surroundings or of the exasperated objections of those near him, he clambered over the rail and wriggled his way to the open aisle. Several tried to seize him, but he managed in some manner to elude them all. Once in the open he darted forward toward the astonished officials. His freckled face was very red, his stubby hair towsled, his gray eyes earnest. The sheriff rose from his seat as though to stop him.
"I want to see that cap!" cried Bobby to the blur in general. He caught sight of it, ran to seize it, looked at it closely, and threw it down with a little cry of triumph. The bullet holes were not both at the top: one perforation was high up; but the other, on the left hand side, was situated low, near the edge.Bobby knew that the man who had worn that cap must have been hit.
The judge's gavel was in the air, the sheriff on his feet, a hundred mouths open to expostulate against this interruption of a grave occasion.
"Mr. Kincaid did not do it!" cried Bobby aloud.
The clamour broke out. The sheriff seized Bobby by the arm.
"Here," he growled at him, "you little brat! What do you mean, raising a row like this?"
Bobby struggled. He had a great deal to say. All was confusion. Half the room seemed to be on its feet. Bobby saw his father making way toward him through the crowd. Only the clock and the white-haired judge beneath it seemed to have retained their customary poise. The clock tick-tocked deliberately, and its second-hand went forward in swift jerks; the judge sat quiet, motionless, his chin on his fists, his eyes looking steadily from under their bushy white brows.
"Just a moment," said the judge, finally, "Sheriff, bring that boy here."
Bobby found himself facing the great walnut desk. Behind him the room had fallen silent save for an irregular breathing sound.
"Who are you?" asked the judge.
"Bobby Orde."
"Why do you say the prisoner—Mr. Kincaid—did not commit the deed?"
Bobby started in a confused way to tell about the cap. The judge raised his hand.
"Were you present at this crime?" he asked shrewdly.
"Yes, sir," replied Bobby.
The judge lowered his voice so that only Bobby could hear.
"Do you know who murdered Mr. Pritchard?"
"Yes, sir," replied Bobby in the same tone, "I do."
"Who was it?"
"I don't know his name. He's sitting——"
"I thought so," interrupted the judge. "Mr. Sheriff," he called sharply. That official approached. "Close all doors," said the judge to him quietly, "and see that no one leaves this room. Mr. Attorney, your witness here is ready to be sworn."
Bobby went through the preliminaries without a clear understanding of them; or, indeed, a definite later recollection. He was deadly in earnest. The crowd did not exist for him. Not the faintest trace of embarrassment confusedhis utterance, but he got very little forward under the prosecuting attorney's questioning—the matter was too definite in his own mind to permit of his following another's method of getting at it. Finally the judge interposed.
"It's not strictly in my province," said he, "but we are all anxious for the truth. I hope the prosecuting attorney may see the advisability of allowing the boy to tell his own story in his own way. Afterward he will, of course, have full opportunity for cross-questions."
This being agreed to, Bobby went ahead.
"Mr. Kincaid lost his cap, just as he said, and Curly carried it into the woods and dropped it. Another man came along and picked it up and put it on. Then he walked through the thicket and came up with Mr. Pritchard. He knew where Mr. Pritchard was because Mr. Pritchard had just shot his little rifle at a hawk or something. He stabbed Mr. Pritchard, and then walked down hill and climbed up on a stump to look around. He was facing down hill. He saw Mr. Kincaid and Curly way below. Just then his cap was knocked off by another bullet."
"What other bullet?" interposed the prosecution sharply.
"That was just an accident," said Bobby confusedly, "it happened to hit. It wasn't shot at him at all."
"You mean a spent ball from somewhere else? Who shot it? Where did it come from?"
"I'll 'splain that in a minute. Then he ran as fast as he could——"
That was as far as Bobby got for the moment. A slight confusion at one of the doors interrupted him. Almost immediately it died, but before Bobby could resume, the sheriff elbowed his way forward.
"Laughton—you know, that second witness, the fellow who worked for Pritchard—tried to get out. I have him in charge."
"Hold him," said the judge. The sheriff elbowed his way back down the aisle.
"How do you know all this?" began the prosecuting attorney.
"If Mr. Kincaid wore the cap, why isn't his head hurt?" demanded Bobby.
"If the shot was fired by Pritchard, when lying on the ground," explained the attorney, "it would not have scraped."
"But it wasn't," persisted Bobby. "It was fired from down hill, and about thirty feetaway. That would hit the man, wouldn't it?" he appealed.
"Certainly."
"Well, is Mr. Kincaid hurt?"
"This, your honour," said the attorney with some impatience, "is beside the mark——"
He was interrupted by a cry from Bobby.
"He's gone!" he wailed, pointing his hand toward the seat where Laughton had been sitting.
"Was that the man?" asked the judge.
"Yes," said Bobby, "and he's gotten away."
"Mr. Sheriff," said the judge, "examine the man for a scar or wound on the head."
The sheriff disappeared. The clock tick-tocked away five minutes, then ten. Finally the door swung open.
"Your Honour," said the sheriff clearly, across the court-room, "the man has confessed."
Bobby and his friend, Johnny English, sat on the floor of Bobby's chamber reviewing the exciting events of the afternoon. In the tumult following the sheriff's announcement, Bobby was temporarily forgotten. He had slipped back into the crowd, and from that point had followed closely all that had ensued. Laughton's confession merely filled in the details of Bobby's surmises. It seems that Pritchard had had a violent quarrel with his man, ending by knocking him down and stalking off across the fields. Mad with rage, Laughton had picked himself up and followed without even pausing long enough to get a hat. He had lost track of his victim in the popple thicket, but had come across Kincaid's cap, which he had appropriated. A shot from Pritchard's little rifle apprised him of his enemy's whereabouts. The murder committed, he had mounted a stump to spy upon the country. He had seenKincaid and his dog, and was just about to withdraw, when the cap was knocked from his head by a bullet which at the same time broke the skin on his scalp. Thinking himself discovered, he had run. Later reconnoitring carefully, he had seen two apparently unexcited small boys climbing into a pony cart a half-mile away and had come to the conclusion that the bullet had been spent, and a chance shot. The idea of incriminating Mr. Kincaid had not come to him until later.
Mr. Kincaid had at once been released. Under cover of the congratulations, the boys made their escape.
"I don't see how you ever figured it out!" cried Johnny for the twelfth time.
"I knew it must have hit his head unless it just grazed his cap," said Bobby, "and when I saw that scar——"
"Gee, it was great!" gloated Johnny, "just like a book! It'll be in all the papers to-morrow. You saved Mr. Kincaid's life, didn't you?"
"I suppose I did," said Bobby complacently.
At this moment the open hot-air register began to speak, carrying up the voices from the rooms below. As the subject under discussion wasthe closest to the boys' hearts for the moment, they drew near to listen.
"It's Mr. Kincaid himself!" breathed Bobby.
"I've been trying to catch you all the way up the street," Mr. Kincaid was saying, "but you walk like a steam engine."
"I felt good," explained Mr. Orde. "I knew you were innocent, of course; but it looked dark."
"Yes, it looked dark," admitted Mr. Kincaid. "Where's that youngster of yours? He saved the day."
"I was just going to look for him. There're a few points I'd like to clear up. If he saw all that, why didn't he say something before?"
"Don't know. But he certainly spoke to the point when he did get going. Look here, Orde, I'm proud of that kid. I want you to let me do something; he's old enough now to have a sure enough gun, and I want you to let me give it to him. Stafford has a little shotgun—16 gauge—ever see one?"
"Nothing smaller than a 12" confessed Orde.
"Well, I told him to keep it for me. I'd like to give it to Bobby. He's learned fast, and he's paid attention to what he learned. I don't believe in guns for small boys, but Bobby is careful; he doesn't make any breaks."
Johnny reached over to clasp Bobby excitedly.
"Now we can get partridges!" he squealed under his breath.
But Bobby was unexpectedly cold to this enthusiasm. He reached over to close the register. At once the voices were shut off. Then for some time he sat cross-legged staring straight in front of him. To Johnny's remarks he replied irritably until that youngster flounced himself into a corner with a book, ostentatiously indifferent.
Bobby was seeing things. As was his habit, he was visualizing a scene that had passed, recalling each little detail of what had at the time apparently passed lightly over his consciousness.
He saw again plainly the yellow sand-hills under his feet, and the village lying below, its roofs half hidden in the lilac and mauve of bared branches, its columns of smoke rising straight up in the frosty air. He saw the sturdy round-shouldered form in the old shooting coat, the lined brown lean face, the white moustache and the eyebrows, the kindly twinkling eyes squinted against the western light. He heard again Mr. Kincaid's deep slow voice:
"Sonny, you can always be a sportsman—a sportsman does things because he likes them, Bobby, for no other reason—not for money, nor to become famous, nor even to win—and a right man does not get pleasure in doing a thing if in any way he takes an unfair advantage—ifyou—not the thinking you, nor even the conscience you, but the way-down-deep-in-your heartyouthat you can't fool nor trick nor lie to—if thatyouis satisfied, it's all right."
Bobby sighed deeply and went downstairs.
He opened the door and entered very quietly, so that neither occupant of the room saw him before he spoke.
"I heard what you said—through the register——" he explained. "But I can't take the shotgun."
Both men turned and looked at him curiously, the first natural exclamations stilled on their lips by the sight of his straight, earnest little figure facing them.
"Why not, Bobby?" asked Mr. Orde at last.
"I was the one who fired that shot that hit Mr. Laughton's head. I did it a-purpose."
"What for?"
"I saw something brown in the brush, and I was sure it was a partridge, so I shot at it. I really didn't know it was a partridge. It just looked brown. You told me not to do that, lots of times, but I got all excited, and forgot. Soyou see I'm not careful, like you said. I ought not to have any shotgun."
"Oh, Bobby!" said Mr. Kincaid. "And that's one of the most important things of all!"
"I know, sir," said Bobby. "That's why I thought I'd tell you."
The two men examined the youngster for some time in silence. A very tender look lurked back in their eyes.
"What did you do then?" asked Mr. Orde at last.
"I saw the cap fly up in the air, and ran."
"Yes?"
"And then after a little I saw Mr. Kincaid come out down below, and I thought it was all right until I got home."
"Why did you jump up in court this afternoon?"
"I knew where I was standing, and I saw a scar on Laughton's head, and then I knew if the holes in the cap were low down, he must have been the man."
"Why didn't you tell all this before?"
"I'd never seen the cap; and I thought Mr. Kincaid had done it. I wasn't going to give him away."
Both men burst into laughter.
"And you thought I'd kill a man!" reproached Mr. Kincaid at last.
"I'd have done it—to old Pritchard," maintained Bobby stoutly.
After a time Mr. Kincaid returned to the first subject.
"There is no doubt, Bobby," said he, "that a man careless enough to shoot at anything without knowing what it is—especially in a settled country—is not fit to have a gun of any kind. There are plenty of people killed every year through just such carelessness. On that ground you are quite right in saying that you do not deserve the new shotgun."
"Yes, sir," said Bobby.
"But you will never do anything like that again. You have learned your lesson. And you told the truth. That is a great thing. It is easy to cover up a mistake; but very hard to show it when you don't have to. I was a little disappointed that you forgot about shooting at things; but I am more than proud that you remembered to be a sportsman. With your father's permission, I'm going to get you that shotgun, just the same. We'll go down together in the morning to get it."
At the end of ten minutes more, Bobbyreturned to his room. He looked about it as one looks on a half-remembered spot visited long ago. The place seemed smaller; the toys trivial. A deep gulf had been passed since he had left the room a half-hour before. To his eyes had opened a new vision. Little Boyhood had fallen away from him as a garment. A touch had loosed. All experience and observation had led the way; but it was only in expectation of the supreme test of self-sacrifice. Character changes radically only under that test. Bobby had borne it well; and now stood at the threshold of his Youth.
He picked up the Flobert rifle and looked it over.
"It'll always be handy to fool with," said he to Johnny.
That youngster looked up with sardonic humour.
"Gee, you're gettin' swelled head with your new gun," said he.
KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN'S STORIES OF PURE DELIGHTFull of originality and humor, kindliness and cheerTHE OLD PEABODY PEW. Large Octavo. Decorative text pages, printed in two colors. Illustrations by Alice Barber Stephens.One of the prettiest romances that has ever come from this author's pen is made to bloom on Christmas Eve in the sweet freshness of an old New England meeting house.PENELOPE'S PROGRESS. Attractive cover design in colors.Scotland is the background for the merry doings of three very clever and original American girls. Their adventures in adjusting themselves to the Scot and his land are full of humor.PENELOPE'S IRISH EXPERIENCES. 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Handsomely colored wrapper.A young Southerner who loved Lafayette, goes to France to aid him during the days of terror, and is lured in a certain direction by the lovely eyes of a Frenchwoman.THE RAMRODDERS. By Holman Day. Frontispiece by Harold Matthews Brett.A clever, timely story that will make politicians think and will make women realize the part that politics play—even in their romances.A CERTAIN RICH MAN. By William Allen White.A vivid, startling portrayal of one man's financial greed, its wide spreading power, its action in Wall Street, and its effect on the three women most intimately in his life. A splendid, entertaining American novel.IN OUR TOWN. By William Allen White. Illustrated by F. R. Gruger and W. Glackens.Made up of the observations of a keen newspaper editor, involving the town millionaire, the smart set, the literary set, the bohemian set, and many others. All humorously related and sure to hold the attention.NATHAN BURKE. By Mary S. Watts.The story of an ambitious, backwoods Ohio boy who rose to prominence. Everyday humor of American rustic life permeates the book.THE HIGH HAND. By Jacques Futrelle. Illustrated by Will Grete.A splendid story of the political game, with a son of the soil on the one side, and a "kid glove" politician on the other. A pretty girl, interested in both men, is the chief figure.THE BACKWOODSMEN. By Charles G. D. Roberts. Illustrated.Realistic stories of men and women living midst the savage beauty of the wilderness. Human nature at its best and worst is well portrayed.YELLOWSTONE NIGHTS. By Herbert Quick.A jolly company of six artists, writers and other clever folks take a trip through the National Park, and tell stories around camp fire at night. Brilliantly clever and original.THE PROFESSOR'S MYSTERY. By Wells Hastings and Brian Hooker. Illustrated by Hanson Booth.A young college professor, missing his steamer for Europe, has a romantic meeting with a pretty girl, escorts her home, and is enveloped in a big mystery.Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted FictionGrosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26th St., New York
Full of originality and humor, kindliness and cheer
THE OLD PEABODY PEW. Large Octavo. Decorative text pages, printed in two colors. Illustrations by Alice Barber Stephens.
One of the prettiest romances that has ever come from this author's pen is made to bloom on Christmas Eve in the sweet freshness of an old New England meeting house.
PENELOPE'S PROGRESS. Attractive cover design in colors.
Scotland is the background for the merry doings of three very clever and original American girls. Their adventures in adjusting themselves to the Scot and his land are full of humor.
PENELOPE'S IRISH EXPERIENCES. Uniform in style with "Penelope's Progress."
The trio of clever girls who rambled over Scotland cross the border to the Emerald Isle, and again they sharpen their wits against new conditions, and revel in the land of laughter and wit.
REBECCA OF SUNNYBROOK FARM.
One of the most beautiful studies of childhood—Rebecca's artistic, unusual and quaintly charming qualities stand out midst a circle of austere New Englanders. The stage version is making a phenomenal dramatic record.
NEW CHRONICLES OF REBECCA. With illustrations by F. C. Yohn.
Some more quaintly amusing chronicles that carry Rebecca through various stages to her eighteenth birthday.
ROSE O' THE RIVER. With illustrations by George Wright.
The simple story of Rose, a country girl and Stephen a sturdy young farmer. The girl's fancy for a city man interrupts their love and merges the story into an emotional strain where the reader follows the events with rapt attention.
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list
CYNTHIA'S CHAUFFEUR. Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy.
A pretty American girl in London is touring in a car with a chauffeur whose identity puzzles her. An amusing mystery.
THE STOWAWAY GIRL. Illustrated by Nesbitt Benson.
A shipwreck, a lovely girl stowaway, a rascally captain, a fascinating officer, and thrilling adventures in South Seas.
THE CAPTAIN OF THE KANSAS.
Love and the salt sea, a helpless ship whirled into the hands of cannibals, desperate fighting and a tender romance.
THE MESSAGE. Illustrated by Joseph Cummings Chase.
A bit of parchment found in the figurehead of an old vessel tells of a buried treasure. A thrilling mystery develops.
THE PILLAR OF LIGHT.
The pillar thus designated was a lighthouse, and the author tells with exciting detail the terrible dilemma of its cut-off inhabitants.
THE WHEEL O'FORTUNE. With illustrations by James Montgomery Flagg.
The story deals with the finding of a papyrus containing the particulars of some of the treasures of the Queen of Sheba.
A SON OF THE IMMORTALS. Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy.
A young American is proclaimed king of a little Balkan Kingdom, and a pretty Parisian art student is the power behind the throne.
THE WINGS OF THE MORNING.
A sort of Robinson Crusoeredivivuswith modern settings and a very pretty love story added. The hero and heroine, are the only survivors of a wreck, and have many thrilling adventures on their desert island.
Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction
Original, sincere and courageous—often amusing—the kind that are making theatrical history.
MADAME X. By Alexandre Bisson and J. W. McConaughy. Illustrated with scenes from the play.
A beautiful Parisienne became an outcast because her husband would not forgive an error of her youth. Her love for her son is the great final influence in her career. A tremendous dramatic success.
THE GARDEN OF ALLAH. By Robert Hichens.
An unconventional English woman and an inscrutable stranger meet and love in an oasis of the Sahara. Staged this season with magnificent cast and gorgeous properties.
THE PRINCE OF INDIA. By Lew. Wallace.
A glowing romance of the Byzantine Empire, presenting with extraordinary power the siege of Constantinople, and lighting its tragedy with the warm underglow of an Oriental romance. As a play it is a great dramatic spectacle.
TESS OF THE STORM COUNTRY. By Grace Miller White. Illust. by Howard Chandler Christy.
A girl from the dregs of society, loves a young Cornell University student, and it works startling changes in her life and the lives of those about her. The dramatic version is one of the sensations of the season.
YOUNG WALLINGFORD. By George Randolph Chester. Illust. by F. R. Gruger and Henry Raleigh.
A series of clever swindles conducted by a cheerful young man, each of which is just on the safe side of a State's prison offence. As "Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford," it is probably the most amusing expose of money manipulation ever seen on the stage.
THE INTRUSION OF JIMMY. By P. G. Wodehouse. Illustrations by Will Grefe.
Social and club life in London and New York, an amateur burglary adventure and a love story. Dramatized under the title of "A Gentleman of Leisure," it furnishes hours of laughter to the play-goers.
THE RULES OF THE GAME. Illustrated by Lajaren A. Hiller
The romance of the son of "The Riverman." The young college hero goes into the lumber camp, is antagonized by "graft" and comes into the romance of his life.
ARIZONA NIGHTS. Illus. and cover inlay by N. C. Wyeth.
A series of spirited tales emphasizing some phases of the life of the ranch, plains and desert. A masterpiece.
THE BLAZED TRAIL. With illustrations by Thomas Fogarty.
A wholesome story with gleams of humor, telling of a young man who blazed his way to fortune through the heart of the Michigan pines.
THE CLAIM JUMPERS. A Romance.
The tenderfoot manager of a mine in a lonesome gulch of the Black Hills has a hard time of it, but "wins out" in more ways than one.
CONJUROR'S HOUSE. Illustrated Theatrical Edition.
Dramatized under the title of "The Call of the North." Conjuror's House is a Hudson Bay trading post where the head factor is the absolute lord. A young fellow risked his life and won a bride on this forbidden land.
THE MAGIC FOREST. A Modern Fairy Tale. Illustrated.
The sympathetic way in which the children of the wild and their life is treated could only belong to one who is in love with the forest and open air. Based on fact.
THE RIVERMAN. Illus. by N. C. Wyeth and C. Underwood.
The story of a man's fight against a river and of a struggle between honesty and grit on the one side, and dishonesty and shrewdness on the other.
THE SILENT PLACES. Illustrations by Philip R. Goodwin.
The wonders of the northern forests, the heights of feminine devotion, and masculine power, the intelligence of the Caucasian and the instinct of the Indian, are all finely drawn in this story.
THE WESTERNERS.
A story of the Black Hills that is justly placed among the best American novels. It portrays the life of the new West as no other book has done in recent years.
THE MYSTERY. In collaboration with Samuel Hopkins Adams With illustrations by Will Crawford.
The disappearance of three successive crews from the stout ship "Laughing Lass" in mid-Pacific, is a mystery weird and inscrutable. In the solution, there is a story of the most exciting voyage that man ever undertook.
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.
HIS HOUR. By Elinor Glyn. Illustrated.
A beautiful blonde Englishwoman visits Russia, and is violently made love to by a young Russian aristocrat. A most unique situation complicates the romance.
THE GAMBLERS. By Charles Klein and Arthur Hornblow. Illustrated by C. E. Chambers.
A big, vital treatment of a present day situation wherein men play for big financial stakes and women flourish on the profits—or repudiate the methods.
CHEERFUL AMERICANS. By Charles Battell Loomis. Illustrated by Florence Scovel Shinn and others.
A good, wholesome, laughable presentation of some Americans at home and abroad, on their vacations, and during their hours of relaxation.
THE WOMAN OF THE WORLD. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Clever, original presentations of present day social problems and the best solutions of them. A book every girl and woman should possess.
THE LIGHT THAT LURES. By Percy Brebner. Illustrated. Handsomely colored wrapper.
A young Southerner who loved Lafayette, goes to France to aid him during the days of terror, and is lured in a certain direction by the lovely eyes of a Frenchwoman.
THE RAMRODDERS. By Holman Day. Frontispiece by Harold Matthews Brett.
A clever, timely story that will make politicians think and will make women realize the part that politics play—even in their romances.
A CERTAIN RICH MAN. By William Allen White.
A vivid, startling portrayal of one man's financial greed, its wide spreading power, its action in Wall Street, and its effect on the three women most intimately in his life. A splendid, entertaining American novel.
IN OUR TOWN. By William Allen White. Illustrated by F. R. Gruger and W. Glackens.
Made up of the observations of a keen newspaper editor, involving the town millionaire, the smart set, the literary set, the bohemian set, and many others. All humorously related and sure to hold the attention.
NATHAN BURKE. By Mary S. Watts.
The story of an ambitious, backwoods Ohio boy who rose to prominence. Everyday humor of American rustic life permeates the book.
THE HIGH HAND. By Jacques Futrelle. Illustrated by Will Grete.
A splendid story of the political game, with a son of the soil on the one side, and a "kid glove" politician on the other. A pretty girl, interested in both men, is the chief figure.
THE BACKWOODSMEN. By Charles G. D. Roberts. Illustrated.
Realistic stories of men and women living midst the savage beauty of the wilderness. Human nature at its best and worst is well portrayed.
YELLOWSTONE NIGHTS. By Herbert Quick.
A jolly company of six artists, writers and other clever folks take a trip through the National Park, and tell stories around camp fire at night. Brilliantly clever and original.
THE PROFESSOR'S MYSTERY. By Wells Hastings and Brian Hooker. Illustrated by Hanson Booth.
A young college professor, missing his steamer for Europe, has a romantic meeting with a pretty girl, escorts her home, and is enveloped in a big mystery.
Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction
Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26th St., New York