Democratic Sentinel, Volume 13, Number 29, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 9 August 1889 — Page 6

LIBERTY’S MARTYRS. BY EVA KATHARINE CLAPP. [Lured by tne rayg of the great electric light njon the statue of “Liberty,” on Bedloe’s Island, hundreds of sea birds nightly dash themselves against the wire net-work around the heavy glass lantern and are found dead at the feet of the Goddess when morning dawns,— Newspaper paragraph.} Alone, on the desolate shore she stands, Serene, as the years drift by, While drawn, As by dawn, To her outstretched hands Her wild, winged worshipers fly. The forms born to burrow, or climb, or creep, Are safe on the earth, where they cling, But they who dare, Are of space and air, And star ward must soar and sing. They are thrilled and filled with a fervor caught From the infinite wind-swept main, In then- steadfast flight. Toward the blinding light, And their welcome is—death and pain. Oh ! wings, wings, wings, Striving through dark and rain, Merely to droop in death at the end, Has your struggle been all in vain ? Nay, call them not wasted, those visions bright, That inspired each tiny breast With such keen delight Through that weary flight, Toward the luring star of rest. No fate so tragic doth Wisdom teach Upon Nature’s glowing page, By symbol or speech, For brave souls that reach Toward light, through each bitter age. And true as the course of the rolling year Is tho song that yon sweet stars sing, That Kight groweth strong, O’er the black shade, Wrong, As summer o’ertops the spring. Then beat, beat, beat, brave hearts, through Oppression’s night, While Liberty stands by tho bleak sea-sands, Upholding her beacon light.

FEMININE STRATEGY.

CHAPTER I. He had been telling her all he had to tell, and now she stood there quite still, neither by word nor glanee vouchsafing the answer lor which he pleaded. “I must know the best or the worst. Christine," he whispered. “Speak to me, darling.” She started violently, and a vivid color rushed to her cheeks. Her broad gardenhat hid that, but it could not shut out the sigh which died away in a low, half sob. “I am sorry if 1 give you pain,” she said, soltly, so softly that the words came almost in a murmur, “but 1 can not be your wife." “I understand,” with a short, hard laugh; “you will not. Pray, be frank.” At th s she silently removed her glove and held out her hand. A soft, white hand it was, and one little linger was encircled by a heavy band of gold. “Married?” “Not vet.” And Miss Illerton's voice grew firmer now. "I am engaged to Arthur Gower." Her companion was a tall, dark man, with a sunburnt lace and a heavy mustache •and honest brown eyes, evidently not the man to be easily overcome bv any passing emotion, yet now he fairly staggered beneath the blow her words had dealt; so when he spoke again it was wltli a calm desperation. “Forgive me.” said he; “I have had so many hopes that ” “Wnydid you not write tome?” she interrupted, turn ng upon him sharply. "1 waited to tell vou. I was a tool, that is all.” “Let us have done with folly,” commenced Christ ne, almost wearily. Then. With a sudden, passionate outburst—"Ah! why need you have done this? Could you not see? could you not unde stand?” Now he caught her outstretched hands, and, holding her in his arms, pressed her close upon his breast. For one little moment the poor lips quivered beneath a rain of kisses, for one little moment only; then, adroitly treeing herself, she said but this: “Go now. Ralph,” “Christine!” “Go,” she lepeated; “it is too late; understand me—too late! I shall marry Arthur Gower, and I would not do otherwise now, even if I could." And so, quitting the deqp shadow of the willows, never looking back. Miss Illerton walked down the garden-path, her dainty white gown fluttering in the morning breeze, tier whiter face hard and fixed and ctrangelv stern. •s ■’ * * » « ■•;• Some one met her as she crossed tho hall. “Where is Mr. Gresham, Christine?" “Gone.” "Are you ill. dear?” “No; I will be down presently, Clara,” passing on quickly. This abruptness would have offended almost any otner woman, but Clara Volney, being unlike almost any other woman, simply turned away, a pained pitifulness easily read in the troubled glance of her blue eyes. She stood leaning against the doorway, just a little tinge of color in her cheeks, her slender little lingers mechanically threading an unruly yellow curl, when Miss Illerton sharply called to her from the gallery above. “Clara!” “Yes, dear.” “I want you.” Obedient Clara was presently in her cousin’s chamber, listening to a half confession born of self-rebuke apd a wild yearning for some word of tender consolation. “We have no secrets from each other, have we, Clara?” commenced Miss Illerton, “No, none.” “From the time—so long ago!—when my poor father died^—from the moment when he put your hand in mine, and bade us love each other, not as cousins only but as sisters dear, have I ever, by word or deed, put that last counsel to shame, Clara?” “Never, Christine.” “Think again.” ’Never,” reiterated tho girl. “It is false!” cried Miss Illerton. her cheeks ablaze now; “I have wronged you by a foolish silence; I have insulted the dead by willful disobedience: in nothing have I acted like a sister; a sister would have gone to you and said: 'Clara. I have promised to be Arthur Gower’s wife; this ring I wear is the token of love; I am happy, share my content.’ That is what a sister would have done—what I should have done; is it not?” "Arthur Gower?” Tho flush had quite faded from Clara’s cheeks, but her eyes were bright with some keen emotion of surprise or joy, or maybe pain. “Yes.” went on Christine, never heeding this, “and just now, in the garden, who should come but Ralph Gresham, and—he loves me. Clara.” "Well?” “But it is too late." said Miss Illerton, almostin undertone. “What did you tell him?” asked her cousin, eagerly. "What I have told you—that it was too late, and th at I would not. even if I could.” She spoke very slowly, marking each word with a lingering emphasis; then, as the last fell from her lips she started up with a merry laugh. “Just think of it, Clara—Arthur

Cosver! Did I tell vou what he said? Listen. It was the drolle.-t wooing! He tiok my hand and slipped that rine upon my finger; I knew then what was coming, and so kept very stilt 'Christine.’ said he, 'it is our parents’ wish, you remember, that you snould be my wife—will you consent?’ And I consented, of course. So, there, now. that troublesome affair is arranged, and I am to marry him. and For heaven’s sake. Clara, open that window! one stifles here!” She came and stood by her cousin, and in silence the two looked out upon the stretch of land where the flat brown tracts were all cut by low fences, and then beyond upon the dark belt of woods, now softened and shadowed by tho purple haze of the fast falling night. Presently, turning to Miss Illerton, Clara asked, in a hal -whisper: “Are you happy, Christine?” “Who? I? What a droll question! Why, I am now the happiest woman in the world.” ■» * * * « # The next gray daybreak stole in through that same window upon a woman who had passed the livelong night crouched in that great chair, her head resting upon the broad sill. A pale-faced creature, who looked up listlessly when the swallows commenced twittering in the far-reaching eaves, and then with a sigh and a shudder turned from this ever new glory of the coming day. "O, Lord!” she cried, and said no more. Y'ou are not to judge. Surely this was a cry for thanksgiving, for, by her own confession, she was the happiest woman in the world.

CHAPTER 11. A summer’s day slowly dying—a tender gloom stealing down the long aisles of forest trees and the low murmur of softly plashing riplets; a mass of jagged black rocks, with the last rays of sunlight glinting upon their bald tops, and gnarled branches overreaching low, fern-tufted banks, to dip in the peaceful water. Imagine this, and you have the picture of the little lake at "The Crag.” Then imagine a tiny, prettily painted canoe, with a young woman at either end. and a gentleman fairly dividing his attention between his companions and the skillful management of the slender oars. Now you have Miss Illerton, her cousin and Arthur Gower. They had been floating lazily on, with barely a word now and then to break a stillness almost painful, until they neared the dangerous Black Rocks; then the little wherry became entangled in the stealthy current and veered with a treacherous lurch—a lurch sharp enough to fling one of the women backward, aud dangerous enough to startle Arthur into a singularly awkward betrayal of emotion. The little form had barely swayed when the gentleman, with a hoarse cry, sprang forward. "Clara! My God, Clara!” That was all he said; vet, when he remembered himself, he was holding Clara Volney in his arms. “Is she hurt?” The voice was Miss Illerton’s. aud now Arthur Gower remembered, too. t lat tne woman whom he should marry was beside him. "Are you hurt. Christine?” ho asked, flushing hotly as bis arms f•• 11 from Clara. “Not at all. thank you." “Nor am I,” protested her cousin, laughing nervously. “Only frightened. It was so sudden, you see.” “Yes, it was sudden, certainly,” acquiesced Miss Illerton; “sudden and pleasant.” This extraordinary assertion remained uncontradicted, tor not another word was spoken until the boat was being made last to the low, quqintly contrived landing ot roughly hewn logs; then, as Miss Illerton stepped upon this rustic platform, Arthur Gower touched her hand, uetainingly. “What is tho matter, Christine?” lie ventured. “Why, what should be the matter?" And now, affecting to notice lor the first time his awkward hesitation, she continued, smilingly. "My dear boy, just put that oar iu its proper place, will you? Then follow us up to the house as quickly as possible. Those people wil' be there." “Those people” were city friends who enjoyed amazingly frequent visits to The Crag, and to welcome them now hastened the Hospitable mistress of the old manor house, leaving Mr. Gower in a most painful state of anxious doubt and sell-convicted treachery. * * * * * * Christine Illerton was not a woman of half measures. That night she entered her cousin’s chamber, and without ado put this straightforward question: "How long has this been going on?” "Going on?” “Tell me. I wish the truth; I wish you to be frank.” • "Why, what do you mean?” asked Clara, yet never looking up. “You understand me. How long has this been going on between you and—and—the the man whom I intend to marry?” At this Clara lifted her head and looked at her cousin with innocent, fearless eyes. "You do not mean to accuse us of anything like a flirtation, I hope,” she said, proudly. "Oh, no,” was Miss Illerton’s cool response; “I acquit you oi that. There has been no flirtation; but there has been a great deal of intensely earnest love-mak-ing. That knowledge was forced upon me this afternoon, remember.” "Ah. Christine!” And here this young woman displayed woeful ignorance of the first principles of feminine stiategy; for, instead of adroitly maneuvering, carefully marshaling her replies, and skillfully defending all weak points of her false position from the unsparing vigilance of that keen-eyed sharpshooter. Miss Christine Illerton, tho silly creature only hid her face in her hands, aud, ’twixt piteous sobbings, proclaimed her ignominious overthrow. “Ah. cousin—ah, Christine!” “Instead of calling my name in that utterly! ncomprehensible manner, you would do better to answer my question,” suggested Miss Illerton. "How long has Arthur Gower loved you?X “I never Raew that he loved me.” protested the offender. “Yet he told it very plainly this afternoon, and I was present, it you recollect.” "Christine, dear Christine!” Clara was standing now, not weeping, but speaking with low, impressive eagerness. “As I live, never before has he said as much as that; never before has he uttered one word that you might not have heard—never, Christine, cousin!" “Do you tell me this upon your honor?” “Upon my honor.” “But you love him, of course. There, you need not turn away. Keep your secret, child. Only remember this, that you are willfully walking to a moral .destruction, for I shall certainly marry the man you love. Good-night, dear.” “What does it matter to me? Why should I care if she breaks her heart lor him? Do I care? Not I.” protested Miss Illerton, as she sauntered slowly to her own room, an hour inter, after an awkward leave-tak-ing with Mr. Gower. “They make their own misery. That which is not worth asking is not worth having, surely. She s a fool, but he is a coward; so. after all, I save her from a wretched fate.”

CHAPTER 111. Life, like nature, has its unnatural calms—treacherous calms preceding ruthless devastation—or else there come those seasons of dead stillness when both lite and nature sfeem to have paused, half-affrighted at the wreck and ruin cumbering their paths. Such a time had come to Christine liler-

ton. Throughout lhat llvelon** night h af j she been wlti her pa«t, and that grim gossip had told her many bitter tiuths, hsd shown her the graves deep buried iu her heart, had uncovered the faces of the dead there lying, and of these, one there was—ah, heaven! how near, how real! But it may never be now.” she mur, m V re<J ’ “ne'er! Dead? Ay. in very truth is he dead to me! For wnen I killed his trust I killed his love, ani so—ah, good Lord, be merciful!” The old cry. you see. Truly, her need was sore.

There was no one in the break fast-room when Cbr.stine entered but Raynor, the housekeeper. A cheery little octajon was that break-fast-room, especially so when a soft air gently lifted the light curtains of its many windows, and a pleasant light shimmered among the glass and silver of its snowcovered, well-ordered table. “Where is Miss Volney?" “She is not very well, Miss Christine,” was Raynor’s answer—"not well, aud she won’t be down. I have seen her, and it’s only a bad headache; so there’s no need to worry, dear.” Miss Illerton did not worry. She ate her rolls and sipped her coffee enjoyingly. Then, with her own hands, she prepared a tempting little meal, daintily arranged. _ “Let this be taken to my cousin, please." “My dear, she will not touch bit or sup. There is really no use,” objected Ravnor. “Take it, please, and tell her that I wish her to eat," said Miss Illerton. Presently she was in Clara’s chamber. That young person was yet in bed, and had been weeping. Indeed, judging from her appearance the whole night had been spent iu that pleasant diversion. Still, she contrived in some awkward manner to screen her eyes, but her voice betrayed her; that trembled treacherously. To neither of these tokens did Miss Illerton vouchsafe any notice. In the most matter-of-fact manner possible she busied herself about the room, then approached the sufferer. “Are you better, Clara?” “Much better, thank you, Christine.” “Very well. Now listen tome. Why did you not take the breakfast I sent you?” “I couldn’t.” "I understand. See. Clara, you must obey me. Here are my instructions—commands, if you will. You are to remain quite still and try to sleep. Don’t attempt to come down to luncheon. Yours shall bo brought to you." “I wish you would not, Christine. Rea’ly, 1 ” “Nonsense!” sharply retorte 1 her cousin. “Do you intend to starve? None but heroines of high t agedy do such things, and even they always announce their suicidal intentions in doubtlul blank verse. You have not done that yet. Will you begin?” “I am so wretched!” moaned t e girl—“so utterly and unspeakably wretched!” “Very good,” continued the other, with stoical indifference; “but you are to remain here until I send for you. That will not be beloi e the a'lternoon. I have much to do this morning, and can not spare a moment. Don’t be silly, Clara; don't blind your eyes and blotch your face with tears. There, you are crying again. Good h avens, woman! what it agreatgriot has come into your life? Need you nurse it after such a fashion ?” But tho startling vehemence of this appeal produced an effect altogether contrary to tho one intended. Clara only gave way to a perfect passion of sobs, wheieat Miss Illoiton impatiently shrugged her shoulders, and without another word walked from the room.

• CHAPTER IV. “Ycu did mo a great injustice," said she, wearily. "You should have acknowledged this sooner, riad you done so ” “Well?” came the eager que-t on. Miss Iller.au finished her sentence with icy composure: “Had you done so you would have spared me much annoyance, tnat is all.” "Does Clara know that?” commenced Mr. Gower, then paused abruptly. "l hat you and I came to an understanding yesterday? No. she does not." A moment of silence, tnen spoke Mr. Gower again: “You must not despise me, now, Christine.” “I did—yes, I despi- ed what appeared to me an unmanly weakness aud pititul falsehoo •. I did not consider the mistaken sense of honor which caused you to hesitate before inflicting an imaginary pain.” “If you had ever loved me, Christine ” “But I never love I you,” she interrupted, with great earnestness. “This marriage was ananged between our parents. We lent ourselves to the sinful plottings of others; therein lay our fault. Why, we have been miracles of obstinate stupidity!” “Christine, suppose that all had been different; suppose that " “That you had loved me. Is that what you wish to say?” "Well, yes, that I had not loved Clara—would you then really have sacrificed yourself to me?” Miss Illerton did not answer immediately. She sat for a moment quite still, her head resting upon her hand. “I can not tell,” she said at last, half dreamily. “Heaven help me. I can not tell! I believed that I was doing right.” Then, with sudden energy; “Never mind what might have been! Think only ot what is! Wait here, I will be back presently." And she hurried from the i oom. She was back p esently—with Clara Volney. The young lady was very pale, but preserved a remaikable composure. Miss Dlei ton’s keen eyes, however, detected the sudden flush, and her firm lingers felt the tremor of the little hand they clasped. But here was one who would not waste so much as one poor word on all this anguish. Leading her companion forward, she paused betore her visitor: then she spoke: “Mr. Arthur Gowei, I give you my cousin as a wife.” "Christine!” “to not interrupt me. Mr. Gower has been making a confession, and so have I, and we understand each other now. You must " It was Mr. Gower who interrupted her here. He had taken her hand and kissed it reverently. “What can I say, Christine?” “My dear boy, say nothing— to me. There is Clara." She turned away laughingly. At th“ door she stopped suddenly, then retraced Her steps. “Do you see nothing?” she asked. “Do neither of you miss anything?” ”1 do!” cried Clara. “Where is it?” “Are you sure that you understand mo?” “Ah, yes, I am sure! Oh, Arthur, where is it?" But Arthur said never a word, only stood silently gazing at Christine. “He does not know.” averred the latter, with mock gravity, “but I will tell you. I threw it in the river this morning when I was riding.” Here Miss Illerton held up her hand, and lo! the ring, the token of betrothal, was no longer in its place! Thus had she decided tho matter ot her marriage with Arthur Gower. * * « # ■» * There had been a busy time at The Crag, such a busy time as inevitably precedes a marriage, and now came the lull which as inevitably follows those periods of hazard? ous excitement. The pretty pageant was over, and Arthur was gone, and "his wife was gone, and only a lonely woman remained at the old place—a very lonely woman, one who had let her hopes &O by, had nut her suffering aside.

and now. patiently bearing the uuraen ol the day, waited for that night for which, in the cruel pangs of her anguish, she longingly yearned. So time wo: e drearily on, until one day Miss Illerton sat in the library trying to fix her mind on tae book which lay open in her lap. when suddenly, she knew not how it came about, a strangely rapturous expectancy seemed to have overcome her, when directly she beard the drawing-room door close and a visitor enter. A charm took possession of her. and she immediately arose and crossed the room, and as she parted the portiere her breath came in deep, gasping sobs, and she stood quite motionless, her eyes resting on Ralph Gresham. “Christine!” The woeful eyes brightened now. “I heard of this. Christine. I have been away, you know—far away. I have come for ‘you.’ Cbr stine." “And I have waited for you, oh, my beloved!" His strong arm was about her now, her head was pillowed upon his laithful breast, and if tears wet her cheek be sure they were very happy tears. The past, with its sorrows and shadows, was gone; and now a love so great had come to her that through its radiance she read the promise of a blessed paace, and joy unutterable. If you do not believe that the fates were kind to Christine ask Ralph Gresham’s wife.

Too Slow.

The first electric telegraph was put in operation between Baltimore and AX ashington, in 1845, Congress having appropriated eight thousand dollars to keep it running for one year, as an experiment. Of the many amusing incidents of those early days, one of the best is the following, which used to be related by Professor Morse himself: A pretty little girl tripped into the XX ashingtou office, and after a great deal of hesitation and coloring, asked how long it would take to send to Baltimore. Mr. Morse looked at the pretty questioner with much interest as he answered : “One second.” “Oh, how delightful!” exclaimed the girl, her eyes glistening with rapture. “One second only! Here, send this even quicker if yon can;” aud Mr. Morse found in his hand a neatly folded, gilt-edged note, the very perfume and shape of which told a volume of love. “I cannot send this note,” said Mr. Morse; “it is impossible.” “Oh, do, do!” implored the distracted girl. “I have had a quarrel with William, and I shall die if he doesn’t know in a second that I forgive him—l know I shall.” “As Mr. Morse still objected to sending the note, the girl asked: “Will yon send me on?” “Perhaps it would take your breath away to travel forty miles an hour,” said a clerk, trying not to smile. “Oh, no, it won’t—no, it won’t, if it carries me to XX’illiam.” “You could go by train to-morrow.” “But the cars are so slow.” Mr. Morse now comprehended the girl’s mistake, and attempted to explain the process of carrying words along the wires. The girl listened for a few moments, then rolled her burning note into a ball and thrust it into her pocket. “It’s too slow, too slow, and my heart will break before William knows I forgive him; and you are a cruel man, Mr. Morse, that you won’t let me travel by the telegraph to see William.” “I am very sorry.” The girl left the office in tears.

Helen Densmore.

New York lias many interesting women, and not the least among them is Dr. Helen Densmore. Helen Densmore used to be Helen Barnard, and under that name there are many newspaper men who remember her as a tall, handsome woman, with a shapely head and a profusion of yellow hair, who sat for years the only woman in the reporters’ gallery of the House of Bepresentatives, aud taking notes and writing letters as if a man—and a clever man—were knocking off the sentences. Helen Barnard was a figure in the political and journalistic circles of XX 7 ashington. Lamar, Garfield, Butler and J ere Black held many an animated discussion with her. When a mission was organized to look into the treatment of emigrants in the steerage crossing the Atlantic Butler went to President Grant and had Mrs. Barnard appointed on it at the same salary received by the men. The gentlemen on that commission had a fine time at the X 7 ienna Exposition, but saw few emigrants. Helen Bari...rd put on an old dress and sailed from Liverpool to New York in the steerage of the Inman Line. Unless she found the privations and abuse of that passage considerably less than I did when I investigated the charges made in twelve or fifteen years, it is easy to believe that a deal of earnestness went into her report, which was pronounced one of the ablest state papers, on file at Washington. From journalism Helen Barnard went into medicine, and the same graceful woman, with firm-set chin and decisive mouth, is the physician best known as a successor to Banting in the cure of obesity. Dr. Densmore eats only one meal and is a personally strict vegetarian.— Mail and Express. The world always judges a man (and rightly enough, too,) by his little faults, which he shows a hundred times a dav, rather than by his great virtues, which he discloses perhaps but once in a lifetime, and to a single person—nay, in proportion as they are rarer, and he is nobler, is shyer of letting their existence be known at all. ’Tis hard to mesmerize ourselves, to whip our own top; but through sympathy we are capable of energy and eardurance. Concert tires people to a contain fury of performance they can rarely reach alone.

GREAT BALL PLAYING.

EXTRAORDINARY GAME BETWEEN CLEVELAND AND CHICAGO. Fifteen Innings Played Amid Great Excitement—Chicago Ties the Score in the Ninth, and Again in the Thirteenth Inning, and Finally Wins. [CHICAGO CORRESPONDENCE.] The game of ball which was contested in this city on Friday last between the Chicago and Cleveland teams will go down in base-ball annals as the greatest that was ever played. Through fifteen innings the rival clubs fought lor victory. Twice the game was tied and twice was the tie broken amid the applause of 4,000 enthusiastic spectators. The game, being a record-breaker, deserves a good history. Dwyer and Bakely. were the opposing pitchers, and such pitching has not been seen in Chicago for many a day. In the second inning Chicago secured a run on a base on balls and two hits. In the third inning the Clevelands scored three tallies on three hits and a long fly to center, which Ryan muffed after a long run—an excusable error. In the sixth inning Cleveland made another run on a three-base hit and a sacrifice. The Chicagos struggled on from the second against hard luck and great playing. Bakely was too much for them, and during six long innings tney secured but one hit. When they came to bat in the ninth inning, with the score standing at 4to 1 against them, very few of the onlookers had any hope of their winning the game, and piobably not a man in the great audience dreamed of the exciting scenes that were destined to follow witbin the next hour. t “We’ll win this game yet,” yelled Anse, as Van Haltren came to bat. “We onlv need three runs to tie. Now line it out? But Van had other plans for himself. He didn’t line it out. but simply touched it down toward third and reach first in safety. Those of the crowd who had left their seats to hurry out of the grounds paused to see what the great roar was about. They edged back. Duffy drove the ball toward Stricker. ’i he second baseman made a bluff to put Van out on the hit, but failed, and Duffy reached first. “Anse” came up to the plate in a very excited manner. The “old man’s” eyes stuck out like ctearn puff's, aud the freckles on his face shone like carpet tacks. He waited for a good one and drove it into right. Van Haltren dashed over the rubber and Duffy reached third. The impatient ones of the crowd had resumed their seats and every one in the stands was leaning forward and stretching his neck in expectancy. All cheered and howled as Pfeffer came to bat, and they offered big money for a hit that would bring in the tying run. The secondbaseman dodged a couple of wild shoots and finally got a ball on the right corner of his stick. The ball landed against tho right wall and Duffy ran home. Anson was having a mad race for third, with the ball close behind him. McKean got close in front of him and stopped. The “old man” made a great kick and maintained it so vigorously that Curry, the umpire, allowed him the base. Every man of the Cleveland Infield crowded up to the umpire, and while the visitors were menacing him with all sorts of threats Anson started for home. He puffed in like a steam-engine, and after making a great slide plantea himself on the unprotected plate. The score was tied, and for a moment the air over the bleaching boards was clouded with cushions, umbrellas, and stovepipe hats. Any vote taken on the grounds then would have declared “Anse” the greatest man in the United States. The Clevelands hadn’t recovered from their surprise and were still kicking when their side had been retired in the tenth. McKean lost a $25 chunk of his salary lor his offensiveness to Umpire Curry. The eleventh and twelfth innings brought nothing worthy of mention. Stricker opened the thirteenth for the “Babies” with a foul tip to Farrell. Gilks dallied at the plate till he was given a base on balls. McKean walked to the rubber like a hungry man walks up to a good dinner. He didn't strike out this time as he had done on his two previous times at bat. but smashed the ball lull in the face, and sent it to the club-house. Gilks came in on the hit, and McKean reached third. “Strike him out!” “He can’t hit it!” and similar remarks came from the crowd as Tebeau came to the plate. But Tebeau did hit the ball, and the crowd dropped back with a despairing groan as the sphere flew over the wall and down the street. The St. Joe wonder cantered around the bases with a complacent smile and took a big chew from the box of gum that was handed him. The “Babies” were again three runs in the lead, and played with the feeling that the game could not again be wrested: from them. Twitchell and Faatz went out as fast as they could, and the side hurried into the field. The sun had gone to roost for the night, and twilight was lowering on the grounds when the Chicagos came to the bat in their half of tho thirteenth. Van Haltren again started the music that had tied the score in the ninth. He drove a grounder to Faatz and reached first ahead of the ball. His life was short, however, for ha was out at second on Duffy’s grounder. Duffy chased down to second on Stricker’s overthrow. Anson appeared at the plate with the same old determination, and set his teeth hard when appealed to to make a home run. He lined the ball to the ropes in the back of the grounds, but Gilks was under it when it landed. Duffy ran to third, but there he stopped'. There were two hands out when Pfeffer came to bat, and all hope had been beaten out of the spectators. Pfeffer dropped the ball in front of tne plate and Bakely made a mess of getting it to first. He stole second and still Duffy remained at third. Farrell hitsaiely to left, but Duffy clung to third. He looked as if he had gone to sleep when Burns came to bat. “Tommy” waited till the ball came over the wishbone at the proper height and then his stick fell. A short, rasping report rang in the ears of the spectators, and the three men on bases started for home. They had all crossed the rubber when Twitchell got the ball back, and “Tommy” stood grinning on second. The score tied again, and there was yet hope for Chicago. Dwyer's hit to McKean, however, putit all to Hight for this inning, and the Chicagos aga n went to the field. Neither side scored in the fourteenth and the Clevelands went down without a run in the fifteenth. Duffy opened the Chicagos’ halt with a liner that nearly tipped McKean over, but stuck in his fins. “Anse” carried his tree to the plate and ’lowed he could win the game right then and there. He shoved a sa'e single out to right and landed at the first corner. With the first ball pitched he started out with his hat in his Hand, and slid to second. “Please, Mr. Pfeffer, hit the ball,” he cried, as the scond baseman was about to swing his bat. Tho “old man’s” wish was gratified. Pfeffer hit the ball in the short ribs, and •the "old man” started for third. Here he turned and gave a scared look into the field and along toward home. The ball was racing in from center and the “old man” increased his speed. Suddenly he dropped on his shirt iront and with a regular toboggan slide slipped over the plate and into the greatest, victory the Chicago club has ever won. DIAMOND CHIPS. The Chicago Club is playing a great game just now. Chicago has played more games than any other League team. The Phillies have made 173 sacrifice hits in sixty-nine games. - - ;