Evening Republican, Volume 18, Number 184, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 6 August 1914 — Page 3

BYNOPSIS. Joseph Hayward, an ensign In the United States army, on his way to Fort Harmar, meets Simon Girty. a renegade whose name has been connected with all manner of atrocities, also headed for Fort Harmar, with a message from the British general, Hamilton. Hayward guides him to the fort. At General Harmar’s headquarters Hayward meets Rene D’Auvray, who professes to recognize him, although he has no recollection of ever having seen her before. Haywafd volunteers to-carry & message for Harmar to Sandusky, where Hamilton Is stationed. The northwest Indian tribes are ready for war and are only held back by the refusal of the friendly Wyandots to loin. The latter are demanding the return of Wa-pa-tee-tah, a religious teacher, whom they believe to be a prisoner. • Hayward’s mission is to assure the Wyandots that the man Is not held by the soldiers. Rene asks Hayward to let her him. She tells him that she Is a quarter-blood Wyandot rind a missionary among the Indians. She has been in search of her father. She insists that she has seen Hayward before, but in a British uniform, Hayward refuses her request and starts tor the north accompanied by a scout named Brady and a private soldier. They come on the trail of a war party and to escape, from the Indians take shelter in a hut on an island. Hayward finds a murdered man in the hut It proves to be Raoul D’Auvray, a officer who is called by the Wyandots "white chief.” Rene appears and Hayward is puzzled by her inslstance that they have met before. Rene recognizes the murdered man as her father, who was known among the Indians as Wa-pa-tee-tah. She tells Hayward her father was exiled from the French court and had spent his life among the Indians as a missionary. Brady reports seeing a band of marauding In- N dians in the vicinity and with them Simon Girty. Brady’s evidence convinces the girl that there is a British officer by the name of Haywardr wRo resemtoles tneAmerican. They find escape from the island cut off.

CHAPTER X.—Continued. Brady flung forward his rifle, yet hesitated, fearing to fire. Whatever it might be—animal or man—the thing was coming directly toward us, swimming with long, etringy locks of wet 1 hair dangling to the shoulders. It was a man beyond doubt, yet for the instant I could not determine whether red or white. As he stood there punk to his armpits in water, he beheld us for the first time, and there burst from his lips a sudden, guttural exclama- , tion of alarm. With the strange eouhd Schulte leaped forward, lumbering against me as he passed, and splashed his way out toward the fellow, uttering some exclaihation in his native tongue. He reached him, the two voices greeting each other. "Well!” exclaimed Brady in dißgust. “If it ain’t another Dutchman. Come in here, you!” «

The two waded ashore onto the sand, Schultz’s heavy hand grasping his companion’s arm, and helping him along. I saw a face white and ghaßtly in the starlight, lean, smooth-shaven, looking emaciated against the long, dark hair, the eyes bright with fanaticism. He was a tall, spare man, shaking so he could hardly stand. The very sight of him aroused my sympathy. "Don’t be afraid,” I said soothingTyT "We’re all white. How did you come here?” His eyes looked at me as I spoke; then shifted to Schultz’s face in silent questioning. The latter was breathing hard, but managed to explain. “He not talk English ver’ goot, Mynheer. I teil you vat he say mit'me—he vos a Dutch preacher; yaw, mine Gott; yust over py mine own countries; he vos named Adrian Block.” "Did he swim all the way Brady grinning, but Schultz keplt his eyes fastened on me, held by tire one thought to which be sought to gfte utterance. "He vos Moravian, vot you call mis-sonary—so? He von month in dees country, an’ know only to preach." The girl leaping forward, interrupted with a whisper: "I recognize the man, monsieur; he was the prisoner I told you of in the Indian camp—the Prdtestant.” “They lef him only mit one guard,, an’ after while, dot fellow he fall asleep. Den he got loose mid his bonds, an’ creep down mit der shore of der lake where a boat wus. So he drill out on der water; but der boat leak, an’ go dowh, leaving him mit nottings. Dot vas it, mynheer. Den he swim som’ an’ pray mooch, an’ so com’ here mit us, altready.” “Where did the .Indians go?" “Up mit der lake shore—so like dis,” waving his hagd. "All of them? The two white men - gjgof" - - •' - /■' ' ——- Schultz repeated the question, and Block answered, never once removing his eyes from mademoiselle. "He know not what became of der little man; he see him not for long while, but der big man he go mit der Injuns—yaw, he tells dem der way,* an’ talk all der time.” “We have got the situation clear enough,” concluded Brady, coolly. "Whoever that red-coat is, he evidently knows the best way to this island, and the fix we’re in. So far as I can see there is nothing left us but to. fight. We can’t get away now; the boat is useless, and those Injuns have blocked the ford. That's exactly where they are now, watchin’ fer us to attempt to cross. The only question is: Where can we bold out the longest? I’m fer goin’ back to the house.” "And I also,” I said, deciding lnstant : ly, and as quickly assuming command. “There Is small chance of our holding out long against those follows, but

The MAID of the FOREST

By RANDALL PARRISH

well do the best we can. What about you, mademoiselle?” "I go with you" she answered quietly. • “Against your own people?” “Those are not my people! They are outlaws, renegades, led by the murderer of my father.” “Then let us go back; every moment lost will count against us. Pick up the packs. Brady, you lead off; Schultz, take care of the preacher and keep his tongue still.” \ The house was exactly as we left It, a few red embers on the hearth alone shedding spectral light about the main room, as we groped our way forward. There were heavy wooden bars to fit across the doors, and 1 secured these as soon as I deposited my pack on the floor.

“Mademoiselle,”.! said, staring about at the blank walls in some perplexity. “Ypu know this place better than any of us; surely it was not erected here in the wilderness without some provision for defense in case of attack. Are those rtalls solid?” “No, monsieur; they were made tight, so no gleanr'uf light would ever show without, but there are gunports here—see.” ' She slipped aside a small wooden shutter, fitted ingeniously between the logs, revealing an opening sufficient for a rifle barrel. —“There are four along this wall,-and as,many opposite. At the rear you must stand on the bench, so as to fire above the shed roof.’' “Leave that preacher alone, and open them up, Schultz,” I commanded sharply. “There is not light enough here now to show without. Now, Brady, see if there are any extra guns in the Bhack, or ammunition. Lay everything out .here convenient. A rifle? Good! We’ll give that to our Moravian friend; he may be opposed to war on principle, but, by all the gods! he’ll fight now, if Schultz can pound the truth into him. What is that, mademoiselle? Powder and ball in the big chest; show Brady where it is. This isn’t going to be such a one-sided affair after all. Five of use, counting Block, who may not know which end of the gun to point. I am going to scout outside and see when those fellows cross over.” Brady shaded his eyes to stare across aL me through the gloom. “Yoii’d better let me go.” “No; I'll try it alone; get everything ready, and leave the bar down.” “You will be careful, monsieur?” There was an unconcealed note of anxiety in the voice that caused me to glance back at her quickly in surprise. “Be assured of that, mademoiselle,” l returned. “I know the duty of an ally,” and stepped without, closing the door behind me.

CHAPTER XI. I Fight a Red-Coat. Convinced that my coming had not been perceived, and that no Indian

His Lips Gave Vent to One Wild Cry.

scouts were watching the cabin, I pressed forward into the depths of the woods, obliged to proceed slowly because of the darkness. So cautious was I, lest some noise might betray my presence, that I was some moments in parsing through the fringe of' trees to where I could obtain view of the lake, and the dark line of shore opposite. I had advanced for perhaps a hundred yards, passing beyond where we had attained land the evening before, when I suddenly came to a halt, sinking to my knees, and staring forward acifss a slight opening in the forest growth. At first I was not sure that what I saw was actually a man, but as the object moved toward me, all doubt vanished. He was not only a man, but a white man; at least he was not clothed as an Indian; and, as he stepped forth Into the open, more clearly revealed tor an instant, I could have sworn that he wore a uniform coat, with buttons that gleamed dully in the twilight. He looked a giant, a great, hulking outline, but stepped

THE EVENING REPUBLICAN, RENSSELAER, IND.

D. J.LAVIN cofm/Grrr a.c.m?cu//?g &. c0.,/j&

lightly enough, not the slightest sound betraying his cat-like movements as he came steadily onward, with head bent forward, his rifle advanced. I felt sure of his, identity almost at once; surely he could be no other than the British agent, whom mademoiselle held guilty of her father’s murder, the man who masqueraded under my own name. I felt my blood grow hot with anger. He would pass within a yard of me; he was alone, seeking his way, endeavoring to plan how he should lead his savages to an assault If I could get him it would be half the battle.

I watched him closely, peering about the smooth bark of the tree, one foot advanced ready- for a spring. Some instinct of wild life must have told him of my presence, for he stopped still, peering about suspiciously, his rifle flung forward. I dared not delay, yet swift as I was, his quick eye caught my movement. The gun butt swinging through the air met his rifle barrel, slid along the steel, and struck a glancing blow. He reeled back, dazed, half stunned, dropping hie own weapon, yet seizing the muzzle of mine to keep from falling. I endeavored to jerk it free, but he hung to it desperately. Scarce knowing how it was dope, we were together, grappling each other, the disputed gun kicked aside under our feet.

—Heswore once/a mad English oath, but I choked it back, clutching his throat in iron grip, straining to force him to the fulcrum of my knee. Then he found grasp of my hair, hurling my head back until the agony compelled me to let go. I struck him square in the face, a blow that ' would hate dropped an ordinary man, but he only snarled, and closed in, grappling my wrist with one. hand, the ether fumbling for a knife at his belt. By God’s mercy I got it first; yet could not strike, for he had me foul, gripped to him as if held in a vise. 1 could feel the muscles of his chest, the straining sinews of his armß as they crushed me. I gave back, down, my limbs trembling beneath the force with which he flung the whole weight of his foody against mine. I had met my match, and I knew it. Yet the knowledge gave me fresh strength, fiercer determination. The very conception of defeat crazed me; my brain held no thought save a mad impulse to conquer him, show him who was the better man!

I wrenched aside, breaking that strangle-hold by sheer strength and wrestling skill. Again we gripped, face to face, our muscles straining as we sought advantage of hold. My hunting shirt gave, tearing apart like brown paper, giving me a scant second as his grasp slipped. It was enough, I had him locked at my hip; yet strain as I would fala weight baffled every effort. Back and forth we struggled, crushing the bushes under foot, our breath coming in sobs, every muscle aching under the awful strain. Neither dared loosen a finger grip. Our eyes glared Into each other with savage hate. How it would have ended God knows, had the fellow not slipped on the brush root, so that the added weight’ of my body flung him headlong. Even as he went over, bearing me along with him, his bead crashing Into the side of a tree as he fell, his lips gave vent to one wild cry. Then he lay still, motionless, a huge black shape outstretched on the ground in the ghastly light of dawn.

I got to my knees, scarcely realizing what had happened, peering down into the. upturned, face, one hand raised to strike if the man moved. There was not a motion. I bent lower—the eyes were closed, blood dripped from his hair, I turned the head, bo as to better perceive the features —surely this was not the man for whom I had been mistaken! He wae big enough, but marked by dissipation, and wore a black mustache. As I live there) was not a, -resemblance. Who was he then? I got to my feet and searched out my rifle in the tangled brush. Some noise reached me—the splash of water, the echo of a far-off voice. They were coming, tha Indians; they had heard his laet cry ; they were already crossing the ford. I hesitated an instant, staring down at him, listening intently that I might be sure, then, turned and nttt swiftly toward the clearing. It was already gray dawn, and even in the dense woods 1 could Bee to avoid the trees. Behind me rang out a wild whoop of savagery; they had the body! I glanced back across my shoulder, as I ran; burst fortbnnto the clearing, and, reckless of all else, raced for. the house. I fell once, my foot slipping on a hummock, but w in up instantly! plunged at the door, and leaped within. Brady caught me, thrust the wooden bars down into their eockets, and half dragged me over to the bench. “What is it?” are they coming?" he asked. ' * - It was darker in there than outside, and I could barely perceive his face.

"Yes,” I panted. "They are-Just behind me. I —l had to run for it Get—get to the stations; I'll—l'll tell you later what happened out there.” He left me, and my eyes, accustoming themselves to the gloom, began to discern objects in the room.: I got to my feet, still breathing heavily from exbaastlop. yet with brain active.

Brady was close beside me, kneeling on the floor, his eye at an opening between the logs. “See anything?” f “There are figures moving at the edge of the wood,” he answered, without glancing around, “but they don’t come out so I can tell what they look like. The way your clothes are torn you must have had a fight?” "I did—*with the big fellow in a red jacket. He’s lying out there with a cracked skull. That ie why those fellows don’t know what to do —they’re short a leader.”

I got to my feet, and stared about, seeking mademoiselle. She was beyond the table, and our eyes met. “You—you killed him, monsieur?” ~ “I do not know; I threw him, his head struck against a tree, and he lay still. I had to run; only he was not your man, mademoiselle; he looked no more like me than you do.” “You—you are sure?” “Yes; I saw his face. It was lighter out there, and he lay. flat on his back. He was big enough, if anything larger even than I am, and gave me a fight for it until his foot slipped. He had black hair and mustache, an 9 his face was full of purple veins. He looked French to me.” “Yet wore a red coat?”

“Ay! and swore in English, the one oath I heard. You know anyone like that?” There was a shot without, and the chug of a ball as it struck against the logs; -then another, and Brady’s voice tense with strain: “They’re goin’ to try it, an’ ther’s sure some Injuns out ther; the whol* edge o’ the woods is alive with ’em. Get ready now! This ain’t goin’ ter be no slouch o’ - a fight.” I sprang across to the nearest opening, yet stopped to be sure of the arrangement within. The gray light stealing in through the small firing holes failed to give distinct view across the room.

“Where are you Schultz?” “Here mit der front/’ 1 / "Oh, all right; what has become of your friend?” “He vas to load; he do dot, but not fight. MaybAdof help some, don’t it?” I saw thd man then, his white face showing dimly, and before him three rifles lying across the table. “You found more guns?” Brady glanced aside to answer. “The girl did; she knew where they were—-ah! now the rumpus has be-, gun!” Reports, blending almost into a volley, sounded without, the thud of lead striking the logs in dull echo. One stray ball found entrance, splintered an edge of the bench, and flattened out against the stone chimney. I dropped to one knee, my eyes at the opening.

CHAPTER XII. f We Meet Them With Rifles. Small as my peek hole was, just large enough to admit a rifle barrel, it yet afforded clear view to east and south of the house. As I gazed, striving to determine what the various movements meant, and from which direction to anticipate final attack, an Indian crept out into the open, crawling on his stomach like a snake through the grass.. Others followed, until a dozen wriggling forms began to advance inch by inch, hugging the ground so closely I could scarcely perceive their movement. I heard a slight sound within, as Brady quietly thrust forward his rifle. “Wait a moment,” I called to him, not venturing to glance about, but holding up one hand in warning, "it is a long shot yet, and we muet make every one tell. Wait until the first fellow is half across; then pick your man. Who is at the loophole beyond us?” "It is I, monsieur.” “You, mademoiselle! Hadn’t you batter let Schultz take that place?” ' “An* why, monsieur?”—the soft voice coolly indignant. “Am I afraid? Am I unable to shoot? Why should 1 not stay?” "Those are Indians,” I began, “1 thought—” "Bah! My people! Those robbers and cowards. I told you there is no Wyandot among them.. You will see, monsieur.” “All right then. I take that first one and you pick the two to the left. Fir# when I give the word. Schultz lay oui one of those extra guns beside each of u*. Ready now; the fellows Who are not hit will jump and run for the woods as soon as we fire; give them a second shot before they can reach cover.” “Ready now!" I commanded sharply. 'Let them have it—fire!'V drO BE CONTINUED.}

Old Beliefs Lost.

Pew are the beliefs and still fewsi the superstitions of today. We pretend to account for everything until we do not believe enough for the humanity so essential to moral discipline. The phantasmic age has long been unfurnished of all its ingenious garniture. That glowing day has set. leaving pone of its ethereal hues ip our old twilight. We hare lost soma thing for which we have no substitute

THE TURNING POINT IN TED’S LIFE Bess Osten (character singer)— Morning all! Say, friends, I’d-like to give you the pleasure of meeting my Uttle friend, Teddy Cannon. Step right ap, Teddy. Meet Dad Wadell, Algy, Ella Gaylord, Tom Frazee an’ Bess Osten.

Ted Cannon (a song writer) —How d’, how d’! . Bess Osten—Just a few words about Mr. Cannon, people. Ted Cannon Is the song writer from Chi that made the big strike last month with his number everybody’s usin’, “There’s a Pump in the Place of the Old Oaken Bucket.” And some number! If any of you ain’t using the song in your act get a copy from Ted. You’ll get a dozen bows with it where you used to get a chill. Notice the harmony arrangement and the heart sthff running right through the verses. Ella Gaylord (a single)—l wouldn’t be looking for a booking now if that tin pan composition hadn’t come across my path an’ knocked me over. 'Pom Frazee (a producer)—What do you mean, Ella; did the number get you in bad?

EHa Gaylord—Didn’t you ever hear it, Tom? Awful! Lyric and music trying to see which can be the worst. 20 years ago. Dad Wadell (who knew Booth —by sight)—l remember 20 years ago. Tom Frazee—So the boy’s Bong is a punkqrino,- eh? Ella Gaylord—Cost me the savin’s of a season. When I started out in my new act making six changes in ten minutes I was hooked Into using his number by a man from his publishers. When I sang the song on my opening night at the Fourteenth street house the crowd gave me the death signal. I tried to live It down and get my other across, but I was doomed. Even the orchestra gave me the laugh, and

*Td *ate to See *!m Try' It Geqrge, the leader, is a personal friend of mine, too. Algy—l’m mighty glad It ’appened to you before I might 'ave tried It. Dad Wadell —When in doubt about a vocal selection always use "The Last Rose of Summer," and pick a rose apart as you sing it. Tom Frazee—That’s good, Dad. Only been used seven million times, but it always brings the hands. Ted Cannon —So y' lost out on account of my number, eh? What’s your regular line —comedy or dramatic? Bess Osten—Not much of either, Ted. The girl should never have been allowed to kill your song. That booster must have been mad to allow it Tom Frazee—Don’t say that girlie. EUa has done some fine work in some of my companies. In our last show she handled the feature number and got eight and ten recalls on it Cleff ft Staff, the publishers, put her face on the cover of the second million. Dad Wadell—l remember another old song— Bess Osten—Tell them how I put your song across back in Chi, Ted. After the first night I sang it 4,000 cabaret workers and every vaudeville act in town fought for the right to use It Two hundred bands and orchestras featured it Why? I started it in the right way. Believe me, there’s a great chance for a real singer in that song, ft’s foil up with sentiment Dad Wadell- 'Sentimental ditties are my favorites. 1 remember — Bess Osten—This one would get you all right, Dad It's got the pathetic idea that makes y’ breathe heavy at first, then start to swaller hard, then blink and fleck s tear off each cheek. Dad Wadell —l’m glad to meet the composer of rush a work, Mr. Cannon. A gentleman who uses his talent in such an elevating way is to be admired. -I remember — , Algy—l*4 ’ate to see Tm try it across the puddle, ol’ chap. . Ella Gaylord—and to think that the night I used it there were if managera in the house to give my act the once over. I think they all realized it was the song, though. y Tons Frasoo—Poor little EUa. It

AT THE BOOKING OFFICE OFF-STAGE COMEDIES

By Will Bradshaw

they think it wasn’t the song 11l pat them hep the first time we meet. Bess Osten—You know, Dad, it tells about a girl that was born and raised on a farm and had to do all the work on the place, especially hoist ap thou* sands of gallons of water every day in the old oaken bucket for the cows and pigs and everything like that. She decides to skip to the big town and be a real lady for a change. She meets a s millionaire in town and he marries * her. Twenty years later she gets to thinkin’ about the old folks and the old oaken bucket and she and the husband and their children decide to hunt up the place again. They drive ont in their tourin’ car one day, but everything looks changed. She eaa’t find the old oaken bucket, and where the house stood is now a big cheese factory. Over the old well is a steam pump, run by a stranger. Then she gathers her husband and children around her and tells them the story. Ain’t that clever? Algy—W’y didn’t she go back sooner,.! awsk? Dad Wadell—lt's a lesson for foolish girls who leave the old domicile. Bess Osten —Do yon know, Ted need to be the best comedy writer in the business until two years ago? Ho wrote the hit, "Daddy’s On the Wagon Once> Again.” Then he lost Louisa and turned to sad staff. Algy—’E lost a Louise, did y* s’y? ' Bess Osten—Yep. Ted was engaged to a charmin’ little actress named Louise. She played in all the Mg shows two years ago. She got acquainted with Ted when he was called In to write her restricted numbers. It was love at first sight for both of them, and even the invitations were out, when— Algy—She up an' died, Fll go y’? Bess Osten—As far as Ted was concerned, yes. She met an old sweetheart of hers she thought was dead, and married him. Now she’s running a delicatessen store on Forty-seventh

Across the Puddle, OF Chap.” street while he works at his trade. And the worst it is the girls who meet her say shell happy. Can you beat It? Passing np a man who could walk her past the tleket taker of any show shop in town for a gink that can’t afford the parquet in a nickel show. Algy—So that’s ’ow he lost ’is ’earl for writin' comedy, eh? Dad Wadell—Oftentimes such a shock kills entirely the inspiration in a man. I remember a ease — Tom Frazee—Tough luck, - tough lack, Ted, m’ boy! Bess Osten—But it all turned out for the best Ted’s going to marry mo the last half of next week. Watch your mall for the invites. HeU soon be in the mood once more to turn out the comedy numbers. In the meantime I knock ’em off the seats with the season’s sensational hit “There’s a Pump in the Place of the Old Oaken Bucket” Booking Agent (entering) Say, there’s an act put here wants a copy of Ted Cannon’s “pump” song. (Copyright. ISI4, by W. Q. Chapman.)

Potato Juice Used for Curing Pain,

Potato juice as a remedy for sprains, lumbago, gout, rheumatism and bruises is recommended by Da. Heaton 6. Howard of London in an article is the Lancet He cites numerous cases in his own practise- in which the pain has been relieved quickly, sometimes by the first application and the fluid that has exuded into the joint or the membrane has been absorbed within a few days. Potato juice is used as an ointment, a liniment or a plaster. The raw potatoes are squeezed in a hydraulic press; the starch and nitrogenous matter are removed and the juice Is boiled down until it is made five times M strong aa when fresh; glycerine Is added to preserve It.

On With the Dance.

"You insist on having the members of your family learn to dance?” "Yes," replied Mr. Groweher. "So lohg ss I see them dancing I know they’re not singing qgter songs or reading insidious novels*'