Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 273, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 17 November 1915 — Page 3

THE LYNCHING BEE

By H. S. WATSON.

“Come out, sheriff! Give up your prisoner!'* yelled the mob. John Artemus looked out of the window of his little home The mob had already battered down the flimsy doors at the entrance to the prison yard. They stood without, an infuriated crowd, awed temporarily only by the fear of the unknown. John Artemus was as much feared as he was respected. He was the man to spring a surprise on them. They hesitated, but they did not cease yelling. It was six o’clock in the afternoon. The militia, for which the sheriff had telephoned upon receipt of news that the mob was on its way, could not arrive till midnight. John Artemus looked out. Two rooms away his little daughtei accustomed to the cries of the prisoners, and knowing nothing what this new outburst portended, was playing with her dolls. A wonderful collection Dorothy had, ranging from life size to the regular ten-cent doll, but all were equally cherished by her. She was the heart of the sheriff's life, and had been since her mother died in giving birth to her. “Come out!” the mob was howling. John Artemus unlocked the door and stood upon the steps of his house, confronting the mob boldly. “Boys,’ - he began, “you want Jim Sandford?’ “Yes, and we mean to have him!” shouted their spokesman “Beat up old Mrs. Rogers and stole her ten dollars. We’ll fix him!” “There has never been a lynching In Custer county," the sheriff began. “We’h have one now,” said the other. The crowd had shrunk back at first, thinking the sheriff was armed, but now, concluding that he was not, they began to press forward about him. They saw the look of indecision on his face. John Artemus was cowed. A yell arose again. The sheriff held up his hand. •‘l’ll bring him out to you,” he said. “No tricks, mind! The Jail’s surrounded. You’d better play fair, or we’ll burn down the place.” “Give me five minutes.” “We’h come and get him.” “There’ll be no jail-breaking when I’m in charge,” retorted Artemus, his face assuming that look which had cowed the mob before. “I’ll defend it

Cowered in Terror.

to the last. Be sensible, men! If I bring your prisoner out to you—” "You can have five minutes, then,” retorted the leader, taking out his •watch. In his cell the wretched negro, hearing the clamor and knowing what it portended, cowered in terror. He heard .the cries cease and begin again. Then he heard footsteps, the door of his cell snapped open, and Artemus appeared. “Save me!” pleaded the wretched man. / “Come with me,” answered the sheriff. He rushed him along the passage and through his house into the little garage where his car was waiting. He pushed the negro inside. “Crouch down, and not a sound!” he whispered. He went back into the house, where his lit de girl was still playing. "It’s time for you to go to bed, Dorothy ’ he said. The little girl began to put her dolls together. “.Never mind. I’ll do that tonight,” he said. Outside the crowd was waiting. Their leader, watch in band, counted the half-minutes. The time seemed to pass with incredible slowness. At last the five minutes were up. The' mob advanced. “Come along, sheriff!” shouted their leader again. There was no answer. He hammered upon the door. “Time’s up!” he yelled. And, as no reply came, he began battering at the panels. The mob, suspicious of trickery, brought forward the plank with which they had smashed down the outer doors. “Watch the back!” yelled their leader, as the sudden sound of a cranking engine reached their ears. A concerted rush to the back doors was made. But before the mob reached them they swung wide open. There was a moment’s pause—and out sped the sheriff’s machine. In it the sheriff and the grotesque form of the panloetricken negro.

So sudden was this AU&suver that the mob was taken aback. The rush of the automobile scattered them; shots were fired, but in the darkness they went wide. The machine, gathering momentum, sped down the road. For a moment or two Sheriff Artemfis breathed freely as he sped down the road. Then the cries, which had grown faint, began to become louder again. Casting a hurried look back he saw the headlights of distant cars pursuing him. So the mob had come in automobiles! Everything seemed to have been foreseen. He let out his machine to the full. He believed that he could outdistance his pursuers. He heard faintly the crack of revolvers behind him, but the bullets did not reach him. He was distancing them. At the bend of the poad, five miles from the prison, he saw only tiny, distant flashes of light, Indicating the presence of the pursuing machines. He slowed down until he saw their lights swiftly approaching, and, with a roar and a rattle of his engine, started again. Yells of triumph pursued him. The bullets clove the air about him. He put on speed. The distance remained about the same. Then slowly he began to draw ahead of them. He led them a dance that night that was never forgotten. Mile after mile was reeled off, until the gasoline began to fail. 'Three counties were crossed. Still the sheriff sped on, and the pursuers, trailing off, began to lose hope. Then the sheriff would slow down and wait for them. They caught him at dawn. Only one car had followed him, but in it were the leader of the lynching party and three of the most determined. By the faint light they saw the sheriff and their victim. “Surrender!” they yelled, and Sheriff Artemus held up his hands. A rope was brought out and, looped, flung round the throat of the grotesque figure in the car. One end was fastened to a limb of a water oak. Amid a chorus of yells the figure, Jerked from its place at the sheriff’s side, swung swiftly aloft. The revolvers were emptied into it. Sheriff Artemus suddenly pulled a revolver with either hand and covered the little group of four. The leader turned to him with a puzzled look. "Say, what’s the game, sheriff?” he asked. “It’s over now.” “Get into your car and drive slowly ahead,” answered Artemus. “I can outrace you, and I’ll shoot every man who doesn’t sit quiet. You’re going to drive to the jail at Ransome First, look at that tree again.” They looked, and, in the gathering light, saw the grotesque figure of Dorothy’s rag doll with the negro face swinging sardonically from the limb. “I dropped Jim Sandford twenty miles back,” announced the sheriff softly. “Hop in, gentlemen, if you want to get to Ransome alive.*' (Copyright, 1915, by W. G. Chapman.)

WAYS OF PICKING HUSBANDS

Maidens Have Various Methods, Some of Which Would Seem to Border on the Ludicrous. To ninety-nine girls out of a hundred the most important duty in life is choosing a husband. Methods of choice vary a good deal, of course, chiefly perhaps as between town and country-bred maidens. To the town or suburban girl a man’s clothes count almost for everything. The bride is to the best dressed. The cut of a coat or the color of a cravat weighs more with Clara than character. Her country cousin, on the other hand, knows better than to pin her faith to a tailor’s dummy. She Is guided in her choice by more than occult signs. By agitating with her hand the water in a bucket she can see the image of her future spouse. If she desires confirmation she has only to throw broken eggs over a friend’s head and the same image will appear. The peasant girls of Russia arrive at a similar result by seating themselves in front of a small looking glass in a semidark room, when a vision of their future lord and master will be certain to present itself. Once a year an exceptional opportunity occurs. At twelve o’clock on Christmas eve every girl who can contrives to steal out in order to ask the first man she meets his name. Whatever he gives is that of the bridegroom-to-be.

Pressed for Time.

Mrs. Hooligan was suffering from the common complaint of having more to do than there was time to do it in. She looked up at the clock and then slapped the iron she had lifted from the stove back on the lid with a clatter. “Talk about ‘tolme and toide waitin’ for no man,* ” she muttered as she hurried into the pantry; “there’s toimes they waits an’ toimes they don’t Yistherday at this blessed minit ’twas but tin o’clock an’ today it’s a quarther to twilve.”

Street Car Etiquette.

Right back of you in the street car is another seat in which other persons may be riding. If you forget to lay your am over the back of your own seat and also to fold your pvercoat back of your seat you may not cause sufficient annoyance to your neighbors in the rear. In that event they may spread their newspapers and magazines in such a way as not to tip your hat and tickle your ears. One cannot be too careful about street ear discourtesy. It might go out of fashion at any minute.—Los Angeles Times.

THE EVENING REPUBLICAN, RENSSELAER. IND.

SALMON WITH BOILED EGG

Delicious Trifle for Hostess to Serve to Guests at Formal or Informal Luncheon. A salmon sandwich Is a tempting article of food, and should be half mixed with chopped boiled egg and very thin slices of olives and pickles. The wise hostess will make two different kinds of sandwiches, some with the mixture moistened with vinegar or lemon juice, others without, for many persons cannot eat acids. Practically all meat sandwiches are extremely rich, and strong condiments are used in the filling, especially mustard and catchup. While white meat makes a delicate sandwich, darker meats mixed with mayonnaise and other relishes are snore appetizing in every way. When hot sandwiches are served at a noonday luncheon at home, the contents of the sandwich should be placed between the layers of bread and fried, or the bread toasted and covered with a cooked meat filling, then covered with buttered toast and served hot

ECONOMY IN THE LAUNDRY

Savings May Seem Small, but Amount to a Lot in the Course of a Year. \ Soft water for use in laundry work, saves soap, clothing, time, energy and money. Buying soap by the box is more economical than buying it by the quarter’s worth. Removing the soap from the box, and piling it in such a way that it will dry, causes it to wash away less rapidly, and therefore to last longer, than if not dried. Having a firm, substantial washbench, of a height suited to the worker,,so constructed as to hold the tubs securely in position, saves time and energy. A good stationary wringer, or one which is so made as to be clamped securely to the tub, is a necessity. When through using the wringer, loosen the screws to relieve the pressure on the rubber rollers; wash clean, wipe dry and put it away where it will keep clean until needed. Occasionally cleaning the wringer with kerosene, and the washing with soapsuds, rinsing and drying, tends to keep it in good condition.

Unique Salad and Dessert.

Extra mayonnaise is served in a half lemon skin that has been relieved of the pulp and had a slice cut from the end so it stands upright. It may also be covered with a fluted paper cap. The yokes of hard-cooked eggs may have pepper, salt, olive oil, a dash of Worcestershire sauce added to them and mixed to a paste, then formed into small balls, roll them in powdered nuts and drop them into the salad, using the rings of white for the garnish on top. For the simple home luncheon the ordinary pancake may do duty for dessert.

Delecto Fruit Salad.

. Halve and seed one cupful of California white or red grapes and mix with one cupful of stoned cherries, two oranges cut in small pieces, one chopped tart apple, two diced bananas, one-half cupful of chopped celery and one cupful of chopped nuts. Chill thoroughly and serve oh lettuce with the following dressing: Mix one cupful of sugar, one tablespoonful of flour, two tablespoonfuls of melted butter, one well-beaten egg, the strained juice of one lemon and two cupfuls of boiling water together. Stir over the fire until the mixture thickens, then cool.

Kitchen Hints.

If an ordinary white pin is held between the teeth while peeling onions it will do away with forced weeping. If you want only a little bread crumbs and are not a provident housekeeper with a jarful ready rub two stale bread crusts together over a bowl until enough is rubbed off. This saves time and trouble of getting out board and rolling pin.

Corn Puffs—Luncheon Dish.

Mix one and one-half cupfuls canned corn with one cupful milk and yolks of two eggs beaten; stir one rounding teaspoonful baking powder into one and one-half cupfuls. pastry flour and one-half teaspoonful salt. Fold in the beaten whites after the other ingredients are thoroughly mixed. Bake in gem pans 20 minutes in a moderately hot oven.

Fried Rice.

One cup of rice in three pints of boiling water. Add pinch of salt and boll rapidly for half an hour. Drain thoroughly in colander, then put the rice two inches thick into dish, put a weight on top and allow to become cold. Cut into slices and dip alternately into crumbs and eggs, and fry In deep hot lard. This is nice served with meat gravy or sirup.

When Food Is Too Salty.

It is an easy matter to drop tou much salt in the potatoes or peas. To remove the salt stretch a clean cloth over the vessel and sprinkle a tablespoonful or more ot flour oh the cloth and allow the contents to steam. In a short time th flour will have absorbed the salt.

Oyster Cocktail.

Select six small oysters, season with lemon juice, one teaspoonful of table sauce and add salt sparingly; serve in grapefruit .

ITALIAN BIG GUN IN THE ALPS

One of the heavy guns with which the Italians have been battering the Austrian fortifications in the Tyrolese Alps. Elevated to an angle of 45 degrees, it can drop a shell with accuracy some fifteen miles away.

SNIPER’S GRIM WORK

Sharpshooter’s Bullet Has Spex cial Formidableness. For Hours the Sniper Patiently Waits for the Opening of a Loophole or the Sight of a Cap. British Headquarters. —It would be Interesting, if such a calculation were possible, to classify the agencies to which the total daily casualties are due. Whatever the statistics might prove, the most formidaale agency is still the sniper’s bullet. It is possible, perhaps even probar ble, that the majority of British casualties would be found to be attributed to shell fire. It might be found that along a particular line of trench the bulk of the men are knocked out by hand grenades. But the sharpshooter’s bullet has a special formidableness of its own such as is enjoyed by no other weapon. . The shell, the rifle grenade, the trench mortar at least give some warning to the ear; the bomb and the aerial torpedo are visible as they come through the air in daytime, and may frequently be dodged. The "listeners” are generally able to give some warning as to the operations and progress of hostile miners. The bullet alone is absolutely unobtrusive, instantaneous, and unceasing. One may take a certain amount of liberties, as it were, with shell fire. A single man, or even two men, provided that they are not obviously people of importance, may risk a walk along a stretch of ground in view of the enemy’s guns, simply because it is not worth a gunner’s while to shoot at every individual enemy he sees. No such familiarity is safe with a sniper. He is always on the lookout for unconsidered trifles, and all the more ready to fire that bls ammunition is so cheap and plentiful. This static trench warfare has largely curtailed the activities of the old type of sniper—of the sniper, that is to say, who concealed himself in some neat piece of cover and thence, with the aid of telescopic sights, picked oft individuals at a long range. And this, for two reasons. In the first place, as soon as the two armies realized that trench warfare was likely to last for months, they set to work very naturally to elaborate their defenses, and have largely defeated the sniper proper by the very elaboration and multiplicity of their communication trenches. And, secondly, the immobility of the front has meant that very many of the sniper’s haunts have gradually become found out and are so carefully watched as to be almost untenable. The old sniper has thus been forced more and more into the background, and finds it increasingly difficult to get anything like a good day’s bag. The other afternoon I. was with two snipers when they at last spotted a German sunning himself in a field. The distance was made out to be Just over 2,000 yards. Each of my companions was a well-known big game shot, and they each fired a couple of rounds at the enemy. The bullets must have gone uncomfortably near the mark, for, after each shot the man stared about him a puzzled movement, but he stalked off unhit. This was, of course, an extreme range, but the marksmen were exceptionally good, and their failure to find anything but so unpromising a target shows clearly enough that the only possible marks are frequently set at virtually impossible ranges. But, with the temporary extinction of the sniper proper, there has grown up a host of trench snipers, men who

are constantly firing at from 20 to 300 yards or whatever may be the ridiculously small distance separating the opposing lines. One of the bewildering features of the war is the daily publication of long lists at a time when there is nothing sufficiently important to Justify a British communique. Behind the rows of sandbags which face one another with such apparent purposefulness, there are the snipers who will spend hours waiting for the opening of a loophole, the sight of a cap or a hand incautiously raised above the parapet, the hoisting of a periscope, a shovel —anything which may betoken the least undue activity. There is a constant pitting of patient vigilance against ignorance, carelessness, or the sheer recklessness born of physical fatigue. The strain of being under shell fire may be more acute while it lasts, but, in the long run, it is the unintermittent crack of the bullet which Jars the nervous system most permanently. A man, whom I will call “A,” was admittedly one of the first half dozen rifle shots in Groat Britain. In the early days of the war his special value as a rapid flrer during the German attacks in masses was great. “A" was later put in a machine-gun section, and was finally killed while going to fetch water for the gun. That, surely, was a job which might have been detailed to a less valuable man. It would seem to be only common prudence that first-class shots should be carefully husbanded.

DESERT WRECKS A MINSTREL

Mule and Trained Dogs With OneMan Show Perish of Thirst. Pomona, Cal. —Hitched to a light wagon in the place of a faithful mule which perished in the desert, William Green, an old animal trainer from New Orleans, arrived here and appealed to Mayor Vandergrift for aid. He was sick and penniless. Green left New Orleans last March, headed for the San Francisco Exposition. He had a show wagon drawn by the mule. In the wagon were 18 performing dogs. Green himself was once a leading light of minstrelsy. The wandering minstrel raked in the money till he struck the desert in Arizona and then his fortune faded. His mule died of thirst. He bought a horse and it perished on the desert. His intelligent dogs, some of which were valued at SSOO, dropped off one by one. He says aid given by passengers of an overland train enabled him to get out of the desert with his own life.

OLDEST RED CROSS MEMBER

Is Pointed Cap, Canadian Indian, Who at 108 Sends Portrait to Canadian Premier. Ottawa, Can. — A novel picture has been received by Sir Robert Borden, the Canadian premier, and forwarded by him to the local Red Cross rooms. It is that of the oldest member of the Red Cross society in the world, and at that a western Indian, Pointed Cap. who belongs to the File Hills Indian reserve in Saskatchewan. He will be one hundred and eight years old on November 14 next. . The establishment of a branch of the Red Cross society for these Indians shows how deeply the people of all classes in the Dominion are interested in the war and eager to find a Way of lending assistance.

Flatiron Explodes and Injures Girls.

Berltnviße, O. —Edna and Bertha Jenkins, daughters of a farmer living near here, were painfully burned the other day, when a flatiron containing a heater fed with gasoline exploded in Miss Edna Jenkins’ hands.

SEES WAR MORS

Stretcher Bearer Gives Impressions of Life at Front Is Nearly Overcome by Sight of First Operation Till Given Slap by Surgeon—Dare Not Tell Man Truth. Villers-Cotterets.—We had just left the hospital and had reached the station. We were exchanging glances of joy and shaking hands, saying "Paris! We are going to see Paris again.” The train was waiting on a siding. We climbed into it; the hospital attendants placed us in our seats. There I heard a conversation that struck me more than has any other since the beginning of the war. One of the soldiers in our carriage, doubtless in a confidential mood that day, began to relate the impressions of his life as a military hospital attendant “It was in the early days of the war. I had received a commission as stretcher bearer in a hospital at Nice. The first wounded arrived; long trains were filled with them; they had lain on the straw of the cars throughout the interminable Journey across France in slow military trains, which were constantly delayed. Many died on the way; others were landed hero and there in heaps. How feverishly we had to work; there was not a minute to be lost. “I remember the terrible slap the head surgeon gave me the first day he entered the operating room, when 1 was ordered to hold a wounded soldier whose leg was being amputated. The odor, the cruel sight of the operation, caused me to turn as white as death, and I was about to faint. That blow brought me quickly to my senses. I have seen worre sights since! . “We spent some terrible moments of anguish there. We had no antitetanus serum; we had written and telegraphed everywhere for it. but the hospitals which had it kept it Jealously and it was impossible to obtain any. "I recall one of the finest men I have ever known, a charming comrade, who was wounded in the foot. His wound was not serious; at the end of two weeks it had healed. Then one night he felt a stiffness in his neck; his mind began to wander, his muscles to contract. He was done for. All we could do was to relievo his suffering. “Whenever a patient had an attack of this nature we dared not tell him what it was. He was sent to a special hospital; it wasn’t a hospital, it was a morgue. He went there to die. “Finally, one day we heard that serum could be procured at a fantastic price in Italy. The doctor immediately requisitioned the swiftest automobiles he could find in Nice. The next day we had sdrum and tetanus disappeared. “The recollection of this period is not more terrible than that of the days I spent in Arras as stretcher bearer during the fierce combats of Notre Dame de Lorette. I was there a month gathering the dead and wounded; witnessing the most terrible mutilations; my ears filled with the groans of men. The work was hard; we had to carry the men away on our backs, for the approaches were too narrow to permit of the use of stretchers. More than one died on my back. “I am old; I’m forty-six. I was taken from the trenches, and I am now one of the conductors of this train of wounded. “Day before yesterday we had a wounded soldier whose head was a mass of bandages, with a little hole in the place of his mouth. Another hospital attendant and I were curious enough to raise his bandage. His tag indicated that his nose and the lower part of his face had been torn away by the splinter of a shell. By luck he had not lost his sight. His wounds had been cleaned and disinfected; a piece of skin had been removed from his back and applied to his face; in this a round hole was made through which he was fed, and another through which he breathed. Liquid food was given him by means of a rubber tube. “And those poor unfortunates whose limbs have been amputated! I saw one whose two arms and a leg had been cut off. He had received more than 200 shell splinters; the greater part were small, like pinheads.” As we listened to this man, sad and serious, a fine tall Moroccan, who was wounded, got up from his seat. His eyes were filled with tears and he started to talk with fierce energy: “Why French take care boche wounded? After war they go home — have many children; begin war again with children, and war no good. French stupid. Boches, kill all, all bad men. When no more boches, no ; more war. That good.”

Professor Lost in Wilds.

Berkeley. Cal. Mrs. Genevieve Bridwell, wife of J. W. Bridwell, former entomologist at the University, of California, is on her way to the an tipodes in search of her husband, win went into the wilds of western Aus trails some months ago as the agen of the Hawaiian government in search of parasites to control insect pests. Professor Bridwell was last heard from when he sailed from Sydney, N. S. W.. for ports on the west coast of Australia, whence he expected to pro* ceed Inland.