The Syracuse and Lake Wawasee Journal, Volume 14, Number 41, Syracuse, Kosciusko County, 9 February 1922 — Page 2

The Qirl, a Horse and a Doq Bu FRAUCIS U}RDE Copyright by Charles Scribner's Sons

“SHE’S GONE, TOO!” Synopsis. — Under his grandfather'a will, Stanford Broughton, society idler,"finds his share of the estate, valued at something like ’j«v,ooo, lies in a “sate repository,” latitude anfi longtitude described, and that is all. It may be identt- , tied by the. presence nearby of a brown-haired, blue-eyed girl, a ple- . bald horse/ and a d°g with a split face, haif black and half. whiteStanford at first regards the be- . quest as a joke, but after cbnsider- ' ation sets out to find his legacy. • •On his way to Denver Stanford hears from a fellow traveler, Charles Bullerton, -a mining, engineer, a story having to do with a. "’ flooded mine. He has a “hunch„ .this mine is the "safe repository ’ of the will. Bullerton refuses him Information. On the station plat- . .fornv at Atropia, just as the train * pulls out, Stanford sees what appear to be the identical horse and. deg described in his grandfather’s will. Impressed, he leaves the train at the next stop, Angels. Unable ‘io secure a conveyance, Broughton • seizes a track-inspection car -and ’ escapes, leaving the ‘ impression on the town marshal, Beasley, that he js demented. Pursued, he abanf dons the car, which is wrecked, _> ftiid escapes on foot. In the dark.- * ness he is overtaken by the girl, the horse and the dog. After he . < explains his presence, shq invites *' him to her home, at the Old Cinnabar mine. . Broughton’s hosts are Hiram Twombly, caretaker of the ■imine, and his daughter Jeanie. . Stanford does not reveal his iden- • ” tity. Hiram and Stanford go put•;tering about the mine. Stanford gets interested .in the work and •falls in love with Jeanie, who saves his life. Bullerton shows up at the * mine. He offers $50,000 for the Cinnabar. Stanford says “No.”

CHAPTER IX—Continued. "Can you carry it any further?” “Nope; I reckon I can’t. There’s too thariy darned things a-puzzlln’ me. One of ’em is where in Sam Hill did Charley Bullerton get all the money that he’s flashin’ around so peacocky?” “I don’t know where he got it, but he has it, all right; carries it with him,” I said sourly. "Yes; but see here, Stannie, son, I’ll bet a flee dog worth a hundred dollars that it ain’t his money.” “What makes you say that?” “Well, for one thing, because I know Charley Bullerton; been knowln’ him since Adam was a little boy in kneObreeches. die can’t keep any money of his own; just naturally ain’t built that-away.” “Gambles it?” I suggested. “Big gambles, yes; stocks and that sort o’ truck. No sir-ee; these yellerbacks he’s a-flashin’ around ain’t his’n, not by a long chalk, and I’d bet on it. Somebody else is sett'in’ ’em up; and If that’s so, Stannie, there’s a reason for it.” * “Sure,” I conceded. Then: “Could you make a long, high, running jump arid guess at the reason, Daddy?” “Not so X it’d hold together, I reckon,” he replied dubiously. “But there’s a few little notions ’at I’ve picked up from folks that’s older in this neck o’ woods than I am—been here longer. The old Cinpabar never was what you’d call a ’bonanza.’ Plenty of ore, to be sure, but, mostly low grade, ’cepting them rich little pockets now and then.” < “Those rich pockets,” I put in. “A strike of one of them woulld be about’ the right time to sell, wouldn’t it?” He nodded. “You’re shoutin’, now’. I reckon 1 that’s about how they caught your gran’paw. But Buddy Fuller —he’s the •Tropia telegraph operator and a sort o’ half-way nephew o’ mine— ; says there’s more to it than that. ’Long back couple o’ years ’r so there was a-copper strike made in Little Cinnabar gulch, about four mile west o’ here, and follerin’ it there was a heap o’ t:dk" about the railroad runnin' a hfanch to it. That there branch, if it was built—’r when It’s built, for it’s gpln’ to be, some day, to open them copper mines—that there branch ’ll go right along our bench within a hundred yards of the old Cinnabar; so close you could mighty near dump from the ore sheds into the cars.” I began to see more croOkings in the sacrificial road over which Grandfather Jasper had been led; many dore and more devious ones. “In that case, even the low-grade Cinnabar would come a bit nearer being a bonanza, wouldn’t it?” I asked. & “She sure would, Stannie. That long, hard wagon haul to ’Tropia was what was puttin’ the cuss in the cost o’ handlin’." ■“And with the railroad right at the door, so to speak, it might even pay to recapitalize at three-quarters of a million and drive that long drainage tunnel we have been figuring on?” “Somethin’ like that; yes. Can you see any furder into the millstone? I’ll say I’ve got about to the end of my squintin’.” , I refilled; my pipe and did a bit of cogitating. | Supposing I had been the boss figurfer in the bunch that did Grandfather Jasper the honor to bilk ' him; as conscienceless as that pirate, whoever he was, and in the secret of the conditions as Daddy had just outlined them,’ I have done?” • The answer came as • pat ■ as you please. With a railroad in prospect which would turn a small profit into a. big one, I should qtflte probably have shut the mine down to wait until I could hear the whistle of the locomotive. This Conclusion led promptly and logically to another. Supposing, at the moment when I had decided upon the shut-down, some doddering old gentleman had come along and offered to ‘buy the mine? Add, as a corollary, the supposition that the water problem Ml daily growing more insistent, with ultungi# throat of flood. A» an or-

dinary, garden-variety mining shark, what would I have done? That answer came pat, also. I should have taken the old gentleman’s money, trusting to the rising flood to make him sick of his bargain In due course of time and thus willing to sell out for anything he could get. “I believe I have it doped out,” I told Daddy at the end of the cogitating pause; and then I passed the inferences along to him. The immediate effect was to evoke a couple of his quaint substitutes for profanity. “Jeholachim-to-breakfast!” he exclaimed ; “I'll be dlng-swizzled if I don’t believe you’ve struck the true lead, Stannle, my son! If you have, here’s vyhat follers: Charley Bullerton’s here to do the dickerin’ for that same old hlgh-blndin’ Cinnabar outfit that did your gran’paw up. They sold for half a million ’r so and now they're willin’ to buy back for thirty or forty or fifty thousand. By Jezebel! I just knew that slick-tongued rooster was tryin’ to work some skin game!” “Yet he is going to marry your daughter,” I put in grimly. At this the old man turned gloomyserious in the batting of an eye, drawing his mouth down at the corner and sucking hard at the pipe which had long since burned out. “That’s been a-pinchin’ me like a tight boot, Stannle,” he admitted. “If you’d ast me afore he come, I’d ’a’ told you she hadn’t a morsel o’ use • for that con-dummed blowhard. But tjust you look at the way things are stackin’, up now! He’s snoopin’ ’round her mighty near all the whole time and she hain’t never once give me the. wink to send him a-kitin’, like I’m itchin’ to!” He told me to look. I had been looking until my eyes ached. ’ The ■ indications were all one way, tons of them; \ylth only one little impulsive kiss to put in the other pan of the scale. I didnLt tell Daddy about the kiss; but I did tell him that Jeanie had told me not to sell the Cinnabar. “So?” he commented, livening up a little. “That brings on more talk. Reckon you can make out to hang onto the old cow’s tall for a spell longer?” I took time to consider my answer. “I’ve been wondering .if, all things given their due footing, it were worth while to hang bn, Daddy. As matters stand now, Bullerton Is stuck unless I sell out to him. If I should take my foot in my hand and walk out, he’d be left up in the air. But, on the other hand, there’s Jeanie. If she's going to marry Bullerton, why, that’s, a horse of another color, I’m not enough of a dog-in-the-manger to bite her nose off to spite Bullerton’s face.” “Um,” was the grunted response. Then, with a side swipe that I wasn’t looking for: “Charley Bullerton’s been hintin’ ’round that you’re tied up with a girl back East. Is that so? —or is It on’y another one o’ his frilly lies?” I laughed. “I wish I knew, Daddy; I’d sure tell you ft I would anybody. We were really engaged—the back-East girl and I; but I don't think we are now, and' I don’t think she thinks so. Anyway, • she called it all off when we found out —or thought we found out—that my grandfather hadn’t left me anything in his will. She’s like Jeanie says she is, ’•you know: she’s got to marry money.” “Jus’ so,” he said, with a rather grim glint in the mild blue eyes. “All the same, if you had the old Cinnabar in slap-up workin’ order, I reckon you’d have to go back yonder and marry her, wouldn’t ye?” “I'd be in honor bound to offer to, anyway.” “That don't sound much like you was carin’ a whole lot for her,” he objected gravely. V I despaired in advance of making , him understand the lack of sentiment in the case, or the viewpoint from which any such condition could be considered as a human possibility. He was much too simple-hearted. So I got rid of the Lisette obstacle, or got around it, as best I could. “She has been free for several weeks, now; in all probability she is wearing some other fellow’s ring by this time. But about the Cinnabar: assuming" that my string of guesses Is hitched up to the true state of affairs, what would you advise me to do? Shall I hang on—with no prospect, that I can see, of getting anywhere on my own hook? Or shall I sell out to BulJerton and thus let your daughter in for a wife’s share of a possible fortune?” “Gosh-all-hemlock 1” he sputtered, “when you line it up that-away, I reckon I ain’t the man to tell you what to do!” Then, as upon a second and belated thought: “Jeanie says for you not to sell; if she said that to ipe, I’d hang on till the cows come* s nome. I would so!” I got up and knocked the ashes from my pipe. “And that, Daddy, is precisely what I’m going to do,” I said; and the saying of it ended the conference in the abandoned tunnel of the “Little Jeanie.” CHAPTER X. The Deep-Wells. The next morning I turned out at break of day, before anybody else was up, slipped into my clothes, straightened up my bunk, and dropped through the ladder hatchway to the main-deck. I had told myself that the reason for the daybreak turn-out was a desire to see if the railroad people really had been sufficiently in earnest about the proposed copper mine branch to make a survey for it; but the true. Underlying push was ft biting to have anything more to ton, or even to sit at Tiptoeing through.,tlfb common room, so as not to Hiram, I

broke into Jeanie’s kitchen and raided the cupboard for a bite of something to eat. There was plenty of bread, and some cold fried ham, and cutting a couple of generous sandwiches, I hiked out to make my breakfast in the open. The sandwiches disposed of, I began to quarter the bench Woodland back and forth, searching for some Indications of the railroad survey. In due time I found one of the location stakes, and from its facing and the markings on it, got the direction of the proposed line and was able to trace it for some distance along the bench. As Daddy had said, it ran within a few hundred yards of the Cinnabar claim, and a short sidetrack would make his suggestion perfectly feasible; our ore could be shot into.the cars w’lth but a single handling. From tracing the railroad survey, I edged around to take another look at the possibilities of the drainage tunnel Daddy and I had figured on. Going over the ground this second time," arid with some better knowledge of the difficulties, it appeared that we must have ridiculously underestimated the probable cost. Pacing the distances care-' fully, and guessing at the differences in altitude by the heights of the' trees, I saw that it wouldn’t be safe to count upon less than a mile of tunneling, and this, in the solid porphyry of Old Cinnabar,, find in a situation remote from the nearest base of supplies, would run —no, it wouldn’t run; it would fairly gallop into money.

Was this what meant to do if he could oust me? That he was utterly confident of Ids ability to drain the Cinnabar was evident. But how was it to be dojie? Would he, or his backers, be willing to spend a quarter of a million or more, and the better part of a year’s time, driving that tulle-long tunnel? The longer I thought about it, the larger the conviction grew that no such expensive expedient was to be resorted to. Bullerton, or his backers, or both, knew some other and far cheaper and more expeditious way of getting rid of the water. Sitting on a big rock that had in some former earth convulsion tumbled from the broken cliffs above the mine, I gave the mechanical fraction of my brain (it was a small fraction and sadly under-de-veloped) free rein. Two possibilities suggested themselves. A siphon, a big pipe, starting at the bottom of the shaft and leading out over the top and down tbe mountain to a point lower than the shaft bottom, would, after it was once started, automatically discharge a stream of Its own bigness, whatever that should be. But the cost of over a mile of such pipe was beyond my means; and it two six-inch pumps driven night and day had failed to make any impression upon the flood, what could be expected of a siphon which, in the nature of things, couldn’t be much bigger than an ordinary street water main? The other possibility was even lessf hopeful. It was the driving of a short tunnel, which Daddy and I might undertake without additional help, from the level of the high bench straight in to an intersection with the mine shaft. This, I estimated, might tap tite wtfter at a point possibly twenty feet below its present level in the shaft. Its success, as I saw at once, would depend entirely upon the location and volume of the underground lake which was supposed to be supplying the flood. If this reservoir were shallow and high in the mountain, the short tunnel might drain it. If it were deep and low, nothing would be accomplished. The question was still hanging hopelessly up in the air when I made my way around to the mine buildings by the left-hand gulch path, sneaked in and began to shuck myself into Dad-

Illi Stw H liL— Hi- 'J' 1 1 ,1/1i L ■ ■ ; *

Raided the Cupboard for a Bite of Something to Eat. dy’s extra pair of overalls; just for what, I hadn’t the least Idea; only I needed to be doing something to keep, me from going completely dotty in the guessing contest. By this time, as I knew, they would te getting up from breakfast in the cabin across the dump head, which would most likely be Bullerton’s .cue to come over and ride me some more.' ..When I looked out in sour anticipation, here he came, smoking one of his high-priced cigars and swaggering a ffilt, as he always did in walking. ji^is. is your thlrty-thousand-dollar at me as

SYRACUSE AND LAKE WAWASEE JOURNAL

soon as he stepped over the threshold of the shaft house door; but I fancied I could notice that, some way, he didn’t seem quite so chipper and careless as he had the day before. “See here,” I ripped out; “what’s the use? You can’t buy this mine at any price! It’s not in the market and it isn’t going to be. Not in a thousand years I” “But see here; what’s the use of butting your head against a stone wall? You’re stuck, world without end, and you know it This flooded hole in the ground is of no more use to you than a pair of spectacles to a blind man!” “Perhaps not; * ’tls a poor thing, but .mine own.’ I guess I can keep it as a souvenir if I feel like it, can’t : I?” “Oh, h—1!” he gritted, and turning on his heel went away. After he had gone I patted myself on the back a bit for not -losing my temper and then, just to have an excuse for staying away from the cabin and the Bullerton vicinity, I mhde fires under the boilers and got up steam. In the former pumping spasm Daddy and I had operated only the two big centrifugals, ignoring the deep-well pumps designed to lift the water from the lower levels of the mine. Just to try something that we hadn’t tried before, I got steam on the deep wellers, am/ soon found that the machinery, which we hadn’t taken down in the general overhauling, needed tinkering before it would be safe to run it. Banking the boiler fires, I went at the job single-handed and managed to wear out the livelong day at it. It took me all the afternoon and then some to get the machinery cleaned and tinkered up and reassembled. In pawing over the supplies in the mine storeroom —stuff left by the former operators—we had found an acetylene flare torch and a can qf carbide and I rigged the torch so that I could go on working after dark. It was along about nine o’clbck when I got the deep-wells ready to run and freshened up the fires and turned the steam on. In curious contrast to the care which had been taken to provide a discharge outlet for the centrifugals, the Cornish pumps lufd merely an iron trough which ran to a ditch leading down to the bench below the mine buildings. After a few minutes of the clanking and banging, the water began to come. It was horribly smelling stuff, thick and discolored; evidences sufficient that it was coming from the bottom of the mine. The two pumps together were lifting about an eightinch stream,and It bfreurred to me at once that if’ I could set the centrifugals going at the same time, the mass attack might accomplish what the piece-meal assault couldn’t. Throwing in the clutch that drove the big rotaries, I ran up against what Daddy would htfve called a “circumstance.” There wasn’t power enough to drive both sets of pumps coupled in together; at least, not with the steam pressure the boilers were carrying. Thinking to get more power by pushing the fires a bit harder, I went to the detached boiler room to stoke up, leaving the deep wells clanging away in the shafthouse. I had fired two of the furnaces and was at work on the third when a series of grinding crashes in the machinery sent me flying to find out what was going wrong. What was happening—what had already happened—wa§ a plenty. As I have said, the great Cornish waterlifters were driven through a train of gearing. When I reached the scene, the steam' engine was still running smoothly, but the pumps had stopped. The reason didn’t have to be looked for with a microscope. .The gear-train was a wreck, with one of the wheels smashed into bits, and half of the cogs stripped from its mesh-mate, if that’s what you’d call it. Mechanically I stopped the engine and went to view the remains. The deep-wells were done so was, no question about that; they’d never run again until a new set of gears should be installed. That much determined, I began to look for the cause of the calamity. Naturally, I supposed that a cracked cog in one of the wheels had given way, and with this for a starter, the general smash would follow as a matter of course. But a careful and even painful scrutiny of the wreckage failed to reveal the cog with the ancient fracture. Each break was new and fresh and clean; there wasn’t a sign of an old flaw in any one of them. I think I must have knelt there under the gear train for a half-hour or more, handling the fragments of iron and fitting them together. It was like a child’s broken-block puzzle, and after a time I was able to lay all the larger bitswut upon the floor in their proper relation to one another. It was in the ground-up debris remaining that I found something which suddenly made me see red. Battered into shapelessness, but still clearly recognizable, were the crushed disjecta membra of our twelve-inch monkey-wrench! I tried not to go off the handle in a fit of mad rage. With a sort of forced calm I considered every beam and projecting timber where I might incautiously have left the wrench, and from which it might have jarred off to fall into the gears.- There was no such chance. I had used the wrench in reassembling the machinery, but now that I came to recall ,11 the circumstances, I distinctly remembered having put it, together with the other tools, on the little work bench of the engine. The alternative Conclusion was, therefore, fairly inevitable. While I was firing the furnaces somebody—and doubtless somebody who had been watching for the opportunity—had taken advantage of the moment when my back was turned and had thrown the wrench into the

It was the final straw. There was only one person on the Cinnabar reservation who could have any motive for wrecking my machinery; and white I .was banking the fires and setting things in order for the night. I charted my course, as the navigators say. The dawn of another day, I told myself, would schedule the ultimate limit. Unless he should prove to be a good bit quicker with his gun than I was with my fists, Bullerton was due to get the man-handling he seemed to be aching for; and beyond that, he’d quit the Cinnabar, if I should have to tie him on his horse and flog the beast half-way to Atropia. It was with this most unchristian design seething and boiling in my brain that I finally went over to the cabin, let myself in, and climbed stealthily up the loft 4 ladder to my blankets, and the next thing I knew, it was broad daylight, the sun was shining in at the little window over the head of my bunk, and from the kitchen at the rear a juicy and most appetizing odor of frying ham was wafting itself up through the cracks in the unchinked walls of my cubicle. CHAPTER XI. An Arctic Bath. It’s an old saying that coming events have a knack of foreshadowing themselves. White I was struggling into my clothes and reviving that overnight determination to have it out with Bullerton the mifiute I should lay eyes upon him, it struck me all at once that the house was curiously quiet. To be sure, somebody stirring and the

“No, She’s Gone, Too."

breakfast was cooking, but the premonition that something had happened was strong upon me when I descended the ladder. In the living room I found a mighty sober-faced old Daddy putting breakfast on tire table. “It’s just you and me for it, this mornin’, Stannle,” he muttered, laying plates for two; and his mild old eyes looked as if they were about to take a bath. “What!” I exclaimed. “Has Bullerton gone?” “Uh-huh; bright and early—’fore day, I reckon; leastwise, I didn’t hear him when lie went:” “But where’s Jeanie? She isn’t sick, is she?” He shook his head dolefully. “No; she—she’s gone, too.” “Not with Bullerton?” I gasped. “It sure does look that-away, Stannie. She left a liT note on the table for me, a-tellin’ me not to worry none, and savin’ I needn’t look for her till I saw her ag’in.” At first I could hardly believe my own ears. It was so incredibly out of keeping with Jeanie as I had been idealizing her. “Are you going after them?” I demanded.

SUFFER WHILE ON BOARD SHIP

Many People Really in Agony During Trip Made on Comparatively Calm Waters. Sir'George Trevelyan tells of crossing the English channel once in bad weather and that during the whole passage his companion stood on deck slowly reciting poetry with emphasis and gesticute tibn. His companion had explained that this singular practice had -been recommended to him as a preventive against seasickness. When they reached France he told Trevelyan that he had nearly got to the end of his English poetry, and if the crossing had been longer he would hate had to begin on other languages. Darwin suffered terribly from seasickness during the whole of his early voyage on the Beagle, and never quite recovered from the evil effects of this experience. His bad health during the rest of his life has been attributed to the shocks thus caused to his constitution. Another distinguished victim of seasickness was General Gordon. Dur* Inga voyage to Capetown from Mauritius in 1882 he described his suffering and misery as “far more severe than he had ever .during his lifetime experienced, either at-;.hQme, ; 'Xji" abroad.” Very bftetr'fife F&b&itea rfttf determination to on abore at thej

“What fort" was the despunueui query. “’Tain’t a morsel o’ use, any way you look at it. Jeanie’s a woman growed, and she don’t have to have the old daddy say she can, ’r she mustn’t. Besides, they was probably pitchin’ out to catch one o’ the early trains—there’s one each way, east and west —and them trains ’ve been gone a couple o’ hours.” Daddy had done his best with the breakfast, but I don’t recall any meal of my life that ever came so near choking me. I told Daddy about the smashing of the machinery, and the proof I had that it had been a piece of sabotage. "Reckon maybe he allowed you’d find out he done it and try a dogfall ’r somethin’ with him to pay him back?* Daddy queried. “I don't know,” I confessed. I went on eating in silence, or rather trying to eat, and turning over the puzzling and bad-tasting questionings in my mind. How could Jeanie go off with Bullerton, knowing him to be the scamp he was? And why, if she had been meaning all along to do this thing, had she blocked his game by telling me that I wasn’t to sell him the Cinnabar? It was in the midst of these reflections that I chanced to feel in the coat , pocket where I had been carrying the deed turned over to me by Daddy Hiram; and for the second time that morning I nearly choked. The pocket was empty! “What’s hit you now, son?” Daddy inquired; seeing my jaw drop, I suppose. “The last thing there was in the box that could fall out and hit me,” I gurgled. “Bullerton has stolen my deed to the Cinnabar!" "The mischief he has! Plum sure you hain’t lost it out o’ your pocket?” We made sure, without the loss of a moment ;> looking in my loft sleepingplace and in the mine buildings. The deed was gone, safely enough, and we both agreed that Bullerton had had plenty of chances to steal it. Wearing overclothes while I was working about the machinery, I had often left my coat hanging in the cabin. As a matter of fact, I hadn't worn it at all op the previous day. “Well, Daddy,” said I, after the prolonged search had proved futile, “where does this leave me?” Threshing the facts out. we soon found where it left me. Grandfather" Jasper,, as you may remember, had made no mention of the mine, or, indeed, of any legacy to me in his will as it had been probated; there was no need of it because he had already deeded the Cinnabar to me, and at the’ time of his death it was nc longer among his assets. Moreover, his lawyers had told Bullerton (according to Bullerton’s story told me in the Pullman smokeroom) that there was no record of any mining transaction whatever in his papers. Therefore, in the absence of the memorandum which my grandfather had given Cousin Percy—and which Percy had doubtless carried with him to China —there was nothing but the deed to show for my ownership; absolutely nothing. At that, the loss of the deed wouldn’t have been fatal if the document had been properly recorded. It hadn’t been. And now, with the unrecorded deed gone, there was nothing to prove that I had ever owned the Cinnabar. The loss was total—with no insurance. Daddy Hiram was shaking his head sorrowfully after we had run this last bunch of straw through the threshing machine. With things looking as blue' as the bluest whetstone that ever clicked upon scythe, we tried to settle upon some line of action. Copah was the county seat, and the obvious first step would have been for me to go there for a search in the county records for evidence of the'sate of the mine to my grandfather. But the minute I should show myself on the railroad, I’d be nabbed for the theft of that infernal inspection car. Daddy offered to go in my place, but that alternative didn't appeal to me at all. I knew perfectly well how helpless he’d be in any such lawyerlike search as would have to be made in the county recorder’s office.

“Climb your horse and get off the map!” (TO BE CONTINUED.) Thought Worth Pondering. It is a sad weakness in us, after all. that the thought of a man’s death hallows him anew to us; as if life were not sacred, too. —George Eliot. Life as I See It. It’s tough to want to soar and have no wings.—Louisville Courier-Journal.

very first port the vessel reached, qnd one morning, after a sleepless night of sickness, he called the captain to the side of his berth, and offered him £SO if he would make for land with all possible speed. Gladdens Antiquarians. A discovery which, it is asserted, will form one of the fundamental sources for a history of the Roman empire under Augustus has been made by Dr. Oliverio, an Itaian savant, in Cyrene, the ancient Greek colony of Africa, founded in the Seventh century. A I .on don Morning Post correspondent writing from Cyrene, says that excavations at Bengasi (the ancient Berenice, which stood in the midst of the gardens of the Hesperides, near the mouth of the River Lethe) have unearthed a block of marble eight feet long, one face of which bears a flawless Greek inscription of more than 100 lines. It Is the translation of a letter from Augustus on the government and administration of justice in Cyrenaica, giving -a wonderful’;,insight into the financial. .and judixfltd conditions . .of the country './at-. thiti time. • 7 'W-r- — : Thej?best antidote for the^,vices a ’ boy' comes up 'against nowadays is a wise and syiupathatlc mother.

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