The Syracuse and Lake Wawasee Journal, Volume 15, Number 15, Syracuse, Kosciusko County, 10 August 1922 — Page 2

The Big-Town Round Up

THE MATCH-MAKER SYNOPSIS.—A foreword tells this: Motoring through Arizona, a party of easterners, father and daughter and a male companion, stop to witness a cattle round up. The girl leaves the car and is attacked by a wild steer. A masterpiece of riding on the part of one of the ■ cowboys saves her life. Then the story begins: Clay Lindsay, rangerider on an Arizona ranch, announces his intention to visit the "big town,” New York. On the train Lindsay becomes interested in a young woman, Kitty Mason, on her way to New York to become a motion-picture actress. She is marked as fair prey by a fellow traveler, Jerfry Durand, gang politician and ex-prize fighter. Perceiving his Intentions, Lindsay provokes a Ctuarrel and throws Durand from the train. On his first day in New Yorß Lindsay is splashed with water by a janitor. That individual the range-rider punishes summarily and leaves tied to a tire hydrant. A young woman who sees the occurrence Invites Clay into her house and hides him from the poIke. Clay’s "rescwer" introduces herself as Beatrice. Whitford. Lindsay meets her father, Colin W hit- , ford, and is Invited to visit them again. He meets Kitty Mason by accident. She has been disappointed in her stage aspirations, and to i support herself is selling cigarettes in a cabaret. Clay visits her there. Kitty is insulted, by a customer. : Clay punishes the annoyer. After . a lively mixup" Lindsay escapes. Outside, he is attacked by Jerry Durand and a companion and \ beaten insensible. .Lindsay's ac- , quaintance with Beatrice Whitford ripens. CHAPTER Vl—Continued. But though Clarendon Biomfiehi had no doubt of the issue cf his suit, the friendship of Beatrice for this fellow from Arizona stallbed ids vanity. It hurt his class pride ami his personal self-esteem that she should take pleasure in the man’s society. Bee never had been well-broken to harness. He set his thin lips tight and resolved that he would stand no nonsense of this sort after they were married. If she wanted to flirt it would have to be with some one in their own set. Beatrice could not understand herself. She knew that she was behaving rather indiscreetly, though she did not fathom the cause of the restlessness that drove her to Clay Lindsay. The truth is tlyit she was longing for an.escape from the empty life she was leading, had been seeking one for years without knowing it. Surely this round of social frivolities, the chatter of these silly women ane smug tailormade men, could not be all there was to life. She must have been made for something better than that. And when she was with Clay she knew she had been. He gave her a vision of life through eyes that had known open, wide spates, clean, wholesome, and sun-kissed. He stcod on his own feet and did his own thinking. 'Simply, with both hanas, he took hold of problems and examined them stripped of all trimmings. The man was elemental, but he was keen and ibroad-gauged. It amazed her one day t” learn that he had read William James and understood his philosophy much better than she did. There was in her mind no intention whatever of letting herself do anything so foolish as to marry him. But there were moments when the thought of it had a ureadful fascination for her. She did not invite such thoughts to remain with her. ✓ For she meant accept Clarendon Bromfield in her own good time and make her social position in New York absolutely secure.; She had been in the fringes too long not to appreciate a chance to get into the social Holy of Holies. * * ♦ * « \ A bow-legged little man in a cheap, wrinkled suit with a silk kerchief knotted loosely round his neck stopped in front of a window where a girl was .selling stamps. “I wantta see the postmaster.” “Corrid’y’right. Takel'vatorthir’doorleft,” she said, just us though it were two words. At that the freckled-face little fellow opened wider his skim-milk eyes and his w eak mouth. “Come again, ma’am, please.” “Corrid’y’right. Takel'vatorthir’doorleft,” she repeated. “Next.” The inquirer knew as much as he did before, but he lacked the courage To ask for an English translation. He shuffled away from the window ami wandered helplessly, swept up by the Tide of hurrying people that flowed continuously into the building and ebbed out of it. From this he was tossed into a backwater that brought Jiim to another window. “I wantta (see the postmaster of this ■burg,” he announced again with a {plaintive whine. “What about?” asked the man back of the grating. “Important business, amigo. Where’s lhe at?” The man directed him to a door upon (which was printed the legend, “Superlintendent of Complaints.” “Well, sir! What can 1 do for you?” jthe man behind the big desk snapped. ’ “I wantta see the postmaster.” “What about?” “I got important business with him.” / “Who are you?” “Me, I’m Johnnie Green of the B-in-a-Box ranch. I just dropped in from Arizona and I wantta see the postmaster." “Suppose you tell your troubles to me.” Johnnie changed his weight to the other foot. “No, sub. 1 allow to see the postmaster himself personal.” “He’s busy,” explained the official. “He can’t possibly see anybody without knowing tls business.” “That's all right. I’v* lost my pal. J wautla sea —”

By WILLIAM MacLEOD. RAINE

The superintendent of complaints cut into his'-parrot-like repetition. “Yes, you mentioned that. But the postmaster doesn't know where he is, does he?” “He might tell me where his mail goes, as the old sayin’ Is.” “When did you lose your friend?” “I ain’t- heard from him since he come to New York, So bein’ as I got a chanct to go from Tucson with a jackpot trainload of cows to Denver, I klnda made up my mind to come on here the rest of the way and look him up. I’m afraid some one’s done him dirt." “Do you know where he’s staying?” “No, suh, I don’t.” The superintendent of complaints sapped with his fingers on the desk. Then he smiled. The postmaster was fond of a joke. Why not let this odd little freak from the* West have an interview with him? Twenty minutes later Johnnie was telling his story to the postmaster of the city of New York. He had written three times to Clay Lindsay and had received no answer. So he had come to look for him. “Is your friend like you?” asked the postmaster, interested in spite of himself. “No suh.” Johnnie, alias the Runt, began to beam. “He's ti sure-enough go-getter, day is, every jump of the road. I’d follow* his dust any day of the week. He’s the livest proposition that ever come out of Graham county. You can ce’tainly gamble on that.” The postmaster touched a button. A clerk appeared, received orders, and disappeared. The clerk presently returned with three letters addressed JjK.Clay Lindsay, General Delivery. NftwjYork. The postmaster handed them to the littlecow puncher. "Evidently be never called for them,” he said. Johnnie’s chin fell. He looked a picture of helpless woe. “They’re the letters I set down an’ wrote him my own se’l. Something has sure happens-' to that boy, looks like,” he bemoaned. “We’ll try police headquarters. Maybe we can get a line on your riend,” the postmaster said, reaching for the telephone. “But you must remember New York is a big place. It’s not like your Arizona ranch. The city has nearly eignt million innabitants. You’ll understand that when one man gets’ lost it isn’t always possible to find him.” “Why not? We got some steers down in my country —about as many as you got men in this here town of yourn. Tha’s what we ride the range for. so’s not to lose ’em. We’ve traced a B-in-a-Box steer clear irom Tucson to Denver, done it more’n onct or twice too. 1 notice you got a big bunch of manpunchers in uniform here. Ain’t it their business to rustle up strays?” “The police,” said the postmaster, amused. “That Is part of -heir business. We’ll pass the buck to them, anyhow.” After some delay and repeated explanations of who he was, the postmaster got at the other end.of the wire his friend the commissioner. Their conversation was brief. When the postmaster hung up he rang for a stenographer and dictated a letter of introduction. This lit handed to Johnnie, with explicit instructions. “Go to police headquarters, Center street, and tak* this note to Capt. dill fl Mi Qi “Go to Police Headquarters, Center Street, and Take This Note to Capt. Luke Byrne.’” Luke Byrne. He'll see that the matter is investigated for you. Do you know the way to pelice headquarters?” “I reckon I can find it. Is it fur?” The man from Arizona looked down at the high-heeled boots in which his tortured feet had clumped over the pavements of the metiopolis all morning. “I’ll send yen in a taxi.” The postmaster was thinking that this babe in the woods of civilization never would be able to find his way alone. As the driver swept the car in and out among the traffic of the narrow streets Johnnie clung to the top of the door fearfully. Every moment be expected a smash. His heart was in Ids throat. The hurricane deck of a bronco had no terrors for him, but this wild charge through the humming trenches shook his nerve. “I come mighty nigh askin’ you would you just as lief drive slower,” he said with a grin to the chauffeur as he descended to the safety of ,u».e sidewalk. “I ain’t awful hardy, an’ 1 sure was plumb scared.” A sergeant took Johnnie ir tow and

SYRACUSE AND WAWASEE JOURNAL

delivered him at length to the office waiting-room of Captain Anderson, head of the bureau ot missing persons. The Bunt, surveying the nutabers in the waiting-room and those passing in and out, was ready to revise his opinion about the possible difficulty of the job. He judged that half the population of New York must be missing. After a time the captain’s secretary notified Johnny that it was his turn. As soon as he was,admitted the puncher began his little piece without waiting for any preliminaries. “Say, captain, I want you to find my friend Clay Lindsay. He — ” “Just a moment,” interrupted the captain. “Who are you? Don’t think I got your name.” Johnnie remembered the note of introduction and his name at the same time. He gave both to the big man who spent his busy days and often part of the nights looking for the lost, strayed, and stolen among New York’s millions. The, captain's eves swept over the note. “Sit down. Mr. Green, and let’s get at your trouble. This note says that you’re looking for a man named Clay Lindsay who came to New York several months ago. Have you or has anybody else heard from him in that time?” “We got a letter right after he got here. He ain’t writ since.” “Perhaps he’s dead. We’d better look up the morgue records.” “Morgue!” The Rune grew excited instantly. . “That place where you keep folks that get drowned or bumped off? Say, captain. I’m here to tell you Clay was the livest man in Arizona, which is the same as sayin’ anywheres. Cowpunchers don’t take naturally to morgues. No, sir. Clay ain't in no morgue. Like as not he’s helped fill this yere morgue if any crooks tried their rough stuff on him. Don’t get me wrong. Cap. Clay is the squarest he-man ever God made. Ail I’m sayin’ is—” The captain interrupted. He asked sharp, incisive questions and Presently he reached for a ’phone, got in touch with a sergeant at the police desk in the upper corridor, and sent an attendant with Johnnie to the police department. The Irish sympathies of the sergeant were aroused by the naive honesty of the little man. He sent for another sergeant, had card records brought, consulted a coupD of patrolmen, and then turned to Johnnie. “We’ve met your friend all right," he said with a grin. “He’s wan Jieluva lad. Fits the description to a T. There can’t be hut one like him here.” And he went on to tell the story of the adventure of the janitor and the hose. The washed-out eyes of the puncher lit up. “That’s him. That’s sure him. Tell me where he’s at?” “We don’t know. We can show you the place where he tied the janitor, but that’s the best we can do.” The captain hesitated. “If you find him. give him a straight tip from me. Tell him to buy a ticket for Arizona and take the train for home. This town is no healthy place for him. Your friend has made an enemy—a powerful one. He’ll understand if you tell him.” “Who is this here enemy?” “Never mind. He hit up too fast a pace.” “You can’t tell me a thing against Clay—not a thing.” protested Johnnie hotly. “He’ll sure do to take along. Clay will. There can’t any guy knock him to me, if he does wear a uniform.” “I’m not saying a thing against him.” replied the officer impatiently. “I’m giving him a friendly tip to beat it, if you see him. Now I’m going to send you uptown with a plain-clothes man. lie’ll show you where your friend made his New York debut. That’s all we can do for you.” An hour later the little cowpuncher was gazing wistfully at the hitchingpost. His face was twisted pathet ically to a question mark, it was as though he thought he could conjure from the post the secret of Clay’s disappearance. Where had he gone from here? And where was he now? In the course of the next two days the Runt came back to that post many times ... the starting-point, for weary, high-heelc ’ tramps through streets within a circuit of a mile. He could not have explained why he did so. Perhaps it wa. because this was the only spot in the city that held for him any tangible relationship to Clay. Some one claimed to have seen him vanish into one of these houses. Perhaps he might come back again. It was a very tenuous hope, but .t was the only one Johnnie had. He clumped over the

PAID BIG TRIBUTE TO VIOLINIST

Nashville Woman’s Graceful Act Met With Equal Courtliness From Famous Ole Bull. Ole Bull, the famous Norwegian violinist. on a visit to Nashville, Tenn., sometime in the forties, was invited to play in a rude hall, where but a rudely constructed platform had been erected, and the rough boards had not even been carpeted. A lady who was known as an accomplished musician and one of the most elegant women in Nashville, noticed this. In order to convey her admiration for the artist and her regret for the commonest of the surroundings, she took off her large costly, black velvet mantle and spread it out smoothly on the rough floor near the edge of the stage where he would be expected to stand. A few moments later the great master appeared on the stage and the audience eagerly watched to see what he would da He advanced bowing and

pavements till bis feet ached iu piotest. His patience was rewarded. On the second day, while he was gazing blankly at the post a groom brought two horses to the curb In front of the house opposite. One of the horses had a real cowboy’s saddle. Johnnies | eyes gleamed. This was like a breath of honest-to-God Arizona. The door 1 opened, and out of it came a man and ; a slim young woman. Both of them were dressed for riding, she in the ; latest togs of the town, he in a wellcut sack suit and high tan boots. Johnnie threw up Ids hat and gave i a yell. “You blamed old horn-toad!! Might ’a’ knowed you was all right! ft » Mm - WWW “Hi Yi Yi! Doggone Yore Old Hide, If It Ain’t You Big as Coffee, Clay!” Might ’a’ knowed you wouldn’t bite off more’n you could chew! Oh, you Arizona!” Clay gave one surprised 100k —and met him in the middle of the street. The little cowpuncher did a war dance of joy while he clung to his friend’s hand. Tears brimmed into his faded eyes. “Hi yi yi! Doggone yore old hide, if it ain't you big as coffee. Clay. Thinks I to inyse’f, who is that pilgrim? And, by gum, it’s old h—l-a-mlle jes’ a-hlttln his heels. Where you been at, you old skeezicks?” “How are you, Johnnie? And what are you doin’ here?” “You didn’t answer my letters, so I come to see if you was all right.” “You old scalawag. You came to paint the town red.” Johnnie, highly delighted at this charge, protested. “Honest I didn’t. Clay. I wasn’t feelin’ so tur’ble peart. Seemed like the boys picked on me after you left. So I jes’ up and come.” If Clay was not delighted to have his little Fidus Achates on his hands he gave nd sign of it. He led him across the road and introduced him to Miss Whitford. Clay blessed her for her kindness to this squat, snub-nosed adherent of his whose lonely heart had driven him two thousand miles to find his friend. Her hand went out instantly. A smite softened her eyes and dimpled her cheeks. “I’m very glad to meet any friend of Mr. Lindsay. Father and I will want to hear all about Arizona after yon two have had your visit out. We’ll postpone the ride till this afternoon. That will be better. I think.” Clay agreed. With a cool little nod that included them both, she turned and ran lightly up the steps into the house. "Some sure-enough queen,” murmured Johnnie in naive admiration, staring after her with open mouth. Clay smiled. He had au opinion of his own on that point. CHAPTER VII Johnnie Green —Match-Maker. Johnnie Green gave an upward jerk to the frying-pan and caught the flapjack as it descended. “Fust and last call for breakfast in the dining-cyar. Come and get it, oldtimer.” he sang out to Clay. That young man emerged from his ■ bedroom glowing. He was one or two shades of tan lighter than when he had reached the city, but the paint of Arizona’s untempered sun still distinguished him from tlie native-born, if there are any such among the inhabitants of upper New York. “You’re one sure-enough cook.” ho drawled to his satellite. “Best flap- ! jacks ever made in this town.” The Punt beamed all over. If he had really been a puppy he would have wagged his tail. Since he couldn’t do that he took it out in grinning. Any word of praise from Clay made the world a sunshiny one for him. The two men were baching it. They had a little apartment in the Bronx and Johnnie looked after it for Ills friend. One of Johnnie’s vices—ac-

ind ns he reached the handntle lying there he made anirtly bow. le stepped to one side, drew across the strings of the vjobegan to play.—Philadelphia ure’s Wonderful Power. the moist clods the slender ie filled with the sweetness of i. Out of the darkness under irkness which knows no day en the plowshare opens its hey have come to the light, onder a steam-plow pants up , groaning with Its own yet all that strength and f wheels, and piston, and 'annot drag from the earth le blade like these. Force nake it; it must grow—an •d to speak oy avryjL ip fact otency.—Bichard Jefreries, in Doors.” i

smiling a some mar other cou Then In his bow a ’ lin and 1 > , > Ledger. i t Natl Beside - flags arlst I the earth. > —that da • save whe r chinks —tl . . . . Y< ' the hill, c strength, ’ might of • chains, ci one singl - cannot no • easy- won i full Os p<l 1 “Out of I

cording to lhe standard of the B-in-e- I Box boys—was that lie was as neat I as an old nmid. He liked to hang i around a mess-wagon and cook, doughnuts and pies. His talent came in handy now, for Clay was no housekeeper. After the breakfast things were ! “clean'd away Johnnie fared forth to a certain house adjoining Riverside ! drive, where he earned ten dollars a ' week as outdoors man. His business ■ was to do odd jobs about the place. He cut and watered the lawn. He I made small repairs. Beatrice had a ' rose garden, and under her direction he dug. watered and fertilized. Incidentally, the snub-nosed little I puncher with tlie unfinished features , adored his young mistress in the | dumb, uncritical fashion a schooll>oy , does a Ty Cobh or an Eddie Collins. ; In his heart he had hopes that Clay [ would fall in love with and marry her. But her actions worried him. Sometimes he wondered if she really understood what a catch Clay was. He tried to tell her his notions on the subject the morning Clay praised , his flapjacks. She was among the rose-bushes, j gloved and hatted, clipping American , Beauties for the dining room, a dainty ! but very self-reliant little personality. | “Miss Beatrice, I been thinkin’ about | you and Clay,” he told her, leaning on : bis spade. “What have you been thinking about | us?” the girl asked, snipping off a big ! rose. “How you’re the best-lookin’ couple ; that a man would see anywheres." Into her -clear cheeks the color ; flowed. “If 1 thought nonsense like ; that I wouldn’t say it." she said quiet- j ly. “We’re not a couple, lie’s a man.< I’m a woman. 1 like him and want to ; stay friends with him if you'll let me." ; “Sure. I know that, but —’ Johnnie I I groped helplessly to try to explain I ! what lie had meant. “Clay he likes j you a heap.” he finished The eyes of the girl began to dance. I There was no use taking offense at 1 this simple soul. "Does he? I’m sure i I’m gratified,” she murmured, busy i with her scissors among the roses. I “Yep. 1 never knowed Clay to look ■ at a girl before. He sure thinks a heap j of you.” She gave a queer little bubbling laugh. “You’re flattering me.” “Honest, I aint.” Johnnie whispered a secret across the rose bushes. “Say. if you work it right I believe you can get him.” The girl sparkled. Here was a new ; slant on matrimonial desirability. Clearly the view of the little cowpuncher was that Clay had only to crook his fingers to summon any girl in the world that he desired. “What would you advise me to do?” she diiffpled. “Sho! I dunno.” He shyly unburdened himself of the warning he had been leading up to. “But I’d tie a can to that dude fellow that hangs around —the Bromfield guy. O’ course I know he ain’t one, two, three with you while Clay’s on earth, but I don’t reckon I’d take any chances, as the old sayin’ is. Better get shet of the dude." Miss Whitford bit her lip to keep j from exploding in a sudden gale ot . mirth. But tlie sight of her self-ap- ; pointed chaperon set her off into peals of laughter in spite of herself. Every time she looked at Johnnie she went off into renewed chirrups. He was so homely and so deadly earnest. The little waif was staring at her in perplexed surprise, mouth open and chin fallen. He could see no occasion for gayety at his-suggestion. There was nothing subtle about the Runt. In his social code wealth did not figure. A forty-dollar-a-month bronco buster was free to offer advice to the daughter of a millionaire about her matrimonial prospects if it seemed best. “Clay ain’t one o’ the common run of cowpunchers, ma’am. You bet you. I by jollies, he ain’t. Clay he owns a half-interest in the B-in-a-Box. O’ course it ain’t what he’s got, but what he is that counts, lie’s tlie best darned pilgrim ever I did see," “He’s all right, Johnnie.” the girl admitted with an odd smile. “Do you want me to tell him that I’ll be ghfc to drop our family friends to meet his approval? I don’t suppose he asked you to speak to me about it. did he?” The little range-rider missed the irony of this. “No. ma'am, I jest butted in. Mebbe 1 hadn’ ought to of spoke.” “You needn't feel bad, Johnnie. There’s no harm done —if you don't say anything about it to Mr. Lindsay. But 1 don’t think you were intended for a match-maker. That takes quite a little finesse, doesn’t it?” The word “finesse" was not in Johnnie’s dictionary, but he acquiesced in her verdict. \ i “I reckon, ma’am, you’re right.” Clay was waiting for lunch at a rot- | isserie on Sixth avenue, and in order! to lose no time—of which he had more I just now than he knew what to do ; with—was meanwhile reading a news- ! I paper propped against a water-bottle I From the personal column there popped out at him three lines that caught his attention:. “If this meets the eye of C. L. of Arizona please write me. Box M-21, ) Hie Herald. Am in trouble. Kitty M." He read it again/ There could be no doubt in tlie world. It was addressed to him. and from Kitty. He remembered thyt on the bus he had casually mentioned to her that he usually read the Herald. After he had eaten, Clay walked down Broadway and left a note at the office of the Herald for Kitty. The thought of her was in his mirnj all day. He had worried a good deal over her disappearance. It was not alone that he felt responsible for the loss of her place as cigarette girl. One disturbing phase of the situation was that Jerry Durand must have seen her. What more likely than that he had arranged to have her spirited awsy? Lindsay had read that hundreds of girls disappeared every year in the city. If they ever came to the surface' again it was as dwellers in that underworld in the current of which they had been caught. ; He had an engagement that afrerf™>n TTwaHTwift BfctttfWWlffftoiM’? They crossed to Morningside park

land moved H to the northern i end where the remains of Fort Laight. built to protect the approach to the city during the War of 1812, can still be seen and traced. Beatrice had read the story of the earthworks. In the midst of the telling of it she stopped to turn upon him with swift accusation, “You're not listening.? “That’s right, I wasn't,” he admitted. “Have you heard something about , your cigarette girl?" Clay was amazed at the accuracy I of her center shot. i "Yes.” He showed her the newsi paper. She read. The golden head nodded j triumphantly. "I told you she could ( look out for herself. You see when ! she had lost you she knew enough to 1 advertise.” Was there or was there not a faint note of malice in the girl's voice? Clay did not know. But it wou : 4 have neither surpriscl nor displeased him. 1 He had long since discovered that his i Imperious little friend was- far from ■ an angel. At his rooms he found a note awaiting him. “Come tonight after eleven. I ain locked in the west rear room of the I second story. Climb up over the back ; porch. Don’t make any noise. The [window will be unbolted. A friend Is • mailing this. For God’s sake, don’t I fail me.” The note was signed J'Kitty.” BeI low were given the house and street : number. Was it genuine? Or did it, ' lead to a trap? He could not tell. It might be a plant or it might be a I wail of real distress. There was only ! one way to find out unless he went to ! the police. That way was to gc ; through with the adventure. He dei cided to play a lone hand except for ; such help as Johnnie could give him. Clay Hook a downtown car and rode j to the cross-street mentioned in the let- ! i ter for a preliminary tour of Invest!- ; i gallon. The street designated was I .one of plain brownstone fronts with ' iron-grilled doors. The blank faces j j of the houses invited no confidence, i ! It struck him that there was some- | i thing sinister about the neighborhood. I j. but perhaps the thought was born of i tlie fear. Number 121 had windows ! barred with ornamental grilles. This i might be to keep burglars out. It ! would serve equally well to keep prisoners in. The cattleman did not linger in that street lined with houses of sinister faces. He did not care to call attenmil ? \ W \W jJiflilß w ■ Was There or Was There Not a Faint Note of Malice in the Girl's Voice? tion to his . presence by staying too long. Besides, he had some arrangements to make for the night at hla rooms. These were simple and few. He oiled and loaded his revolver carefuliy, leaving the hammer On the one chamber left empty to prevent accidents, after the custom of all careful gunmen. He changed into the wrinkled suit he had worn when he reached the city, and substituted for his shoes a pair of felt-soled gymnasium ones. The ’bowlegged little puncher watched his friend, just as a faithful dog does his master. lie asked no questions, lir good time he knew he would be told ail it was necessary for him to know. As they rode from the Bronx. Clay outlined the situation and told his plans so far as he had any. “So I’m goin’ to take a whirl at it, Johnnie. Mebbe they’re lyin’ low up in that house to get me. Mebbe the note’s the real thing. You can search me which it is. The only way to find ’i out is to go through with the thing. I Yore job is to stick around in front !of the hacienda and wait for me. If i I don't show up inside of thirty mini utes. get the police busy right away i breakin’ into the place. Do you get 1 me. Johnnie?” “Lemme go with you into the house. Clay.” the little, man pleaded. "Say, why don’t you go into the movies and be one of these i here screen ideals?” pro BE CONTINUED.) The Tabard Inn. The Tabard inn was the* best known of the historic inns of old London, for it was thence that Chaucer’s pilgrims set out in showery April for the shrine of St. Thomas a Becket at Canterbury. It stood not far from the •orough end of London bridge in High street. Southwark, convenient the head of the Old Kent road. How old it was there is none can say, but it was certainly there in the Fourteenth century under that name. In rhe repair of the damage it sustained in the great fire its signboard was through hick of comprehension of an obsolescent name changed from the Tabard, or sleeveless jacket then and now retained only as the uniform of the heralds, to the Talbot of practically similar sound the name of a dog which seems to have been the progeYiv tor of the bloodhound. As the Talbot it endured until 1866. when it was rrrfmTr>wn-tr> mirhc -rotMhfi>r the freight station of the Midland' railway.

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