Slike strani

That moment there was the sound of a blow, a groan and a fall. I raised my head again. The sentry was sprawled out in a hideous attitude.

Some one was coming toward me with a bolo in his hand. I gasped-it was no Filipino. He reached me with a leap, snatched the bolo from my throat, rolled me over on my back, and severed the ropes that bound me. I was jerked roughly to my feet, and gazed amazedly on the face of Willie Pullthrough.

"Keep still," Willie whispered. The warning was useless; I couldn't have spoken if I had tried. The suddenness of my rescue, and that by a man that I had a hundred times dubbed a coward, shocked me into silence.

"Come! Hurry!" Willie Pullthrough grabbed me and led me away. I tried to walk alone, but, so tightly had I been bound I could only stagger. Half-supported by my rescuer's arm I reeled off into the bushes.

But we had hardly left before a yell from behind told that the camp was aroused and my escape discovered. I urged my stiff legs to go faster, and Willie Pullthrough dragged me along in a sort of shambling run. But the yells grew closer. Crippled as I was, I could make no headway. And Willie Pullthrough wouldn't leave me. They pressed us hard, caught us, forced us to bay, with Our backs against a steep rock.

Our plight was hopeless. Dazed as I was, I realized that. I had a club, Willie Pullthrough a bolo, but in our hands neither was of use except at close quarters, while with a Moro a bolo is pretty nearly sure death at thirty yards. Well, at any rate I would escape the torture. But Willie Pullthrough

I turned to him, and I guess there was something in my eyes that he had never seen there before. He smiled a little sadly. "And so you thought I'd left you," he said. And that was all.

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we get half way," said Willie Pullthrough. "But if we do happen to reach them we'll take some of them along with us." In another moment we would have hurled ourselves forward, when we were checked by the inexplicable actions of the Moros.

The leader had shouted some command, at which the mob drew together and jabbered unintelligibly. He pointed to us, then to the north; he seemed to be arguing with his followers, explaining something to them. I wanted to take advantage of their confusion. But Willie Pullthrough held me back. "Wait!" he said.

Then we saw a curious thing. Moved by some harangue from their leader, the war party, fading away in the darkness as silently as shadows, leaving us staring at each other, nonplussed.

We could not understand; we could not surmise! it was incredible. We only knew that for some strange reason we had been spared, and we turned toward San Marino in a sort of daze.

Alone, I knew I never could have made it in. As it was, I remember but little of that homeward march. I was weak from loss of blood, delirious most of the way from pain and excitement. I remember leaning on Willie Pullthrough's arm and being led by him through the tangled jungles. And I remember detached fragments of conversation, in which Willie Pullthrough embarrassedly explained his unexpected appearance.

"You see, when the gugus first attacked us, I-well, I was scared. And there wasn't much use in sticking it out, was there? I knew we were outnumbered. So when I saw a chance to get away, why, I went.

"But I hung on your trail all day. I was close enough so that I heard the proposition put up to you by the Filipino. And, although I don't understand telegraphy, of course I knew what you wired Manila.

"When night came I stood by for a chance to get you away. You sure had me buffaloed when you got that bolo from the sentry. I couldn't see at first

what you intended to do with it. When I did, I knew it was up to me to do something. So I did."

But when at last we reached San Marino, after what seemed an eternity of pain and weariness, I had to do the explaining while Willie Pullthrough stood awkwardly by, blushing like a girl and disclaiming all praise.


Well, we stood by, ready for an attack, for several days, but none came, and when the reinforcements from Manila, our company commander got a courteous reprimand for sending in a false alarm. But it might have been different.

What was the explanation of the sudden change of plans on the part of the Moros? It was Willie Pullthrough that offered the first solution of the mystery, and the only one that I have been able to find.

"The leader of the band that had you corralled must have reasoned from your attempting to escape that you

had turned in the alarm to Manila. He knew that if you had wired according to his directions you would have taken your chances as a prisoner than to have run the almost certain chance of being recaptured and killed. And with Manila warned, he knew the game was up. If he killed us he knew that he or somebody else would be called to account for it. It wouldn't be a victory; it wouldn't profit him anything; it would only cause trouble. So he called the rest off and let us go."

That seems to me to be a reasonable explanation of the thing. But if it hadn't been for Willie Pullthrough, why, there might have been a different story. He is Willie Pullthrough yet, to all hands; a name like that isn't easily lost. But if any outsider butts in on Company "D" and starts to use the name with undue levity, why, something very strenuous is liable to happen.


(Muir Glacier)


Earthborn on Alaska's mountains,

Pressed from Alaskan snow,

Ground in her icy quarries

While centuries come and go,

Slow-urged through the lagging cycles,
Slow to my northern sea.

I am free! I am plunging and rising
And rising and plunging-free!
I have burst from the glacier-clutches;
Leaped from the ice-walled shore:-
A crash as the heavens were rended,
A long-drawn, thunderous roar;
Low growls where the startled icebergs-
Wild splendors of iris-spray-
Dance a mad welcome round me,
Muttering in Titan play.

Foam-waves, my birth hurls shoreward

A seething, wavering white,

Surge in wild radiance seaward

Fringed with auroral light.




WENTY YEARS ago there was not a single millionaire in the stage calling. At that period Lotta was regarded as the richest actress, and Joseph Murphy the richest actor. Neither, however, had reached the millionaire class. In the business department of the theatre two decades ago a manager worth $100,000 was a rara avis, while the impresario who could keep out of jail was surely destined for either the insane asylum or the poorhouse. The richest theatrical manager then was John Stetson, a man who was as honest as he was illiterate. How different a story can be recited to-day.

Among managers there is a plethora of millionaires, such as William Harris and his son, H. B. Harris, A. L. Erlanger, Marc Klaw, Samuel Nixon, J. Fred Zimmerman, Al. Hayman, Jas. L. Kennan, Al. H. Woods, William A. Brady, and Lee Shubert.

As recently as ten years ago the vaudeville business of this country was yet undeveloped, but in these few years many men have become millionaires in that field. Among the number may be named B. F. Keith, F. F. Proctor, S. Z. Poli, James H. Moore, George Castle, George Middleton, Morris Meyerfeldt, Martin Beck, Percy Williams, Oscar Hammerstein, Marcus Loew, Felix Isman (whose earnings in the moving picture field have been enormous), Max C. Anderson, and Harry Davis.

Vaudeville prosperity has been nothing short of extraordinary in the last decade, hundreds, if, indeed, there are not thousands, of wealthy men and women to be found to-day in this propitious field. The great growth vaudeville salaries is one cause, but it is not to be questioned that the vaudeville performer is more thrifty than his legitimate confrere.


To give an adequate idea of the wealth possessed by the vaudevillians,

one has but to quote a few of the actual salaries paid. Harry Lauder has had an average of $3,500 a week, and is now asking $5,000 weekly to return hither; Gertrude Hoffmann, who three years ago was practically unknown, finds $3,500 in her pay envelope every Saturday night; Eva Tanguay gets $2,500, just 1000 per cent increase over her weekly income five years ago. Amelia Bingham asks and gets $2,000 a week; Annette Kellermann receives the same; Alice Lloyd has $1,500 every seven days, which is just ten times as much as was paid to her only three years ago.

McIntyre and Heath get $1,500 a week from the same managers to-day who paid them $150 for the same period in the very same specialty not so very long ago. Nat. C. Goodwin has just signed a contract in vaudeville at a salary of $3,000 a week. The last time he appeared in the varieties his weekly honorarium was $150.

There are more than fifty other stars who receive in excess of one thousand dollars weekly, while the number of vaudeville stars receiving more than $500 a week is great.

An illustration of the prosperity here is best given by the statement that there are a dozen actor colonies within fifty miles of New York. These colonies are noted for the beautiful and costly homes owned outright by the colonists, the great majority of whom are vaudeville performers.

Take the case of Will S. Cressy as an instance of achievement in this gold laden field. Ten years ago Cressy came timorously from his Vermont farm, and asked a hearing for himself and wife (Cressy and Dayne) in a rural sketch written by himself. trial performance was given, which resulted in a week's engagement at $100 for the two at Keith's Union Square Theatre, New York. This was, as I have said, ten years ago. Since then


they have been playing fifty-two weeks a year, and ninety per cent of the time for Keith. Their salary has increased each year, until now it is on a par with the best headline acts. But Cressy was not content to confine his activities to writing sketches for himself. He wrote for others, and his success

was so great that at one time no less than forty sketches from his pen were seen simultaneously throughout the country.

As Mr. Cressy received $50 a week from each of these, it need not surprise any one to know that he is that great rarity, an actor-millionaire.




Hear that hoarse and muffled roar
Like waves breaking on the cliff,-
Like the loud and angry tempest
Warring wildly in the trees!
Ah! behold the mob and rabble
Hurling stones and spilling blood!
See the anger-whitened faces
And the savage, glowing eyes!
O soul of man art stifled
In the heat of passion's fire?
Cruel lips that cry so fiercely—

Couldst thou whisper that word "brother ?"

Could those crooked, grappling fingers

Save a life as well as take one?

Were ye infants once, sweet sleeping
On a gentle mother's breast?

What poison of deep hatred

Hath turned ye, then, to demons,
Hath drawn ye from the orchard,

From fireside and roof-tree,
To hurl the white-hot fire brand
And sever all the peace ties?

The howling mob rolls onward,
Smoke and flames are in its wake,
And the cry of little children

Crouching, frightened, in the streets.
The fire will die to ashes

And the heat will chill ice-cold;

The wide-eyed, cow'ring people

Will shudder at each other

Cursed with bonds of common guilt—
Will look with earnest longing

Toward their brethren loved of yore,
But separate now and sundered
By the flowing stream of life-blood
Which no penance can bridge o'er.
The brow of Man, that Temple
Where the Spirit once shone clear,
Is o'erthrown, defiled and broken,
For the brand of Cain is there.




OBERT BLECKER was sent to interview Judge Gordon because the Judge never permitted himself to be interviewed on any subject, and because the city editor of the newspaper Blecker was with knew that, even if the Judge could under any circumstances be induced to talk, the subject of an anti-injunction plank in a presidential campaign platform, where it had just been laid, after much oratorical travail, would be, for reasons apparent, absolutely the last one on which he would advance a judicial expression.

Nothing is so near and dear to the heart of the city editor of a newspaper as the known unattainable.

The door of the Gordon residence was opened to Blecker by one of the Judge's bailiffs, who happened to be there because the Judge had ordered him to bring some important papers as soon as they had been typewritten. The bailiff told Blecker that he would have to wait awhile as the Judge was busy. His Honor was looking over the papers just referred to. Blecker said, in his deep-chested voice, that he was in no hurry and would be only too glad to await the Judge's convenience, and the bailiff left him in the receptionroom and returned to the presence of the court.

Miss Doris Gordon, only daughter of Judge and Mrs. Gordon, and the world's one treasure in their appraisal, was sitting, at that auspicious moment, on an ample Davenport by a window overlooking her tiny Italian garden, sampling now and then a dish of fudge of her own superlative making, and listening half-disinterestedly to the creaking of the rings in the Smith

girl's hammock on the adjoining lawn. (The rings never creaked unless there was more than one in the hammock.) She also vaguely wondered what a reporter wanted with her father.

Squatted on a large Turkish tabouret, the top of which was designed to hold tea-things, books, cards, most anything except dogs, and directly in front of Miss Gordon so he could watch every movement of the white hand when it passed from the fudgedish to the red lips, was Tad, her precious fox-terrier.

Miss Gordon was devotedly attached to Tad, for reasons in which were combined charity, sentiment, and an inborn feeling for all dogs in general. Tad, in turn, was faithful unto Miss Gordon, and was fairly crazy over her fudge.

At the sound of the deep-chested voice Tad's ears (even the one that was lopped over) went up, his head shifted to a side-angle, and for about a second-which was a long time with Tad-he sat in tense canine concentration. Then with a leap, kicking over the tabouret, he dashed into the reception room.

Miss Gordon sat up with a bounce, and listened. She heard a medley of half-smothered whines and yelps, and a subdued but still deep-chested voice. Miss Gordon followed, with some hesitancy. She did not wish to intrude, and yet she did not deem a reporter desirable food for her dog.

She saw Tad sprawling idolatrously on the bosom of Blecker, trying to lick him on the chin as often as possible. Blecker had his arm around Tad, and was saying (among other things supposed to be private with him and the dog):

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