NEWSREEL IIt was that emancipated race That was chargin up the hill Up to where them insurrectos Was afightin fit to kill
CAPITAL CITY'S CENTURY CLOSED
General Miles with his gaudy uniform and spirited charger was the center for all eyes especially as his steed was extremely restless. Just as the band passed the Commanding General his horse stood upon his hind legs and was almost erect. General Miles instantly reined in the frightened animal and dug in his spurs in an endeavor to control the horse which to the horror of the spectators, fell over backwards and landed squarely on the Commanding General. Much to the gratifi- cation of the people General Miles was not injured but con- siderable skin was scraped off the flank of the horse. Almost every inch of General Miles's overcoat was covered with the dust of the street and between the shoulders a hole about an inch in diameter was punctured. Without waiting for anyone to brush the dust from his garments General Miles remounted his horse and reviewed the parade as if it were an everyday occurrence.
The incident naturally attracted the attention of the crowd, and this brought to notice the fact that the Command- ing General never permits a flag to be carried past him with- out uncovering and remaining so until the colors have past
And the Captain bold of Company B Was a fightin in the lead Just like a trueborn soldier he Of them bullets took no heed
OFFICIALS KNOW NOTHING OF VICE
Sanitary trustees turn water of Chicago River into drain- age canal LAKE MICHIGAN SHAKES HANDS WITH THE FATHER OF THE WATERS German zuchter-
verein singing contest for canary-birds opens the fight for bimetallism at the ratio of 16 to 1 has not been lost says Bryan
BRITISH BEATEN AT MAFEKING For there's many a man been murdered in Luzon CLAIMS ISLANDS FOR ALL TIME
Hamilton Club Listens to Oratory by Ex-Congressman Posey of Indiana
NOISE GREETS NEW CENTURY LABOR GREETS NEW CENTURY CHURCHES GREET NEW CENTURY
Mr. McKinley is hard at work in his office when the new year begins.
NATION GREETS CENTURY'S DAWN
Responding to a toast, Hail Columbia! at the Columbia Club banquet in Indianapolis, Ind., ex-PresidentBenjamin Harrison said in part: I have no argument to make here or anywhere against territorial expansion; but I do not, as some do, look upon territorial expansion as the safest and most attrac- tive avenue of national development. By the advantages of abundant and cheap coal and iron, of an enormous over- production of food products and of invention and economy in production, we are now leading by the nose the original and the greatest of the colonizing nations.
Society Girls Shocked: Danced with Detectives
For there's many a man been murdered in Luzon and Mindanao
GAIETY GIRLS MOBBED IN NEW JERSEY
One of the lithographs of the leading lady represented her in less than Atlantic City bathing costume, sitting on a red-hot stove; in one hand she held a brimming glass of wine, in the other ribbons drawn over a pair of rampant lobsters.
For there's many a man been murdered in Luzon and Mindanao and in Samar
In responding to the toast, "The Twentieth Century", Senator Albert J. Beveridge said in part: The twentieth cen- tury will be American. American thought will dominate it. American progress will give it color and direction. American deeds will make it illustrious.
Civilization will never lose its hold on Shanghai. Civiliza- tion will never depart from Hongkong. The gates of Peking will never again be closed to the methods of modern man. The regeneration of the world, physical as well as moral, has begun, and revolutions never move backwards.
There's been many a good man murdered in the Philippines Lies sleeping in some lonesome grave.
THE CAMERA EYE (I)
when you walk along the street you have to step carefully always on the cobbles so as not to step on the bright anxious grassblades easier if you hold Mother's hand and hang on it that way you can kick up your toes but walking fast you have to tread on too many grass- blades the poor hurt green tongues shrink under your feet maybe thats why those people are so angry and follow us shaking their fists they're throwing stones grownup people throwing stones She's walking fast and we)re running her pointed toes sticking out sharp among the poor trodden grassblades under the shaking folds of
the brown cloth dress Englander a pebble tinkles along the cobbles
Quick darling quick in the postcard shop its quiet the angry people are outside and cant come in non nein nicht englander amerikanisch americain Hoch Amerika Vive l'Amerique She laughs My dear they had me right frightened
war on the veldt Kruger Bloemfontein Ladysmith and Queen Victoria an old lady in a pointed lace cap sent chocolate to the soldiers at Christmas
under the counter it's dark and the lady the nice Dutch lady who loves Americans and has relations in Trenton shows you postcards that shine in the dark pretty hotels and palaces O que c'est beau schon prittie prittie and the moonlight ripple ripple under a bridge and the little reverbères are alight in the dark under the counter and the little windows of hotels around the harbor O que c'est beau la lune and the big moon
MAC When the wind set from the silver factories across the river the air of the gray fourfamily frame house where Fainy McCreary was born was choking all day with the smell of whaleoil soap. Other days it smelt of cabbage and babies and Mrs. McCreary's washboilers. Fainy could
never play at home because Pop, a lame cavechested man with a whispy blondegray mustache, was nightwatchman at the Chadwick Mills and slept all day. It was only round five o'clock that a curling whiff of tobacco smoke would seep through from the front room into the kitchen. That was a sign that Pop was up and in good spirits, and would soon be wanting his supper.
Then Fainy would be sent running out to one of two corners of the short muddy street of identical frame houses where they lived.
To the right it was half a block to Finley's where he would have to wait at the bar in a forest of mudsplattered trouserlegs until all the rank brawling mouths of grown- ups had been stopped with beers and whiskeys. Then he would walk home, making each step very carefully, with the handle of the pail of suds cutting into his hand.
To the left it was half a block to Maginnis's Fancy Groceries, Home and Imported Products. Fainy liked the cardboard Cream of Wheat darkey in the window, the glass case with different kinds of salami in it, the barrels of potatoes and cabbages, the brown smell of sugar, saw- dust, ginger, kippered herring, ham, vinegar, bread, pep- per, lard.
"A loaf of bread, please, mister, a half pound of butter and a box of ginger snaps."
Some evenings, when Mom felt poorly, Fainy had to go further; round the corner past Maginnis's, down Riv- erside Avenue where the trolley ran, and across the red bridge over the little river that flowed black between icy undercut snowbanks in winter, yellow and spuming in the spring thaws, brown and oily in summer. Across the river all the way to the corner of Riverside and Main, where the drugstore was, lived Bohunks and Polaks. Their kids were always fighting with the kids"of the Murphys and O'Haras and O'Flanagans who lived on Orchard Street.
Fainy would walk along with his knees quaking, the
medicine bottle in its white paper tight in one mittened hand. At the corner of Quince was a group of boys he'd have to pass. Passing wasn't so bad; it was when he was about twenty yards from them that the first snowball would hum by his ear. There was no comeback. If he broke into a run, they'd chase him. If he dropped the medicine bottle he'd be beaten up when he got home. A soft one would plunk on the back of his head and the snow began to trickle down his neck. When he was a half a block from the bridge he'd take a chance and run for it.
"Scared cat . . . Shanty Irish . . . Bowlegged Mur- phy . . . Running home to tell the cop" . . . would yell the Polak and Bohunk kids between snowballs. They made their snowballs hard by pouring water on them and leaving them to freeze overnight; if one of those hit him it drew blood.
The backyard was the only place you could really feel safe to play in. There were brokendown fences, dented garbage cans, old pots and pans too nearly sieves to mend, a vacant chickencoop that still had feathers and droppings on the floor, hogweed in summer, mud in winter; but the glory of the McCrearys' backyard was Tony Harriman's rabbit hutch, where he kept Belgian hares. Tony Harri- man was a consumptive and lived with his mother on the ground floor left. He wanted to raise all sorts of other small animals too, raccoons, otter, even silver fox, he'd get rich that way. The day he died nobody could find the key to the big padlock on the door of the rabbit hutch. Fainy fed the hares for several days by pushing in cabbage and lettuce leaves through the double thickness of chickenwire. Then came a week of sleet and rain when he didn't go out in the yard. The first fine day, when he went to look, one of the hares was dead. Fainy turned white; he tried to tell himself the hare was asleep, but it lay gawkily stiff, not asleep. The other hares were huddled in a corner looking
about with twitching noses, their big ears flopping helpless over their backs. Poor hares; Fainy wanted to cry. He ran upstairs to his mother's kitchen, ducked under the ironing board and got the hammer out of the drawer in the kitchen table. The first time he tried he mashed his finger, but the second time he managed to jump the padlock. In- side the cage there was a funny, sour smell. Fainy picked the dead hare up by its ears. Its soft white belly was be- ginning to puff up, one dead eye was scaringly open. Something suddenly got hold of Fainy and made him drop the hare in the nearest garbage can and run upstairs. Still cold and trembling, he tiptoed out onto the back porch and looked down. Breathlessly he watched the other hares. By cautious hops they were getting near the door of the hutch into the yard. One of them was out. It sat up on its hind legs, limp ears suddenly stiff. Mom called him to bring her a flatiron from the stove. When he got back to the porch the hares were all gone.
That winter there was a strike in the Chadwick Mills and Pop lost his job. He would sit all day in the front room smoking and cursing:
"Ablebodied man by Jesus, if I couldn't lick any one of those damn Polaks with my crutch tied behind my back . . . I says so to Mr. Barry; I ain't goin' to join no strike. Mr. Barry, a sensible quiet man, a bit of an invalid, with a wife an' kiddies to think for. Eight years I've been watchman, an' now you give me the sack to take on a bunch of thugs from a detective agency. The dirty pugnosed son of a bitch."
"If those damn lousy furreners hadn't a walked out," somebody would answer soothingly.
The strike was not popular on Orchard Street. It meant that Mom had to work harder and harder, doing bigger and bigger boilersful of wash, and that Fainy and his older sister Milly had to help when they came home from school. And then one day Mom got sick and had to
go back to bed instead of starting in on the ironing, and lay with her round white creased face whiter than the pil- low and her watercreased hands in a knot under her chin. The doctor came and the district nurse, and all three rooms of the flat smelt of doctors and nurses and drugs, and the only place Fainy and Milly could find to sit was on the stairs. There they sat and cried quietly together. Then Mom's face on the pillow shrank into a little creased white thing like a rumpled up handkerchief and they said that she was dead and took her away.
The funeral was from the undertaking parlors on River- side Avenue on the next block. Fainy felt very proud and important because everybody kissed him and patted his head and said he was behaving like a little man. He had a new black suit on, too, like a grownup suit with pockets and everything, except that it had short pants. There were all sorts of people at the undertaking parlors he had never been close to before, Mr. Russell, the butcher and Father O'Donnell and Uncle Tim O'Hara who'd come on from Chicago, and it smelt of whisky and beer like at Finley's. Uncle Tim was a skinny man with a knobbed red face and blurry blue eyes. He wore a loose black silk tie that wor- ried Fainy, and kept leaning down suddenly, bending from the waist as if he was going to close up like a jack- knife, and whispering in a thick voice in Fainy's ear.
"Don't you mind 'em, old sport, they're a bunch o' bums and hypocrytes, stewed to the ears most of 'em already. Look at Father O'Donnell the fat swine already figurin' up the burial fees. But don't you mind 'em, re- member you're an O'Hara on your mother's side. I don't mind em, old sport, and she was my own sister by birth and blood."
When they got home he was terribly sleepy and his feet were cold and wet. Nobody paid any attention to him. He sat whimpering on the edge of the bed in the dark. In the front room there were voices and a sound of knives
and forks, but he didn't dare go in there. He curled up against the wall and went to sleep. Light in his eyes woke him up. Uncle Tim and Pop were standing over him talk- ing loud. They looked funny and didn't seem to be stand- ing very steady. Uncle Tim held the lamp.
Well, Fainy, old sport, said Uncle Tim giving the lamp a perilous wave over Fainy's head. Fenian O'Hara McCreary, sit up and take notice and tell us what you think of our proposed removal to the great and growing city of Chicago. Middletown's a terrible bitch of a dump if you ask me . . . Meanin' no offense, John . . . But Chicago . . . Jesus God, man, when you get there you'll think you've been dead and nailed up in a coffin all these years."
Fainy was scared. He drew his knees up to his chin and looked tremblingly at the two big swaying figures of men lit by the swaying lamp. He tried to speak but the words dried up on his lips.
The kid's asleep, Tim, for all your speechifyin' . . . Take your clothes off, Fainy, and get into bed and get a good night's sleep. We're leavin' in the mornin'."
And late on a rainy morning, without any breakfast, with a big old swelltop trunk tied up with rope joggling perilously on the roof of the cab that Fainy had been sent to order from Hodgeson's Livery Stable, they set out. Milly was crying. Pop didn't say a word but sucked on an unlit pipe. Uncle Tim handled everything, making little jokes all the time that nobody laughed at, pulling a roll of bills out of his pocket at every juncture, or taking great gurgling sips out of the flask he had in his pocket. Milly cried and cried. Fainy looked out with big dry eyes at the familiar streets, all suddenly odd and lopsided, that rolled past the cab; the red bridge, the scabshingled houses where the Polaks lived, Smith's and Smith's cor- ner drugstore . . . there was Billy Hogan just coming
out with a package of chewing gum in his hand. Playing hockey again. Fainy had an impulse to yell at him, but something froze it . . . Main with its elms and street cars, blocks of stores round the corner of Church, and then the fire department. Fainy looked for the last time into the dark cave where shone entrancingly the brass and copper curves of the engine, then past the cardboard fronts of the First Congregational Church, The Carmel Baptist Church, St. Andrew's Episcopal Church built of brick and set catercornered on its lot instead of straight with a stern face to the street like the other churches, then the three castiron stags on the lawn in front of the Commercial House, and the residences, each with its lawn, each with its scrollsaw porch, each with it hydrangea bush. Then the houses got smaller, and the lawns disappeared; the cab trundled round past Simpson's Grain and Feed Ware- house, along a row of barbershops, saloons and lunch- rooms, and they were all getting out at the station.
At the station lunchcounter Uncle Tim set everybody up to breakfast. He dried Milly's tears and blew Fainy's nose in a big new pockethandkerchief that still had the tag on the corner and set them to work on bacon and eggs and coffee. Fainy hadn't had coffee before, so. the idea of sit- ting up like a man and drinking coffee made him feel pretty good. Milly didn't like hers, said it was bitter. They were left all alone in the lunchroom for sometime with the empty plates and empty coffee cups under the beady eyes of a woman with the long neck and pointed face of a hen who looked at them disapprovingly from behind the counter. Then with an enormous, shattering rumble, sludgepuff sludge . . . puff, the train came into the station. They were scooped up and dragged across the platform and through a pipesmoky car and before they knew it the train was moving and the wintry russet Connecticut landscape was clattering by.
THE CAMERA EYE (2)
we hurry wallowing like in a boat in the musty stablysmelling herdic cab He kept saying What would you do Lucy if I were to invite one of them to my table? They're very lovely people Lucy the colored people and He had cloves in a little silver box and a rye whisky smell on his breath hurrying to catch the cars to New York
and She was saying Oh dolly I hope we wont be late and Scott was waiting with the tickets and we had to run up the platform of the Seventh Street Depot and all the little cannons kept falling out of the Olympia and everybody stooped to pick them up and the conductor Allaboard lady quick lady
they were little brass cannons and were bright in the sun on the platform of the Seventh Street Depot and Scott hoisted us all up and the train was moving and the engine bell was ringing and Scott put in your hand a little handful of brass tiny cannons just big enough to hold the smallest size red firecracker at the battle of Manila Bay and said Here's the artillery Jack
and He was holding forth in the parlor car Why Lucy if it were necessary for the cause of humanity I would walk out and be shot any day you would Jack wouldn't you? wouldn't you porter? who was bringing appolinaris and He had a flask in the brown grip where
the silk initialed handkerchiefs always smelt of bay rum
and when we got to Havre de Grace He said Re- member Lucy we used to have to ferry across the Susque- hanna before the bridge was built and across Gunpowder Creek too
MAC Russet hills, patches of woods, farmhouses, cows, a red colt kicking up its heels in a pasture, rail fences, streaks of marsh.
Well, Tim, I feel like a whipped cur . . . So long as I've lived, Tim, I've tried to do the right thing, Pop kept repeating in a rattling voice. And now what can they be asayin' about me?
"Jesus God, man, there was nothin' else you could do, was there? What the devil can you do if you haven't any money and haven't any job and a lot o' doctors and under- takers and landlords come round with their bills and you with two children to support?"
"But I've been a quiet and respectable man, steady and misfortunate ever since I married and settled down. And now what'll they be thinkin' of me sneakin' out like a whipped cur?"
" John, take it from me that I'd be the last one to want to bring disrespect on the dead that was my own sister by birth and blood . . . But it ain't your fault and it ain't my fault . . . it's the fault of poverty, and poverty's the fault of the system . . . Fenian, you listen to Tim O'Hara for a minute and Milly you listen too, cause a girl ought to know these things just as well as a man and
for once in his life Tim O'Hara's tellin' the truth . . . It's the fault of the system that don't give a man the fruit of his labor . . . The only man that gets anything out of capitalism is a crook, an' he gets to be a millionaire in short order . . . But an honest workin' man like John or muself we can work a hundred years and not leave enough to bury us decent with."
Smoke rolled white in front of the window shaking out of its folds trees and telegraph poles and little square shingleroofed houses and towns and trolleycars, and long rows of buggies with steaming horses standing in line.
"And who gets the fruit of our labor, the goddam busi- ness men, agents, middlemen who never did a productive piece of work in their life."
Fainy's eyes are following the telegraph wires that sag and soar.
Now, Chicago ain't no paradise, I can promise you that, John, but it's a better market for a workin' man's muscle and brains at present than the East is . . . And why, did you ask me why . . . ? Supply and demand, they need workers in Chicago.
Tim, I tellyer I feel like a whipped cur.
It's the system, John, it's the goddam lousy system.
A great bustle in the car woke Fainy up. It was dark. Milly was crying again. He didn't know where he was.
Well, gentlemen, Uncle Tim was saying, we're about to arrive in little old New York.
In the station it was light; that surprised Fainy, who thought it was already night. He and Milly were left a long time sitting on a suitcase in the waitingroom. The waitingroom was huge, full of unfamiliarlooking people, scary like people in picturebooks. Milly kept crying.
Hey, Milly, I'll biff you one if you don't stop crying.
Why? whined Milly, crying all the more.
Fainy stood as far away from her as possible so that people wouldn't think they were together. When he was
about ready to cry himself Pop and Uncle Tim came and took them and the suitcase into the restaurant. A strong smell of fresh whisky came from their breaths, and they seemed very bright around the eyes. They all sat at a table with a white cloth and a sympathetic colored man in a white coat handed them a large card full of printing.
Let's eat a good supper, said Uncle Tim, if it's the last thing we do on this earth.
Damn the expense, said Pop, it's the system that's to blame.
To hell with the pope, said Uncle Tim. We'll make a social-democrat out of you yet.
They gave Fainy fried oysters and chicken and ice- cream and cake, and when they all had to run for the train he had a terrible stitch in his side. They got into a day- coach that smelt of coalgas and armpits. When are we going to bed? Milly began to whine. We're not going to bed, said Uncle Tim airily. We're going to sleep right here like little mice . . . like little mice in a cheese. I doan like mice, yelled Milly with a new flood of tears as the train started.
Fainy's eyes smarted; in his ears was the continuous roar, the clatter clatter over crossings, the sudden snarl under bridges. It was a tunnel, all the way to Chicago it was a tunnel. Opposite him Pop's and Uncle Tim's faces looked red and snarling, he didn't like the way they looked, and the light was smoky and jiggly and outside it was all a tunnel and his eyes hurt and wheels and rails roared in his ears and he fell asleep.
When he woke up it was a town and the train was run- ning right through the main street. It was a sunny morn- ing. He could see people going about their business, stores, buggies and spring-wagons standing at the curb, newsboys selling newspapers, wooden Indians outside of cigarstores. At first he thought he was dreaming, but then he remem- bered and decided it must be Chicago. Pop and Uncle Tim
were asleep on the seat opposite. Their mouths were open, their faces were splotched and he didn't like the way they looked. Milly was curled up with a wooly shawl all over her. The train was slowing down, it was a station. If it was Chicago they ought to get off. At that moment the con- ductor passed, an old man who looked a little like Father O'Donnell.
Please, mister, is this Chicago? Chicago's a long way off yet, son, said the conductor without smiling. This is Syracuse.
And they all woke up, and for hours and hours the telephone poles went by, and towns, frame houses, brick factories with ranks and ranks of glittering windows, dumping grounds, trainyards, plowed land, pasture, and cows, and Milly got trainsick and Fainy's legs felt like they would drop off from sitting in the seat so long; some places it was snowing and some places it was sunny, and Milly kept getting sick and smelt dismally of vomit, and it got dark and they all slept; and light again, and then the towns and the framehouses and the factories all started drawing together, humping into warehouses and elevators, and the trainyards spread out as far as you could see and it was Chicago.
But it was so cold and the wind blew the dust so hard in his face and his eyes were so stuck together by dust and tiredness that he couldn't look at anything. After they had waited round a long while, Milly and Fainy huddled to- gether in the cold, they got on a streetcar and rode and rode. They were so sleepy they never knew exactly where the train ended and the streetcar began. Uncle Tim's voice went on talking proudly excitedly, Chicago, Chicago, Chi- cago. Pop sat with his chin on his crutch. "Tim, I feel like a whipped cur."
Fainy lived ten years in Chicago.
At first he went to school and played baseball on back lots on Saturday afternoons, but then came his last com-
mencement, and all the children sang My Country, 'Tis Of Thee, and school was over and he had to go to work. Uncle Tim at that time had his own jobprinting shop on a dusty side street off North Clark in the ground floor of a cranky old brick building. It only occupied a small sec- tion of the building that was mostly used as a ware- house and was famous for its rats. It had a single wide plateglass window made resplendent by gold Old English lettering: TIMOTHY O'HARA, JOB PRINTER.
Now, Fainy, old sport, said Uncle Tim, you'll have a chance to learn the profession from the ground up. So he ran errands, delivered packages of circulars, throw- aways, posters, was always dodging trolleycars, ducking from under the foamy bits of big truckhorses, bumming rides on deliverywagons. When there were no errands to run he swept out under the presses, cleaned type, emptied the office wastepaper basket, or, during rush times, ran round the corner for coffee and sandwiches for the type- setter, or for a small flask of bourbon for Uncle Tim.
Pop puttered round on his crutch for several years, always looking for a job. Evenings he smoked his pipe and cursed his luck on the back stoop of Uncle Tim's house and occasionally threatened to go back to Middle- town. Then one day he got pneumonia and died quietly at the Sacred Heart Hospital. It was about the same time that Uncle Tim bought a linotype machine.
Uncle Tim was so excited he didn't take a drink for three days. The floorboards were so rotten they had to build a brick base for the linotype all the way up from the cellar. Well, when we get another one we'll concrete the whole place, Uncle Tim told everybody. For a whole day there was no work done. Everybody stood around looking at the tall black intricate machine that stood there like an organ in a church. When the machine was work- ing and the printshop filled with the hot smell of molten metal, everybody's eyes followed the quivering inquisitive
arm that darted and flexed above the keyboard. When they handed round the warm shiny slugs of type the old German typesetter who for some reason they called Mike pushed back his glasses on his forehead and cried. Fifty- five years a printer, and now when I'm old I'll have to carry hods to make a living.
The first print Uncle Tim set up on the new machine was the phrase: Workers of the world unite; you have nothing to lose but your chains.
When Fainy was seventeen and just beginning to worry about skirts and ankles and girls' underwear when he walked home from work in the evening and saw the lights of the city bright against the bright heady western sky, there was a strike in the Chicago printing trades. Tim O'Hara had always run a union shop and did all the union printing at cost. He even got up a handbill signed, A Citi- zen, entitled An Ernest Protest, which Fainy was allowed to set up on the linotype one evening after the operator had gone home. One phrase stuck in Fainy's mind, and he repeated it to himself after he had gone to bed that night: It is time for all honest men to band together to resist the ravages of greedy privilege.
The next day was Sunday, and Fainy went along Michigan Avenue with a package of the handbills to dis- tributd. It was a day of premature spring. Across the rot- ting yellow ice on the lake came little breezes that smelt unexpectedly of flowers. The girls looked terribly pretty and their skirts blew in the wind and Fainy felt the spring blood pumping hot in him, he wanted to kiss and to roll on the ground and to run out across the icecakes and to make speeches from the tops of telegraph poles and to vault over trolleycars; but instead he distributed hand- bills and worried about his pants being frayed and wished he had a swell looking suit and a swell looking girl to walk with.
Hey, young feller, where's your permit to distribute
them handbills? It was a cop's voice growling in his ear. Fainy gave the cop one took over his shoulder, dropped the handbills and ran. He ducked through between the shiny black cabs and carriages, ran down a side street and walked and walked and didn't look back until he managed to get across a bridge just before the draw opened. The cop wasn't following him anyway.
He stood on the curb a long time with the whistle of a peanutstand shrilling derisively in his ear.
That night at supper his uncle asked him about the handbills.
Sure I gave 'em out all along the lakeshore . . . A cop tried to stop me but I told him right where to get off. Fainy turned burning red when a hoot went up from everybody at the table. He filled up his mouth with mashed potato and wouldn't say any more. His aunt and his uncle and their three daughters all laughed and laughed. Well, it's a good thing you ran faster than the cop, said Uncle Tim, else I should have had to bail you out and that would have cost money.
The next morning early Fainy was sweeping out the office, when a man with a face like a raw steak walked up the steps; he was smoking a thin black stogy of a sort Fainy had never seen before. He knocked on the ground glass door.
I want to speak to Mr. O'Hara, Timothy O'Hara.
He's not here yet, be here any minute now, sir. Will you wait?
You bet I'll wait. The man sat on the edge of a chair and spat, first taking the chewed end of the stogy out of his mouth and looking at it meditatively for a long time. When Tim O'Hara came the office door closed with a bang. Fainy hovered nervously around, a little bit afraid the man might be a detective following up the affair of the handbills. Voices rose and fell, the stranger's voice in short rattling tirades, O'Hara's voice in long expostulating
clauses, now and then Fainy caught the word foreclose, until suddenly the door flew open and the stranger shot out, his face purpler than ever. On the iron stoop he turned and pulling a new stogy from his pocket, lit it from the old onei growling the words through the stogy and the blue puff of smoke, he said, Mr. O'Hara, you have twenty-four hours to think it over . . . A word from you and proceedings stop immediately." Then he went off down the street leaving behind him a long trail of rancid smoke.
A minute later, Uncle Tim came out of the office, his face white as paper. Fenian, old sport, he said, you go get yourself a job. I'm going out of business . . . Keep a weather eye open. I'm going to have a drink. And he was drunk for six days. By the end of that time a number of meeklooking men appeared with summonses, and Uncle Tim had to sober up enough to go down to the court and put in a plea of bankruptcy.
Mrs. O'Hara scolded and stormed, Didn't I tell you, Tim O'Hara, no good'll ever come with your fiddlin' round with these godless labor unions and social-democrats and knights of labor, all of 'em drunk and loafin' bums like yourself, Tim O'Hara. Of course the master printers ud have to get together and buy up your outstandin' paper and squash you, and serve you right too, Tim O'Hara, you and your godless socialistic boosin' ways only they might have thought of your poor wife and her help- less wee babes, and now we'll starve all of us together, us and the dependents and hangers on you've brought into the house.
Well, I declare, cried Fainy's sister Milly. If I haven't slaved and worked my fingers to the bone for every piece of bread I've eaten in this house, and she got up from the breakfast table and flounced out of the room. Fainy sat there while the storm raged above his head; then he got up, slipping a corn muffin into his
pocket as he went. In the hall he found the "help wanted" section of the Chicago Tribune, took his cap and went out into a raw Sunday morning full of churchbells jangling in his ears. He boarded a streetcar and went out to Lin- coln Park. There he sat on a bench for a long time munch- ing the muffin and looking down the columns of adver- tisements: Boy Wanted. But they none of them looked very inviting. One thing he was bound, he wouldn't get another job in a printing shop until the strike was over. Then his eye struck
Bright boy wanted with amb. and lit. taste, knowledge of print. and pub. business. Conf. sales and distrib. propo- sition $15 a week apply by letter P.O. Box 1256b
Fainy's head suddenly got very light. Bright boy, that's me, ambition and literary taste . . . Gee, I must finish Looking Backward . . . and jez, I like reading fine, an' I could run a linotype or set up print if anybody'd let me. Fifteen bucks a week . . . pretty soft, ten dollars' raise. And he began to write a letter in his head, apply- ing for the job.
DEAR SIR (MY DEAR SIR) or maybe GENTLEMEN,
In applying for the position you offer in today's Sunday Tribune I want to apply, (allow me to state) that I'm seventeen years old, no, nineteen, with several years' experience in the printing and publishing trades, ambitious and with excellent knowledge and taste in the printing and publishing trades,
no, I can't say that twice . . . And I'm very anxious for the job . . . As he went along it got more and more muddled in his head.
He found he was stanaing beside a peanut wagon. It was cold as blazes, a razor wind was shrieking across the broken ice and the black patches of water of the lake. He
tore out the ad and let the rest of the paper go with the wind. Then he bought himself a warm package of peanuts.
Come on and hear Come on and hear Come on and hear
In his address to the Michigan state Legislature the retir- ing governor, Hazen S. Pingree, said in part: I make the pre- diction that unless those in charge and in whose hands legisla- tion is reposed do not change the present system of inequality, there will be a bloody revolution in less than a quarter of a century in this great country of ours.
CARNEGIE TALKS OF HIS EPITAPH
Alexander's Ragtime Band It is the best It is the best
the luncheon which was served in the physical laboratory was replete with novel features. A* miniature blastfurnace four feet high was on the banquet table and a narrow gauge rail- road forty feet long ran round the edge of the table. Instead of molten metal the blastfurnace poured hot punch into small cars on the railroad. Icecream was served in the shape of rail- road tics and bread took the shape of locomotives.
Mr. Carnegie, while extolling the advantages of higher education in every branch of learning, came at last to this con- clusion: Manual labor has been found to be the best foundation for the greatest work of the brain.
VICE PRESIDENT EMPTIES A BANK
Come on and hear Alexander's Ragtime Band
It is the best It is the best
brother of Jesse James declares play picturing him as bandit trainrobber and outlaw is demoralizing district battle ends with polygamy, according to an investigation by Salt Lake ministers, still practiced by Mormons clubwomen gasp
It is the best band in the land
say circus animals only cat Chicago horsemeat Taxsale of Indiana lots marks finale of World's Fair boom uses flag as ragbag killed on cannibal isle keeper falls into water and sea- lions attack him.
The launch then came alongside the half deflated balloon of the aerostat which threatened at any moment to smother Santos Dumont. The latter was half pulled and half clam- bered over the gunwale into the boat.
The prince of Monaco urged him to allow himself to be taken on board the yacht to dry himself and change his clothes. Santos Dumont would not leave the launch until everything that could be saved had been taken ashore, then, wet but smiling and unconcerned, he landed amid the frenzied cheers of the crowd.
THE CAMERA EYE (3)
0 qu'il a des beaux yeux said the lady in the seat opposite but She said that was no way to talk to children and the little boy felt all hot and sticky but it was dusk and the lamp shaped like half a melon was coming on dim red and the train rumbled and suddenly I've been asleep and it's black dark and the blue tassel bobs on the edge of the dark shade shaped like a melon and every-
where there are pointed curved shadows (the first time He came He brought a melon and the sun was coming in through the tall lace windowcurtains and when we cut it the smell of melons filled the whole room) No don't eat the seeds deary they give you appendicitis
but you're peeking out of the window into the black rumbling dark suddenly ranked with squat chimneys and you're scared of the black smoke and the puffs of flame that flare and fade out of the squat chimneys Potteries dearie. they work there all night Who works there all night? Workingmen and people like that laborers travail- leurs greasers
you were scared
but now the dark was all black again the lamp in the train and the sky and everything had a blueblack shade on it and She was telling a story about
Longago Beforetheworldsfair Beforeyouwereborn and they went to Mexico on a private car on the new interna- tional line and the men shot antelope off the back of the train and big rabbits jackasses they called them and once one night Longago Beforetheworldsfair Beforeyouwereborn one night Mother was so frightened on account of all the rifleshots but it was allright turned out to be nothing but a little shooting they'd been only shooting a greaser that was all
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