Chapter XXV · THE UNEXPECTED.

The effect of Sigsbee’s declaration upon the rest of the listeners was dynamic. Every eye swung around and rested upon Nash’s white face.

“What have you to say, Mr. Nash?” the president questioned, first to find his voice.

“I have nothing to say,” replied Nash.

“But I have!” a clear, commanding voice arose.

Nash lifted his eyes. Miss Trask, who had so abruptly interrupted, was upon her feet. She looked at the president, who appeared to be as much surprised as the others.

“May I explain?” she asked.

The president nodded. Sigsbee brought himself erect in his chair, a frown chiseled between his brows.

“Why, surely, Miss Breen,” he said anxiously, “this affair cannot interest you.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Sigsbee, it is of vital interest to me,” she answered swiftly. “The man whom you have accused Mr. Nash of murdering was my brother!”

Sigsbee could only sit and gasp; the others about the long table leaned forward in their chairs. So abrupt and startling was the announcement that in the hush which followed one might have heard the dropping of a pin.

“Your brother?” It was the president who first regained his voice.

“Yes,” said Miss Trask.

“And this man”—indicating Nash—“this man killed him?”

“That is what Mr. Sigsbee would have us believe,” the girl answered quietly.

“But we have it from his own lips,” broke in Hooker, who, up to the present, had remained dumb. “Nash told me himself that——”

“I know,” Miss Trask nodded. “I, too, have heard it from his own lips. He told me last night—just before the detectives arrived from Los Angeles.”

“And he knew, at the time, that you intended arresting him?” asked the president.

“Yes.”

“Then why——”

“Why am I defending him??” Miss Trask interrupted. “Because there has been a mistake—a horrible mistake. Mr. Nash is as innocent of the crime as any one in the room.”

Nash caught at his breath, staring dumbly, wonderingly, into her face. What motive, he asked himself, had prompted Miss Trask to change so abruptly?

“Until this morning—an hour ago,” Miss Trask continued, “I believed his confession. Then I received a wire from New York saying that one of the aqueduct engineers, dying, has confessed to the murder. I did not understand at first, but after a time it became clear to me. Mr. Nash had a quarrel with my brother; a gun was fired somehow. The shot cut across my brother’s cheek. I distinctly remember, because he was brought home, and remained there for a week. Two weeks later he was engaged in another fight—and this one proved fatal. Mr. Nash believed all the time—as I did at first—that he was responsible; that it was in his quarrel my brother had met his death. My brother was quick-tempered, and he provoked the fight. I want Mr. Nash to be freed of all blame.”

Nash listened as a man in a dream, and finally, when Miss Trask had finished, and had smiled upon him, he spoke:

“The fight took place in a café,” he said, bringing back the vivid picture. “It was a harmless one at first. We began sparring; he dropped to the floor. Then he jerked out a gun—I was unarmed. But suddenly a shot rang out behind me, your brother cried out, and when I looked down his face was bathed in crimson. Somebody grabbed me, forced me out of the room. They told me my opponent was dying, and that I must run for it. Explanations were useless.” Nash stopped, and looked around at the circle of interested faces.

“That—that is all,” he said, “except that I packed my things that night and took the first train for California.”

With the exception of Sigsbee and Hooker, the others in the room were visibly impressed. Sigsbee, instantly aware that the issue at hand was being forgotten, got to his feet.

“A very remarkable little romance,” he sneered. “Very remarkable, indeed! But I’m afraid we are wandering from the subject. While Miss Breen has apparently proven that Mr. Nash did not murder her brother, the fact remains that he was a trouble-maker, and——”

“Just a moment, Mr. Sigsbee,” interrupted Miss Trask. “Whatever Mr. Nash did in the past is of no concern at the present time. May I have permission to speak at length?” She looked over at the president, who, understanding, nodded.

“Since I became engaged upon this case, gentlemen,” she continued, “I have had the opportunity of learning a few unexpected truths. Convinced, as I was at first, of Mr. Nash’s disloyalty, I was amazed at his manner toward me and the men under him, and his enthusiasm for his work. It was only after a severe struggle with myself, and after I had found what I concluded was the final proof of his unfaithfulness, that I took up the matter with the board of engineers.”

“Do we understand that you retract the evidence you have only just offered?” demanded the president.

“Certainly not, Mr. President,” she answered. “Every word I have said in the matter of the siphons is true. Even Mr. Nash agrees with me.”

Nash nodded. “I have denied nothing,” he said. “Miss Breen’s statements are perfectly correct.”

In a puzzled way he waited for her to continue.

“Several days ago Mr. Nash saved my life,” the girl resumed. “It was then, half crazed by what I had gone through, that I confessed everything to him. I told him who I was, and what I had done.”

“That was before his arrest?” leaped to Sigsbee’s lips.

“Yes, before his arrest.”

Sigsbee shrugged. “It’s a wonder, carried away by your feelings for this man, that you didn’t urge him to escape,” he said.

“That is exactly what I did do, Mr. Sigsbee.”

The politician stared. “You—you tried to——”

“I told him the truth, and urged him to get away before he was arrested. Not only then did I plead with him, but I went into camp an hour before his arrest and begged him to leave.”

“What prevented him from doing so?” asked the president.

Miss Breen smiled. “His innocence, gentlemen. Why, do you think, being guilty of this crime, he would have remained in camp? It was because he was innocent that he remained.”

“Do you mean to say, Miss Breen,” the president asked, “that you believe Mr. Nash was ignorant of the offense for which——”

“I do!”

“But you have already testified——“ began Sigsbee.

“I testified to the facts exactly as they were, exactly as I found them; exactly, gentlemen, as Mr. Nash admits they were. He does not deny that his steel was different from the specifications. What he does deny is that he was given those specifications there on the table.”

“If he was given other specifications, which he claims to have followed,” Sigsbee declared, “why does he not show them? What we want at this inquiry is proofs, not words.”

Miss Breen allowed her eyes to rest upon the insolent, flushed face of the speaker. “‘Why doesn’t he show the proofs?’ you ask,” she replied calmly. “Because you took particular pains to put them out of his reach, Mr. Sigsbee.”

“Look here!” Sigsbee exclaimed, forgetting, or indifferent to the fact, that he was addressing a woman. “I won’t stand for any such insinuations!”

“You’ll stand for some things you don’t expect,” the girl answered swiftly, not in the least ruffled by the man’s declaration. “You laid your plans very carefully, Mr. Sigsbee; you imagined them to be perfect. Most criminals do. It is the unexpected that steps in and clogs the smoothest running gear.”

“I—I demand——“ spluttered the politician.

“Very well,” announced the girl, apparently enjoying the situation, which to all others in the room, Nash included, was more than mystifying. “I’ll satisfy you.”

She looked around at the circle of interested engineers. Nash found her eyes, and held them. Something mirrored in their depths sent his pulses racing.

“Last night, after leaving Mr. Nash in charge of the detectives,” she resumed, “I rode back to the ranch. Arrived there, I found Mr. Hooker, who, as he has previously explained, was preparing to stop overnight. When I discovered him he was flat on his back under the machine, coat off, sleeves rolled up, his hands covered with grease and dirt. At his suggestion, I volunteered to hold the lantern, and later he asked me to carry his coat into the house. I did so. As I picked up the garment from the ground, some papers dropped out. I was on the point of returning them when——”

Hooker, with a loud cry, suddenly leaped to his feet, flung aside the chair in which he had been sitting, and which blocked his way, and bolted for the door.

“Don’t let him get away!” Miss Breen cried.

Instantly several of the men sprang into action, and two of them caught Hooker as he was about to disappear. They brought him back to the table, and forced him into a chair, where he sat huddled, white-lipped and trembling.

“I’m sorry Mr. Hooker spoiled my climax,” Miss Breen said, smiling. “Evidently he has just searched his pockets, and discovered the false specifications which he took from Mr. Nash’s cabin yesterday afternoon are missing. However,” she added, opening a little hand bag which she carried, “they are not lost. Here, gentlemen, are Mr. Nash’s proofs.”

A bomb, thrown through the window, would not have caused greater confusion. The false specifications were hurriedly examined by all the men. Nash’s writing and figures on the margins were instantly identified.

Sigsbee, stunned by the unexpected twist in his carefully laid plot, sat as one stricken dumb.

“What have you to say, Mr. Hooker?” asked the president, after the excitement had subsided.

Hooker seemed to realize his hopeless position. His actions had proven his guilt. “Camp Forty-seven was rotten with graft,” he said reluctantly, dully. “Sigsbee and I had to throw the blame on some one’s shoulders—so we picked Nash. That’s all.”

The president of the board walked over to Nash. “I guess there’s a great big apology coming to you, Mr. Nash.” He gripped the engineer’s hand. “I feel we can depend upon you, and I hope you will continue to represent us in Camp Forty-seven.”

“I shall do my best,” Nash answered. “My motto has been, and always will be, ‘All for Los Angeles.’”

“That must be our motto as well,” responded the president. “And with this in view, we must be careful not to allow the faintest whisper of this meeting to reach the ears of the public. Los Angeles has always been free from graft and political deals. It must be kept so. The public must have the utmost confidence in the men who are constructing its wonderful aqueduct. I believe all the members present understand the delicate situation. And as for these two gentlemen”—he looked across to Sigsbee and Hooker—“we must see that they are sent away. We will withdraw all charges against them. To air this matter in court would be a detriment to our clean record of the past. And while these men deserve punishment, severe punishment, we must consider, above all else, the welfare of our city. Therefore, I move that these men be placed in the custody of a detective and taken East.”

The suggestion of the president was unanimously upheld by the board of engineers.

Following the verdict, Nash slipped away and found Miss Trask.

“If it hadn’t been for you,” he murmured, pressing her hand, “I might——”

“If it hadn’t been for you,” she interrupted, “that night at the coyote I might have——”

The remembrance of that night, and the one particular incident, rushed to Nash’s mind.

“And why—why did you lie to me about the time?” he asked. “Why did you wish to remain with me when you knew that the explosion was to——”

She looked away, and the color trembled in her cheeks.

“C-can’t you guess?” she faltered.

Nash had arrived at a solution a long time previous to this moment, but it seemed too good to be true. Now he knew it was true.

“Let’s go over to the Alexandria for lunch,” he suggested. “I can talk better there.”

And, once in that big, cosmopolitan hotel, and in a secluded corner of the grillroom, Elliot Nash amazed the stolid-faced waiter by his order. And what he said later to the girl who shared the feast was meant only for her ears.

THE END.

AN IMPORTANT EXCEPTION.

An old man who entered the meteorological office, the other day, said:

“This ’ere’s where you give out weather predictions, ain’t it?”

The clerk nodded.

“Well,” continued the old man, “I thought as how I could come up and give you some tips.”

“Yes,” said the clerk politely.

“Yes; I’ve thought it out a little, an’ I find that ye ain’t al’ays right.”

“No; we sometimes make mistakes.”

“Course ye do. We all does, some time. Now, I was thinkin’ as how a line that used to be on the auction handbills down in our county might do first-rate on your weather predictions an’ save ye a lot of explainin’.”

“What was the line?”

“Wind an’ weather permittin’.”

He went off without waiting to say good-by.

Saving the Building and Loan Money.

By E. E. YOUMANS.

“Paul, I want you to go down to the Building and Loan with this money to-night,” said Mrs. Brown, as she came into the room where her son was seated, reading a book. “I’d go myself, but I expect Mrs. Carson here to see me, and must be on hand when she comes. I guess you can attend to it all right enough, don’t you think so?”

“Sure,” said the youth, laying aside his book; “I’ll start at once.”

He secured his hat, and prepared to leave.

“Look out you don’t lose the money,” cautioned his mother. “There are some fifty dollars in the roll.”

“No fear,” answered Paul; and a moment later he was on his way down the road.

The place where the Building and Loan Association met was at a small village, some two miles from Mrs. Brown’s farm, and it was necessary for Paul to pass through a lonely woods on the way.

This he did not mind, however, for he was used to the road, and had often gone through the woods at night. It was just turning dusk when he left the house, but before he reached the forest, darkness had fallen in full.

The moon did not rise till late, and he could not see far ahead when he passed in under the trees. But he pressed on, the money tucked safely away in the inside of his vest, and had just reached the end of the woods, when the sudden glimmer of a light in the edge of the trees attracted his attention.

“Why, that’s near the old cave,” muttered the boy, stopping and looking toward the gleam. “Wonder what it means?”

He was about passing on, when the impulse to go forward and investigate seized upon him, and he turned toward the cave.

“It won’t take but a minute,” he told himself. “I’ll just sneak up near enough to see who’s prowling around. It may be some of the boys, though it’s been a long time since any of us have been down this way.”

He climbed over the fence, and stole toward the light. It was still shining, but before he got halfway to it, it suddenly went out.

He kept on, however, and soon reached the vicinity of the cave. This was situated in a small and rocky ravine, and had been formed by several large bowlders rolling down from the sides of the gorge, and lodging in such a manner as to leave a considerable cavity underneath.

Paul and his friends had for a long time used this place as a sort of rendezvous in some of their sports. But they had lost interest in it, and had not been there for some time.

In a few minutes he was near enough to the cave to hear the sound of strange voices.

“That’s none of the fellows,” he muttered, beginning to feel a little uneasy. “But who can it be?”

He paused for a moment in uncertainty. Then his curiosity urged him on again, and he soon gained a position behind one of the bowlders that formed a side of the cave.

Here he crouched down, and listened. In a little while the party within began talking again.

“There’s no doubt about it. He’ll have all the money with him, and, if we’re smart, we’ll make a clean haul of three or four thousand dollars.”

“All the same, it’s blamed risky,” said another voice.

“Well, what of it? I reckon we’re smart enough to make our escape. We’ll just stay here till twelve or one o’clock, then we’ll make tracks for Bolton’s house. Take my word for it, bub, he’ll never put that money in the bank to-morrow.”

Paul almost betrayed his proximity by the start he gave as these words reached his ears. Mr. Bolton was the treasurer of the Building and Loan Association into which he was going to pay the fifty dollars that night, and these two men were concocting a scheme to rob him at his home.

The youth soon decided what to do. He must hurry away at once, and tell the treasurer what he had discovered.

“It’s the greatest piece of rascality I ever heard of,” thought Paul, as he cautiously rose to his feet and turned away.

But he was not destined to escape. He stepped upon a small stone which slid out from under his foot with a sharp noise, and nearly threw him down.

“What’s that?” cried one of the men, and the next second both were heard starting from the cave.

Paul did not wait. Knowing he was sure to be caught, he broke into a run.

The next moment the men saw him, and started in pursuit with a shout of rage.

“Stop, you young eavesdropper,” cried the foremost ruffian; “stop, I say, or I’ll shoot you.”

Paul paid no attention. He dashed back toward the road, expecting to have a bullet sent after him each moment, but for some reason it did not come.

Straining every muscle, he soon came near the fence, and at the same moment he heard the pursuers close behind him. He had no time to climb the fence, and gathered himself for a spring.

When he reached it, he placed his hand on the top rail, and made a tremendous leap. He would have cleared it all right, but the rail gave way under him, and he fell headlong into the grass on the roadside.

He sprang up, but it was too late. A heavy hand was laid on his collar, and he was jerked violently around.

“Now I’ve got you,” said a rough voice. “I’ve a good mind to break your head.”

“Let me go!” panted Paul.

“I’ll let you go, confound you,” roared his captor, shaking him savagely. “Who are you?”

“None of your business,” said Paul fearlessly. “If you don’t let me go, it’ll be worse for you.”

“Careful with that tongue of yours. Just come along back here.”

With a quick move the youth struck the man a stinging blow in the face. The ruffian uttered a howl, and put up his hand. Paul broke loose, and dashed away.

“Stop him, Dick,” cried the fellow he had hit. “Shoot him down; don’t let him escape.”

Paul was running for all he was worth. Dick promptly gave chase. He was a good runner, and, despite the boy’s desperate exertion, rapidly overhauled him.

When he got near enough he struck at the boy with his fist, and once more Paul sprawled into the road. He was partially stunned, and, before he could recover, both men were upon him.

“Let me smash him,” cried the one savagely. “He nearly broke my nose. Just let me get at him.”

“Oh, what’s the use!” said the other. “We’ve no time to fool with him. Give me your handkerchief.”

The man did so, and in a few minutes Paul’s hands were secured behind him, he was lifted between them, and carried back to the cave.

Here he was laid down, and Dick began searching him.

“We may as well take whatever you’ve got of value,” he said. “We deserve something for that blasted run you gave us.”

Paul’s heart sank. His mother’s hard-earned fifty dollars would be stolen.

The man soon found the book and the bills, and chuckled as he saw the money. Then, by the light of the lantern which he had relighted, he examined the book, and uttered a low whistle.

“Well, I’ll be hanged, Joe,” he cried, “if here isn’t one o’ the Buildin’ and Loan books; fifty dollars along with it, too, by the great thunder! Well, youngster, we’d only get this money anyhow, so we’ll take it now. Wish we could get all that’ll be paid in to-night as easy as we get this.”

He put the bills into his pocket, after which Paul was thrown into the cave. A large stone lying near was rolled against the entrance, and Paul’s capture was complete.

Hour after hour passed till the boy knew it must be after midnight. Then the men prepared to leave.

“I reckon you’ll be comfortable there for some time, bub,” said one, as they moved away. “You can thank your lucky stars that we didn’t kill you.”

The next moment they were gone. Paul tugged at the bandage confining his wrists.

“I must get away and warn Mr. Bolton,” he reflected excitedly. “They may kill him.”

But the handkerchief was well tied, and he could not weaken it.

“What shall I do?” he cried desperately. “I must get away.”

Then an idea flashed into his mind. He rolled over, with his back against the rock, and, despite the pain, began rubbing the handkerchief against it.

His hands were soon bruised and bleeding, but he kept on, until finally the linen was worn through, and dropped off.

He groped his way to the entrance, and tried to move the rock. He could not budge it. He sank back again with a groan of dismay.

“Too bad,” was his despairing cry. “I can’t get out, after all. The men must be almost there now. If——”

He thrust his hand into his pocket, and uttered a low cry. They had not robbed him of his jackknife, and he soon had it out, digging away the dirt for life.

How the boy worked! In half an hour he had dug a large cavity under one side of the stone, and a hard push sent it over so that he managed to squeeze through on the other side, and crawl from the cave.

Then off he started across fields for the house of Gilbert, the town marshal. He had to cross a brook, but he did not lose time. He waded through, and, with the water dripping from his garments, reached the marshal’s house ten minutes later.

As soon as possible that individual was aroused, and Paul told his story.

“Hurry,” he concluded. “You may be too late.”

In less than five minutes they were hurrying toward the treasurer’s home. The marshal had two revolvers, one of which he handed to Paul.

“Don’t be afraid to use it,” he said, and a few minutes after they came in sight of Mr. Bolton’s house.

They looked cautiously around as they approached, but all was silent. Evidently the thieves had not arrived yet.

When they reached the house, the marshal rang the bell long and hard. A moment later an upper window was raised, and Mr. Bolton called out:

“Who’s there?”

“It’s I, Gus,” said the marshal, stepping back and looking up. “Come down, quick as you can, and open the door.”

Mr. Bolton knew the officer, and lost no time in admitting him.

“What is up?” he asked, when they were all inside.

The officer explained:

“They’ll be here soon,” he concluded. “We must be ready for ’em.”

Hasty preparations were made. Believing that the thieves were acquainted with Mr. Bolton’s house, the officer concluded they would force an entrance into the room where the treasurer kept his safe, and to this apartment they all repaired.

A large, high-backed sofa was drawn up under the gas jet, the gas was lighted and turned down low, and the three watchers crouched down behind the safe.

“We’ll wait till they get in the room,” said the officer; “then I’ll give you a nudge, Paul, and you must turn on the gas in full. Bolton and I will cover ’em with our revolvers, and if they don’t surrender, we’ll let ’em have it.”

Paul was much excited. But he tried to remember what the marshal had told him, and held himself in readiness to turn on the gas when the signal was given.

Suddenly a slight noise was heard near the window.

“Hist!” said the officer. “There they are!”

Two or three peculiar scratches were heard, then the sash was carefully raised. In a moment the men climbed through the window and stood out on the floor.

The marshal nudged Paul. A broad glare of light flooded the room, and at the same moment Marshal Gilbert cried sternly:

“Surrender, or we’ll shoot you down!”

Startled into confusion by the sudden illumination of the room and the ominous command, the two robbers became panic-stricken, and made a dash for the window.

But the officer and Bolton were too quick for them. Their revolvers cracked simultaneously, and both men went down, badly wounded. After this their capture was easy, and they were soon disarmed and secured.

They were taken to jail, where their wounds were dressed, and when they finally recovered were sent to prison.

Paul, of course, recovered his money, but the members of the Building and Loan Association were so grateful for the valuable service he had rendered them that they clubbed together and paid up his mother’s book for several months to come.

THE PLUMAGE HUNTER.

Not very long ago the writer accompanied a gold-mining expedition into the tropical forests of Guiana, and stumbled across an English traveler who was collecting birds for a London and Parisian firm of merchants. He was settled in a village of Acawois Indians, far from any of the haunts of the white man. Every male Indian of the village was in his service, and at the conclusion of each week they received pay, according to results, in cheap knives, powder, hatchets, cooking utensils, et cetera; pay day being usually celebrated by a feast, in which all the men got fearfully intoxicated on a filthy compound called paiwarri.

We started out every morning immediately after breakfast. The Indians were armed with bows and arrows and blowpipes. The collector divided them into sections, and sent them off into the bush, himself accompanying one group, but without doing any shooting. I fastened on to a man and a boy, and kept close in their wake all day. With the skill of a denizen of the woods, my man did not walk a step without rousing a feathered creature of some sort. Sometimes a large bird—a toucan or a macaw—would flap clumsily out of a bush, and the twang of the bowstring would announce its death. Small birds fluttered across our path constantly, and these were promptly brought down with the pipe. Now and then a flight of a score or two would suddenly settle all over in the branches about our heads, and on these occasions the Indian managed to kill a dozen or so before they appeared to realize their danger. It was kill, kill, kill, without a moment’s pause. As the birds fell, the boy secured the bodies and dropped them into a long wicker basket, which was strapped across his forehead and hung down his back.

On our return to the village the men were coming in and emptying their baskets onto a long table in the middle of the Englishman’s hut. Many of the birds were of the most brilliant plumage; but there were hundreds of birds, not boasting any brightness of color, that were of no use. The slaughter, in fact, is much greater in regard to the birds that are not wanted than those which reach the English market. The collector, stripped to the shirt, and with his sleeves rolled up, set to work at once, going through the game. He handled every bird, dropping those pretty enough for a bonnet or valuable enough for a collection into one heap, and the useless ones into another. Not more than one bird in ten was retained; the rest had been slaughtered uselessly. When I reproached my friend with this wanton waste of feathered life, he replied that he could not attempt to kill the birds himself, and it was impossible to get Indians to discriminate between valuable and worthless specimens.

JOKES FROM JERROLD.

Douglas Jerrold, once the keenest of wits, a remarkable combination of Thackeray and Hood, is now almost forgotten. It is a pity. His jests were singularly ripe and racy. He had no mercy on the sentimentalists.

“I love nature,” said one of these dawdles to him one day. “I often take a book, retire into some unfrequented field, lie down, gaze on the heavens, then study. If there are any animals in the field, so much the better. The cow approaches, and looks down upon me; and I—I look up to her.”

“Exactly,” said Jerrold, “you look up to her with a filial smile!”

A delightful way of telling him he was a calf.

Another sentimentalist got a beautiful settler in this way: Walking in the country, Jerrold and a small party of friends stopped to notice the antics of a small donkey in a field. A gushing poet in the party said:

“Dear little thing; how I should like to buy it and give it to my mother!”

“Do,” said Jerrold—“do, and tie this sweet motto round its neck: ‘When this you see, remember me.’”

He had little mercy for pretentious prigs, who always abound in “literary circles.” A young author had written on the same subject as Lamartine, and bragged of it.

“Ah,” said he, “Lamartine and I row in the same boat.”

“Yes,” said Jerrold, “but not with the same skulls.”

Another of these gentry, praising one of his own plays, said to Jerrold:

“Do you remember the baroness in that play?”

“Oh, yes,” said Jerrold. “I never read anything of yours without being struck with its barrenness!”

At the same time he always had a friendly hand for a man who was too hard hit. A newspaper called the Chronicle, once attacked a young friend of his, savagely assailing his work. Jerrold took up the cudgels and wrote in his defense. He began by telling how, in some countries, the too luxuriant growth of the vine is prevented by sending asses in to crop the rising shoots. Then he gravely added:

“Even so young authors require pruning; and how thankful we all ought to be that the Chronicle keeps an ass!”

Walking one day in the Haymarket, then a rather disreputable promenade, some one met him, and thus accosted him:

“What, Jerrold, you here? Looking about for characters, I suppose.”

“Yes,” said Jerrold quietly; “I am told a good many are lost about here.”