Twelve Scribulus unseen jaw of the I. and M. superintendent. A bone-jarring shock, the muffled crack of a fist on jaw, and an unusual twinge of pain in the left hand, told him he had found his mark, and also, that his ring had cut his finger. A soft thud, barely heard above the escaping-steam hiss of the stream below as it bubbled the fact that it was still settling into its new bed Smiling Jim had struck a ledge many feet below and lay still. Blackie Cromp, "friendless" and with one finger on his left hand glaring white with tape to the first knuckle, ostensibly affected deeply by the death of the I. and M. superintendent, yet bravely trying to carry on, elected to stay on the job and continue with preparations for moving the outfit to its new job when Shorty, who had found Jim crumpled grotesquely on the narow ledge, asked him if he was going to "accompany Jim to the morgue and sit in at the inquest." Blackie worked unusually hard that day. To the crew, his working hard was an attempt to forget the loss of his superior. In reality it was to impress the owners With his ability to take hold under any circumstances. It would also impress them with his deference of their right to command or stop work. Only owners and superintendents could do that and Blackie was still a foreman. The owners had telegraphed that one of them was on the way, but nothing further. Shorty Smithers returned to camp once, late in the afternoon. Blackie became a bit uneasy when he saw Shorty enter the office-shack lately shared by Jim and his foreman. Maybe the inquisitive little shovel-operator had ideas of his own concerning the accidental death of the "Supt." Much to his relief Shorty came out presently with Jim's dress suit over his arm. He left without speaking to anyone. It was evening, and the crew were eating in the low-ceilinged, gas-lanterned cook-shack before Shorty returned again. With him this time came the Sheriff, an equally short but a greatly more flabby person than the agile shovel-operator. They stood solemnly at one end of the long table and looked intently at Blackie, the length of the table away. Outwardly Blackie manifested no more interest in them than did any other of the crew. Yet, through habitually narrowed eyes, he missed no movement which might give him some indication of the reason for the sheriff's being there. Straining his eyes and ears to the utmost in his efforts to hear and see everything at once, Blackie leaned forward expectantly as Shorty began to speak. "Coroner's inquest verdict Jim Hansen's death was due to a broken neck he received in his fall into the channel-change." The words were spoken in a jerky monotone. Self-control was not a practiced thing wjith Shorty. His chest rapidly rose and fell as though his emotions were absorbing all his breath and leaving none for the speech he must make. "Is that all?" asked one of the crew doubtingly. "Of course that's all," snapped Blackie angrily, though he was quite obviously relieved by both the verdict and the opportunity to say something. He was more angry with himself for thinking anything could have gone wrong than with the fellow who had asked what, to Blackie at least, was an absurd question. Then for fear someone would see through his mask of calmness, Blackie diverted the crew's attention by continuing with a too nonchalant shrug, "What else could there be?" Shorty had not removed his gaze from Blackie. Apparently though, he had quieted himself to his task; his voice was calm and determined when he again spoke. "That's all Blackie except that you murdered him." "Why should I" Blackie started but affected an air of indifference as he again continued on page sixteen Scribulus Thirteen GONE By Emily Merrill The house was still. No welcoming footsteps to be heard when evening shadows gathered; no voice to bring light and laughter to her soul after a day's weary routine, just stillness. For two hours it had been so. After friends, with their sympathetic utterances, had gone, dust already seemed to linger on the soft plush cushion where he once sat. Golden sunlight filtered through cracks in the drawn shades and danced on the small Navajo rug-where he once stood. Marie, her childish face contorted in grief, stood silent in the living room, staring dumbly at the dull gray walls, now too gray to suit her fancy. But why was she standing there? There was work to be done. Had not her mother said so? The beds, usually neatly made by ten, were still untouched. Dishes in the sink were piled upon each other, soiled with crumbs from the noonday meal. With a heart grievously heavy, Mary stumbled into the bedroom. She paused. Then bending over to straighten the crumpled White sheets, he saw lying there a red pillow that once belonged to him. "Oh, merciful Lord," she sobbed, jumping back, "why, why must it" Marie could not finish. Her throat contracted in pain, and her eyes overflowed with hot tears as she gazed sorrowfully at the little remembrance she had given her Jinnie last Christmas. She stretched out her trembling hand and grasped the pillow. Quickly she buried her face in its soft warmth, remembering with a sharp pang that that was what Jinnie liked to do, especially on nights when a bright fire flickered merrily on the hearth. For a long time she remained thus, thinking of those happy days that were now gone forever. Several minutes passed before she slowly lifted her head with its tumbling, golden curls. An idea flashed through her mind. Should she do it now? Yes, perhaps she should. Sadly she crept to the corner of the bedroom and knelt down before her copper-colored cedar chest and unlocked and opened it. Brushing a tear from her cheek, she held out the pillow and gazed dejectedly at its worn, red covering with funny, gold fringes. She kissed for the last time this cherished article then placed it with other valuables. Her dog was dead! COLLECTO MANIA (cont.) she moved each inhabitant. After about their millionth move, she felt that they were getting too much exercise; therefore they now carry on the highly complicated process of being inactive in a bookcase behind glass doors. Another friend, Mary, collects pictures and statutes of Scotties, and all the stores are ransacked for additions to her "Scotty Pound." My other friend guards her New York dogs judiciously whenever Mary is around, for she feels that her two Scot-ties need more varied companionships than could be found in a clan of Scotties. We all gather something. My friend gathered safety-pins; I gathered polly-wogs; Mary gathers Scotties. And by the way, Mary Would appreciate any information concerning the presence in this vicinity of any abused or unwanted Scot-ties from New York. She would like to show her friend that New York dogs can be just as happy in the company of Scot-ties as in the company of purple elephants and blue kittens.