Products. "Smith, throw this blackmailing scoundrel out!"

And in the next Flayer there was a page, giving a circumstantial account of the corruption of the Intelligencer by the notorious Hamson Products,- not to secure it as a defender (that would be too much, even for the Intelligencer) but to procure its guilty silence. The Flayer, whose eyes were everywhere, and which, as its fortunate readers were often made aware, had means of its own for procuring important information, knew of the existence of a check, drawn by the shameless Products in favor of the conscienceless Scadsby. The Flayer challenged those enemies of decent journalism to test the accuracy of its information in the present instance. Let them sue the Flayer for libel, and ascertain whether it could or could not give the amount of the check in question, its number, its date, and the name of the bank on which it was drawn. Thank God, there were honest journals left in the community. Whatever the Flayer's differences in the past had been with its esteemed contemporary, the Lance, and the public knew that they had been many and radical, the Flayer yet recognized that its contemporary had rendered a high public service when it came, as it had done, to the defense of intelligence and integrity in our commercial life by exposing that worse than hollow sham, the too-long-tolerated P. Hamson Products, of the at-last-sufficiently-advertised firm of Products & Lardington.

A week later the Flayer contained the portrait of Mr. Products and a column of eulogy, with the explanation of how it had been infamously misled by a lying, and since discharged employee, who, acting the vile part of a spy, had misread one of the many financial documents that for a moment were under his eye on the private desk of the slandered gentleman

while the discharged employee had been in the honored merchant's private office on business.

The Business Manager took Mr. Product's order for two thousand copies of the issue, after submitting the proofs for his inspection, and this time bit his cigar and winked without rebuke.

The Whip, the Breeze, the Tomahawk, the Blast, the Groundhog, the Illuminator, and the Naked Truth, all presently published Mr. Product's portrait, with 'accompanying eulogies. The Morning Glory hams were advertised in the Intelligencer and, twenty-four hours later, in the other daily newspapers.

"Products," said Lardington, a brisk small man with fair hair, and light blue eyes set close beside an eagle's beak, "this won't do. You 're ruining the business. We can't afford to advertise. The Street 's talking, and here's Smith telling me that Spily's Commercial Agency 's sending about nosing into our standing. The Los Diablos Bank has drawn on us for that ten thousand without explanation. I can't sleep."

Sleep! Sleep!" groaned Mr. Products. "By the Lord, Lardington, I have n't slept for three weeks except with the help of things Gertrude 's prescribed for me."

"Well, this advertising 's got to stop. “But, Lardington, how can we stop it, with that infernal Lance abusing me week after week?"

"That's your affair, not mine. What the deuce did you ever get into the newspapers at all for? I'd no idea you cared any more for publicity than I do myself. Have you gone crazy that you 're printing your portrait everywhere, as if you were a cigar or a politician?"

"It's the Lance, Lardington. I could murder that man, whoever he is. "

"Why don't you send for him and buy

The editor of the Lance came, and greeted the President of the Chamber of Trade with a sunny friendliness. O yes; he could be induced to stop easily enough.

"The truth is," said the nicely dressed, carefully gloved, and cheerful young man, laughing softly, "you take this sort of thing too seriously, Mr. Products. We really haven't said anything very bad about you, or you'd have had us for libel long before this. I assure it's done without the least malice. We must have something to write about, you know; the people demand it. What was it you wanted to see me about? Eh? Oh, for shame, Mr. Products! Really, I thought that Intelligencer check was a stupid invention of the Flayer's. Dear, dear, I shall have to bid you good afternoon."

“And,” asked Mr. Products in a smothered voice of agony, "and print all about this this interview?"

little more capital to increase the paper's attractions and advertise its merits better its stock could be made to pay handsome dividends. It's a stock company affair, you know."

"Oh, is it?" inquired Mr. Products, beginning to brighten. Business always interested him.

"Yes, and its affairs stand about in this way."

The explanation of the affairs of the Lance was rather long and somewhat intricate, but Mr. Products listened attentively, and when the other had finished and smiled at him, he said with manly decision that he could not conceive of a better opening for a small and safe investment, for one who had more money lying idle than he liked to have. He took a hundred shares of the stock on the spot.

"And I may insert your Morning Glory advertisement, I suppose?" said the gratified journalist, still smiling, and tucking the check into his vest pocket as he arose.

"God forbid!" cried Mr. Products, all effusion departing from his manner, and anxiety returning to his inflamed eyes.

The dissolution of the firm of Products and Lardington disturbed the Street, the more so as the entire press of the city, Mr. Products's ardent friend, placed the most unflattering constructions upon Mr. Lardington's motives in this strictly private transaction. Stung by the injustice of this treatment, and taking an eagle glance at the future, the retiring partner opened a rival establishment. In selfdefense Mr. Products added a retail department to his own, and became a larger advertiser than ever. His political party, seeking for a man at once popular and solid, representing alike the masses and the progressive business elements, allowed itself to be guided by the newspapers and nominated him for Mayor. P. Hamson Products, supported by an unanimous press, which for once rose above degrading partisanship, made a magnificent canvass, developed surprising eloquence as an orator, and was beaten.

"Gertrude," said Voltaire Pendleton, endeavoring to quiet his playful twoyear-old son on his knee, and addressing the fine-looking young lady seated in a low easy chair by the reading lamp and lost in a magazine.

"Gertrude."

She looked up, and laid the Medical

"Poor dear Papa. I suppose it was as wild and unbusinesslike as usual. Since that election ruined him and Lardington got his trade away, I'm afraid he's been slightly affected mentally. I have thought at times I detected the premonitory symptoms of paresis."

"No, it's politicians and bad habits. and a quenchless desire to be before the public. If we could steady him he'd be all right again, I'm sure, and fit for business - in some small way, of course. I've told him that if he'd drop politics and irregular hours I wouldn't mind backing this proposition with a little capital. If we can keep him profitably employed, we can save his allowance.

"I'm afraid, dear, that poor Papa-" "Yes, I know what the risks are, but there are many considerations. Now that I'm one of the proprietors of the Intelligencer, it's hardly quite the thing, you understand, to have the old gentleman gadding about in this way, making speeches and stirring up the workingmen and all that. It does n't comport with my

"Your position. You are right, Voltaire. Our social standing requires

"Precisely. Our duty to society requires us to keep your father up as well

as we can, and he's very embarrassing as it is, I confess. But I'm hopeful that we can get him out of politics. He's on fire. with enthusiasm over this new project of his."

"Is it commercial ? "

"Well, no,- and yes. He wants me to buy the Lance from Hooker and give him a half-interest."

Dr. Pendleton was amazed, and scandalized, too. She permitted her son to drag the Medical Review from her lap unnoticed.

"Oh," the husband hastily explained, "I should not be known in connection with it, and could edit its political and literary departments without interfering with my Intelligencer interests. The old Intelligencer, God bless it, is so slow and safe that it runs itself. And honestly, Gertie, I'm pining to do a little strong writing again. It's in the blood."

"But, Voltaire, the Lance"

"Yes, I know, but it will be understood that your father shall have the active business management of it, and not trouble me with the details. Hang it, there goes that bell. That's one reason why I'm anxious to increase my income, darling. I want my sweetheart to retire from practice."

Arthur McEwen.

Herbert Bashford.

UCKED away among the foot-hills of the Sierra Nevada, where the dark pines nod familiarly to each passing breeze, is a picturesque spot known as Penn Valley. The greater part of the valley, is a succession of low, rocky hills, covered with chaparral and clusters of small pines, while dotted here and there on the low lands are numerous springs of pure cold water, with adjacent fertile spots covered with orchards, vineyards, and green fields of alfalfa. Owing to the heavy growth of brush and pines, there is no extended view of the valley, but from an eminence within its limits,

can be seen an ocean of waving grain fields, and beyond the mist that overhangs the Sacramento River, the Marysville Buttes outlined against the sky in all their somber grandeur, while far, far away, where the sun suddenly drops from view, is the dimly outlined, misty blue of the Coast Range.

Taking a serpentine course through the valley, is a clear cold stream, called Squirrel Creek, which lies here and there, in deep, silent pools, and again rushes headlong over rocky falls, where but a ray of sunshine finds its way through the wide spreading boughs of the pine trees.

At the extreme lower end of the valley, on a rocky upland, stands a little cabin, looking out upon a brush-covered opening, with only here and there a tree