Its sacrifice yearly in the great metropolis of the west is 1,000 victims a year.
[CHAPTER VI.]
The Tragedy of the Five Thousand.
It was the cold gray dawn of a late November morning. The scene is laid in the marshy slough far to the north of the buildings of the Dunning poor farm at the north edge of the city of Chicago.
In the chill and drizzling rain an aged, bent-shouldered man was digging. The soft, wet mud he tossed in a pile alongside of the hole in which he stood. Finally he slowly clambered out of the pit and surveyed his work.
The hole was nearly six feet long and three feet wide. It was about the latter in depth.
Suddenly the old man looked up. To the south of him he heard the rumble of a wagon. A few minutes later the rusty gate at the end of the meadow swung creakingly on its hinges. With a rattle and bounce the wagon again started towards him.
The wagon was a high boarded affair. On its side could be read the inscription, "City of Chicago," and then the number "321."