THE STATUE OF LIBERTY. The welcome of New York, the gateway of the New World, to all races and peoples of the earth. (Courtesy of U.S. Immigration Station, Ellis Island.)

THE BOY WITH THE U.S. CENSUS

BY FRANCIS ROLT-WHEELER

With Thirty-eight Illustrations, principally from Bureaus of the United States Government

November, 1911

To My Son Roger's Friend

HAMILTON DAY

PREFACE

Life in America to-day is adventurous and thrilling to the core. Border warfare of the most primitive type still is waged in mountain fastnesses, the darkest pages in the annals of crime now are being written, piracy has but changed its scene of operations from the sea to the land, smugglers ply a busy trade, and from their factory prisons a hundred thousand children cry aloud for rescue. The flame of Crusade sweeps over the land and the call for volunteers is abroad.

In hazardous scout duty into these fields of danger the Census Bureau leads. The Census is the sword that shatters secrecy, the key that opens trebly-guarded doors; the Enumerator is vested with the Nation's greatest right—the Right To Know—and on his findings all battle-lines depend. "When through Atlantic and Pacific gateways, Slavic, Italic, and Mongol hordes threaten the persistence of an American America, his is the task to show the absorption of widely diverse peoples, to chronicle the advances of civilization, or point the perils of illiterate and alien-tongue communities. To show how this great Census work is done, to reveal the mysteries its figures half-disclose, to point the paths to heroism in the United States to-day, and to bind closer the kinship between all peoples of the earth who have become "Americans" is the aim and purpose of

THE AUTHOR.

CONTENTS

[PREFACE]
[CHAPTER I—A BLOOD FEUD IN OLD KENTUCKY]
[CHAPTER II—RESCUING A LOST RACE]
[CHAPTER III—A MANUFACTORY OF RIFLES]
[CHAPTER IV—THE BOY LEADER OF A CRUSADE]
[CHAPTER V—"DON'T DEPORT MY OLD MOTHER!"]
[CHAPTER VI—THE NEGRO CENSUS FROM THE SADDLE]
[CHAPTER VII—HOBOES ON THE TRAMP]
[CHAPTER VIII—THE CENSUS HEROES OF THE FROZEN NORTH]
[CHAPTER IX—CONFRONTED WITH THE BLACK HAND]
[CHAPTER X—RIOTS AROUND A CITY SCHOOL]

ILLUSTRATIONS

[The Statue of Liberty (Frontispiece)]
[Taking the Census in Old Kentucky]
[Kentucky Mountaineer Family]
[Moonshining] [2]
[Bill Wilsh's Home in the Gully]
[Bill Wilsh in the School]
[Alligator-Catching]
[The Census Building]
[Making Gun-sights True]
["A Bull's-eye Every Time!"]
[Young Boys from the Pit]
["I 'ain't Seen Daylight for Two Years"]
[Eight Years Old and "Tired of Working"]
[The Biggest Liner in the World Coming in]
[Immigration Station, Ellis Island]
[Where the Workers Come from]
[On a Peanut Farm]
[In an All-Negro Town] [2]
["'Way down Yonder in de Cotton Fiel'"]
[How Most of the Negroes Live]
[Facsimile of Punched Census Card]
[Tabulating Machine]
[Pin-box and Mercury Cups]
[Over the Trackless Snow with Dog-team]
[The Census in the Aleutian Islands]
["Can We Make Camp?"]
[To Eskimo Settlements by Reindeer]
[Gathering Cocoanuts]
[Taking the Census in a City]
[Festa in the Italian Quarter]
[The Fighting Men of the Tongs]
[Arrested as the Firing Stops]
[Work for Americans] [2]

[a/]

THE BOY WITH THE U.S. CENSUS

CHAPTER I

A BLOOD FEUD IN OLD KENTUCKY

"Uncle Eli," said Hamilton suddenly, "since I'm going to be a census-taker, I think I'd like to apply for this district."

The old Kentucky mountaineer, who had been steadily working his way through the weekly paper, lowered it so that he could look over the top of the page, and eyed the boy steadfastly.

"What for?" he queried.

"I think I could do it better than almost anybody else in this section," was the ready, if not modest, reply.

"Wa'al, perhaps yo' might," the other assented and took up the paper again. Hamilton waited. He had spent but little time in the mountains but he had learned the value of allowing topics to develop slowly, even though his host was better informed than most of the people in the region. Although not an actual relative, Hamilton always called him "Uncle" because he had fought with distinguished honor in the regiment that Hamilton's father commanded during the Civil War, and the two men ever since had been friends.

"I don't quite see why any one sh'd elect to take a hand in any such doin's unless he has to," the Kentuckian resumed, after a pause; "that census business seems kind of inquisitive some way to me."

"But it seems to me that it's the right kind of 'inquisitive.'"

"I reckon I hadn't thought o' there bein' more'n one kind of inquisitiveness," the mountaineer said, with a smile, "but if you say so, I s'pose it's all right."

"But don't you think the questions are easy enough?" asked the boy.

"They may be easy, but thar's no denyin' that some of 'em are mighty unpleasant to answer."

"But if they are necessary?"

"Thar's a-plenty o' folks hyeh in the mount'ns that yo' c'n never make see how knowin' their private affairs does the gov'nment any good."

"But you don't feel that way, Uncle Eli, surely?"

"Wa'al, I don' know. Settin' here talkin' about it, I know it's all right, an' I'm willin' to tell all I know. But I jes' feel as sure as c'n be, that befo' the census-taker gets through hyeh, I'm goin' to be heated up clar through."

"But why?" queried the lad again. "The questions are plain enough, and there was practically no trouble at the last census. I think it's a fine thing, and every one ought to be glad to help. And it's so important, too!"

"Important!" protested the old man. "Did yo' ever see any one that ever sat down an' read those tables an' tables o' figures?"

"Not for fun, perhaps," the boy admitted. "But it isn't done for the sake of getting interesting reading matter; it's because those figures really are necessary. Why there's hardly a thing that you can think of that the census isn't at the back of."

"I don't see how that is. They don't ask about a man's politics, I notice," the mountaineer remarked.

"No," answered Hamilton promptly, "but the number of members a State sends to Congress depends on the figures of the population that the census-takers gather, and the only claim that any legislator has to his seat is based on their information."

"I suppose you'd say the same about schools, too."

"Of course," the boy answered.

"But I hear the Census Bureau this year wants all sorts of information about the crops an' the number of pigs kept an' all that sort o' stuff."

"Don't you think the food of all the people of the United States is important enough, Uncle Eli? And then the railroads, too,—they depend on the figures about the crops and all sorts of other things which go as freight."

"You seem to know a lot about it," the mountaineer said, looking thoughtfully at the boy.

"I ought to," Hamilton said, "because I'm going to be an assistant special agent in the Census of Manufactures right away. I applied last October and took the exam a couple of weeks before coming here on this visit."

"What makes yo' so cocksure that you've passed the examination?" he was asked.

"I didn't find it so hard," Hamilton replied, "figures have always been easy for me, and when my brother was studying for that chartered accountant business I learned a lot from him."

"Your dad, he was a great hand fo' figures, so I s'pose yo' come by it naturally enough. An' you're jes' sure you've passed?"

"I haven't heard one way or the other," said Hamilton, "but I'm pretty sure."

"Wa'al, thar's no use sayin' anythin' if you're all sot, but it's the business of the gov'nment, an' I'd let them do it."

"But I'm hoping to work right with the government all the time, Uncle Eli," the boy explained "either with the Census Bureau or the Bureau of Statistics or some work like that. And anyway, if it's the government's business, I'm an American and it's my business."

"Yo' have the right spirit, boy," the old man said, "an' I like to see it, but you're huntin' trouble sure's you're born. S'posin' yo' asked the questions of some ol' sorehead that wouldn' answer?"

"He'd have to answer," replied Hamilton stoutly, "there's a law to make him."

"I don't believe that law's used much," hazarded the old man.

"It isn't," Hamilton found himself forced to admit. "I believe there were not very many arrests all over the country last census. But the law's there, just the same."

"It wouldn' be a law on the Ridge," the mountaineer said, "an' I don' believe it would do yo' any good anywhar else. On the mount'ns, I know, courtesy is a whole lot bigger word than constitution. Up hyeh, we follow the law when we're made to, follow an idee backed up by a rifle-barrel because we have to, but there's not many men hyeh that won' do anythin' yo' ask if yo' jes' ask the right way."

"But there are always some that give trouble," Hamilton protested, trying to defend his position.

The old Kentuckian slowly shook his head from side to side.

"If yo' don' win out by courtesy," he said, "it's jes' because yo' haven' been courteous enough, because yo' haven' taken yo' man jes' right. Thar isn't any such thing as bein' too gracious. An' anyway, a census-taker with any other idee up hyeh would be runnin' chances right along."

"You mean they would shoot him up?" asked Hamilton.

"I think if he threatened some folks up hyeh an' in the gullies thar might be trouble."

"But the fact that he represented the government would insure him from harm, I should think."

"I don't think much of that insurance idee," the old man said. "I can't remember that it helped the revenue men sech a great deal. The only insurance I ever had was a quick ear, an' even now, I c'n hear a twig snap near a quarter of a mile away. An' that used to be good insurance in the ol' days when, if yo' weren't gunnin' for somebody, thar was somebody gunnin' fo' you."

"But there's no one 'gunning' for you now, is there, Uncle Eli?" asked the boy amusedly.

"I haven't b'n lookin' out especially," the Kentuckian responded, with an answering slow smile, "an' I reckon sometimes that I might jes' as well leave the ol' rifle in the house when I go out."

"But you never do," put in Hamilton quickly.

"I reckon that's jes' a feelin'," rejoined the mountaineer, "jes' one o' these habits that yo' hate to give up. I'd sort o' be lost without it now, after all these years. Thar's no one to worry about, anyway, savin' Jake Howkle, an' I don' believe he's hankerin' for blood-lettin'."

"Jake? Oh, never," Hamilton replied with assurance; "why, he's only about my age."

"That's only partly why," the old man said, "not only because he's your age, but because he's b'n at school. Shootin' an' schoolin' don' seem to hit it off. I reckon thar would have b'n a sight less trouble in the mount'ns if thar had b'n mo' schools."

"There are plenty of schools in the mountains now, aren't there?" asked Hamilton. "It must be very different here, Uncle Eli, from what it was when you were a boy."

"Thar has been quite a change, an' the change is comin' faster now. But thar's still a lot o' folk who a'nt altered a bit sence the war. You city people call us slow-movin' up hyeh, an' as long as thar's any o' the ol' spirit abroad thar's a chance o' trouble. If yo' really are goin' in for this census-takin', I'd keep clar o' the mount'ns."

"You really would?" queried the boy thoughtfully.

"An' what's more," continued his Uncle, "I would jes' as soon that yo' didn' have anythin' to do with it near hyeh. I don' want to see any little differences between families, such as census-takin' is likely to provoke."

TAKING THE CENSUS IN OLD KENTUCKY: Typical conditions of an enumerator's work in the mountain districts. (Courtesy of Art Manufacturing Co., Amelia, O.)

"Why, Uncle Eli!" cried Hamilton in amazement, "you talk as though the days of the feuds were not over."

"Are yo' sure they're all over?" the Kentuckian said.

"I had supposed so," the boy replied. "I thought the Kentucky 'killings' had stopped ten or fifteen years ago."

"It's a little queer yo' sh'd bring that up today," the old man said, "for I was jes' readin' in the paper some figures on that very thing. Yo' like figures, this will jes' suit you. Where was it now?" he continued, rustling the paper; then, a moment later, "Oh, yes, I have it."

"'During the terms of the last three Kentucky governors,'" he read, "'over thirteen hundred criminals have been pardoned, five hundred of them being for murder or manslaughter.' It says fu'ther on," the old man added, "that pardonin' is jes' as frequent now as it ever was. I don' believe it is, myself, but if thar is such a lot o' pardonin' goin' on for shootin', thar must have been a powerful lot o' shootin'."

"But that's for all the State," objected the boy, "not for the mountains only. That must be for crimes in the cities and all sorts of things. You can't make the feuds responsible for those."

"Not altogether," the mountaineer agreed, "the real ol'-time feud is peterin' out, an' it's mainly due to the schoolin'. The young folks ain't ready fo' revenge now, an' that sort o' swings the women around. An' up hyeh in the mount'ns, same as everywhar else, I reckon, the idees o' the women make a pile o' difference."

"But I should have thought the women would always have been against the feuds," said Hamilton.

"Yo'd think so, but they weren't. They helped to keep up the grudges a whole lot."

"Aunt Ab hasn't changed much," volunteered the lad.

"She hasn't for a fact. Ab is powerful sot. She holds the grudge against the Howkles in the ol' style. But the feelin' is dyin' out fast, an' soon it'll be like history,—only jes' read of in books."

"What I never could see," remarked Hamilton, "was what started it all. It isn't as if the people in the mountains had come from some part of the world where vendettas and that sort of thing had been going on for generations. There must have been some kind of reason for it in this section of the country. Feuds don't spring up just for nothing."

"Thar was a while once we had a powerful clever talker up hyeh," the Kentuckian answered, "actin' as schoolmaster for a few weeks. I reckon he'd offered to substitute jes' to get a chance to see for himself what life in the mount'ns was like. He was writin' a book about it. We got right frien'ly, an' he knew he was always welcome hyeh, an' one day I asked him jes' that question. It was shortly befo' he lef' an' I wanted to know what he thought about us all up hyeh."

The mountaineer leaned back in his chair and chuckled with evident enjoyment of the recollection.

"I jes' put the question to him," he said, "in the mildes' way, an' he started right in to talk. Thar was no stoppin' him, an' I couldn' remember one-half o' what he said. But I reckon he had it about right."

"How did he explain the feuds, Uncle Eli?" asked the boy.

"Wa'al," said the mountaineer, with a short laugh, "he begun by sayin' we were savages."

"Savages?"

"Not jes' with war-paint an' tomahawk, yo' understan'," continued the old man, enjoying the boy's astonishment, "but uncivilized an' wild. Thar an't any finer stock in the world, he said, than the mount'neers o' the Ridge, clar down to Tennessee, an' he said, too, that they were o' the good old English breed, not foreigners like are comin' in now."

"That's right enough," Hamilton agreed, "and, what's more, they were gentlemen of good birth, most of them; there was not much of the peasant in the early colonists."

"So this author chap said. But he explained that was the very reason they got so wild."

"I don't see that," objected Hamilton, "and I certainly don't see where the 'savage' idea comes in."

"Wa'al, he said that when you slid down from a high place it was harder to climb back than if the fall had b'n small. An' that's why it's so hard for those who have gone down,—they can see the depth o' the fall."

Hamilton, who was of an argumentative turn of mind, would have protested at this, but the old mountaineer proceeded.

"When the pioneers settled in the mount'ns they kind o' stuck. Those that went on, down into the Blue Grass region, went boomin' right ahead, but those that stayed in the mount'ns had no chance."

"I don't see why not?" objected the boy.

"They were jes' cut off from everywhar. We are to-day, for that matter. When a place gets settled, an' starts to try an' raise somethin' to sell, the product has got to be taken to market. But thar was no railroad up in the mount'ns. Children were easy to raise, an' a population grew up in a hurry, but the land was too poor for good farmin', the roads were too bad for takin' corn to market, an' thar was no way o' gettin' to a town."

"You are pretty well cut off," said Hamilton.

"We were more so then," the mountaineer said. "An' so, while all the country 'round was advancin' up in the mount'ns, fifty years ago, we were livin' jes' like pioneers. An' some, not bein' able to keep up the strain, fell back."

"So it really isn't the fault of the mountaineers at all," cried the boy, "but because they were sort of marooned."

"It was unfortunate," replied the old man, "but it really was our own fault. If the mount'n country was worth developin', we should have developed it; if not, we should have left."

"I've often wondered why you didn't, Uncle Eli," said Hamilton.

"Yo' must remember," the Kentuckian said, "that the mount'neers are a most independent lot. They want to be independent, an' up hyeh, every man is his own master. But, thar bein' no available market if they did work hard, what was the use o' workin'? Some o' them, 'specially down in the gullies, got lazy an' shif'less. But they hung on all the harder to the idees o' the old times,—honor an' hospitality."

"I've always understood," said Hamilton, "that there was more hospitality to be found up here in the mountains than in almost any place on the globe."

"As yo' said," the old man continued, "we're jes' like a crew o' shipwrecked sailors marooned on an island without a boat, without any means o' gettin' away. If some o' the families high up in the gullies are ignorant, it's because they've had no schoolin', not because they haven' got the makin's o' good citizens; if they're a bit careless about religion, it's because they've had no churchin', an' if they don' pay much heed to law, it's because the law has never done much for them. The ocean o' progress," went on the mountaineer, with a flourish, "has rolled all 'roun' the mount'ns, but of all the fleets o' commerce in all these years, thar has not been one to send out a boat to help the marooned mount'neer."

"Didn't they ever try to get help?" queried the boy.

"We're not askin' help," the Kentuckian said, "thar's no whinin' on the mount'ns. I jes' tell yo' that when the time comes for the mount'neers o' Kentucky an' Virginia an' Tennessee an' Carolina to get a fair chance, they'll show yo' as fine a race o' men an' women as the Stars an' Stripes flies over."

"They are mighty fine right now, I think," the boy said.

"They have their good points," the Kentuckian agreed; "thar's nothin' sneakin' in the men up hyeh, an' thar an't any lengths to which a man won't go, to do what he thinks is the squar thing. You've heard about the Beaupoints?"

"No," the boy answered, "what was that?"

"It was jes' an incident in one o' these feuds that you were talkin' of, an' I'm goin' to tell yo' about it, to show yo' what a mount'neer's idee o' honor is like. Thar was a family livin' on the other side o' the Ridge, not a great ways from hyeh, by the name o' Calvern, an' in some way or other—I never heard the rights of it—they took to shootin' up the Beaupoints every chance that come along. One day Dandie Beaupoint found a little girl that had hurt herself, an' he picked her up in his arms an' was carryin' her home when one o' the Calvern boys shot him in his tracks. One o' the Beaupoint brothers was away at the time, but the others felt that the Calverns hadn't b'n playin' fair, an' they reckoned to lay them all out. They did, too, all but one, an', although they had a chance to nail him, they let him alone."

"Why was he let off?" queried Hamilton.

"I reckon it was because he had a young wife an' a little child," the old man answered. "Now Jim Beaupoint, the one that had been away, he come home after a while, an' hadn't happened to hear about the wipin' out o' the Calverns. On his way home, he had to pass the Calvern place, an' so he made a wide cast aroun' the hill to keep out o' sight, when suddenly, up a gully, he saw this Hez Calvern standin' there with his rifle on his arm, an', quick as he could move, Jim grabbed his gun an' fired. It was a long shot an' a sure one."

"Was it—" the boy began, but the old man waved the interruption aside and proceeded.

"Reloadin' his rifle, Jim Beaupoint rode slowly to whar Hez Calvern was lyin', when suddenly, from a clump o' bushes close by, there come a rifle shot, an' the rider got the bullet in his chest. Befo' fallin' from the saddle, however, the young fellow fired at the bushes from which smoke was driftin', an' a shrill scream told him that the sharpshooter was a woman."

"Some one who had been with Hez Calvern?" asked Hamilton.

"His wife. Well, although Jim was mortally hurt an' sufferin'—as the tracks showed afterwards—he tried to drag himself to the bushes in order to help the woman who had shot him an' who he had shot unknowin'; but he was too badly hurt, an' he died twenty yards from the place whar he fell."

"Was the woman dead, too?" asked Hamilton.

"No, but terrible badly hurt. What I was wantin' to tell yo', though, was the result of all this. Wa'al, the Beaupoints took the woman to their home an' nursed her night an' day for five long years. She was helpless, only for her tongue, an' she lashed an' abused them till the day she died, an' never once, in all those years, did any one o' the Beaupoints reproach her in return."

"And the youngster?"

"They took the boy, too, an' reared him the bes' they knew how, jes' the same as one o' their own. One o' the Beaupoint boys went an' lived on the Calvern place, an' worked it,—worked it fair an' squar', an' put aside every cent that come out o' the farm. For thirteen years the Beaupoints looked after the farm an' reared the boy. On the day he was fourteen year old, Jed Beaupoint—that was the father—called the lad, told him the whole story, give him a new rifle an' a powder horn, an' handed over the little bag o' coin that represented thirteen years o' work on the Calvern holdin'."

"There certainly couldn't be anything squarer than that!" exclaimed Hamilton. "And he gave the boy the farm, too?"

"Every inch of it. Jed Beaupoint was a squar' man, cl'ar through. An' he said to the boy—he tol' me the story himself—'Johnny Calvern, thar's yo' farm an' yo' rifle. Now, if yo're willin', I'll see that thar's no trouble until yo're twenty-one, an' then yo' c'n go huntin' revenge if yo've a mind to, or, if you're willin', we'll call the trouble off now, an' thar won't be any need o' rakin' it up again.'"

"He made it up on the spot, of course?" questioned Hamilton.

The Kentuckian shook his head.

"He did not," he replied. "The boy thought a minute or two an' then said he'd wait until he was grown up, an' let him know then."

"Although he had been brought up by the Beaupoints!" exclaimed the boy in surprise. "But surely it never came up again."

"Well, not exac'ly. When Johnny Calvern was about nineteen he got married, an' a few days befo' the time when he would be twenty-one, he rode up to the Beaupoint place, an' tol' the ol' man that he was willin' to let the feud rest another ten years, because of his wife an' little baby, but that he would be ready to resume shootin' at that time."

"But he had no real grudge against the Beaupoints had he, Uncle Eli? They had always been kind to him, you said."

"Not a bit o' grudge," the mountaineer answered, "they were good friends. An' I reckon it wasn't Johnny that wanted the trouble to begin again, but thar's always a lot o' hotheads pryin' into other folks' business. However, ol' Jed Beaupoint didn't mind; he agreed to another ten years' truce, an' all went on peacefully as befo'. Durin' those ten years, however, Johnny's wife died, an' he got married again, this time to the sister o' a wanderin' preacher, a girl who had once lived in cities, an' she soon showed him that the ol' feud business must be forgotten. But it is a mite unusual, even hyeh, to farm a man's land an' bring up his child fo' thirteen years, an' then give him everythin' yo' can with the privilege o' shootin' yo' at sight for all the favors done."

"It doesn't sound a bit like the usual feud story," said Hamilton, "one always thinks of those as being cold-blooded and cruel."

"Thar an't a mite o' intentional cruelty in them; it's jes' that life is held cheap. Most o' them begun over some small thing like an election."

"There were quite a number of them, Uncle Eli, weren't there?"

"One ran into the other so easily that one feud would often look like half a dozen, an' trouble would be goin' on in various places. But there were really seven of them, all big ones."

KENTUCKY MOUNTAINEER FAMILY. In the heart of the feud district, where the rifle is never out of reach. (Courtesy of the Spirit of Missions.)

"What were they, Uncle Eli?"

"Wa'al, thar was the McCoy-Hatfield feud in Pike County, that started over the ownership o' two plain razorback hogs, but afterwards got very bitter, owin' to the friendship o' one o' the McCoy girls with the son o' Bad Anse Hatfield. Then thar was the Howard-Turner feud in Harlan County. An' then—"

"What started the Howard-Turner feud?" interrupted the boy.

"That was over a game o' cards. One o' the Howards had been winnin', an' Jim Turner, with a pistol, forced him to give back the money he had won. That affair raged a long time. The Logan-Tolliver feud in Rowan County was over an election fo' sheriff. The Logans elected their candidate, an' so the Tollivers killed one o' the Logans at the polls and wounded three others."

"That's expressing dissatisfaction with an election with some spirit," Hamilton remarked.

"Then thar was the French-Eversole feud in Perry County," continued the Kentuckian, reminiscently. "Ol' Joe Eversole was a merchant in a town called Hazard, an' he helped Fulton French to start a little store. In time French almos' drove Eversole out o' business. That was a strange fight, because neither French nor Eversole ever got into the shootin',—indeed they remained frien'ly even when their supporters were most bitter."

"Who carried on the feud, then?" asked Hamilton in surprise, "if the principals didn't?"

"Wa'al, I guess the worst was a minister, the Rev. Bill Gambrill. Ho ran the French side an' kep' the trouble stirred up all the time."

"I think I've heard of the Turner war, too," said the boy. "Was that the same as the Howard-Turner fighting?"

"All of them were mixed up in each other's feuds in that Turner family," the Kentuckian replied, "but the 'Turner War' or the 'Hell's Half-Acre' feud was in Bell County, an' it started over some question o' water rights in Yellow Creek. It was a sayin' down in Bell County that it couldn't rain often enough to keep Hell's Half-Acre free from stains o' blood."

"It is a fearful record, Uncle Eli, when you put them together that way," the boy said.

"An' I haven't even mentioned the worst o' them, the Hargis-Cockrill feud in Breathitt County. That lasted for generations, an' started over some election for a county judge. I don' know that any one rightly remembers the time when Breathitt County wasn't the scene of some such goin's on."

"But they are all over now, aren't they?"

"I was jes' goin' to tell yo'. They're all over but one, an' that one is sometimes called the Baker-Howard or the Garrard-White feud, for all four families were mixed up in it. Not so very long ago I was talkin' to the widow o' one o' the men slain in that fightin', an' sayin' to her how good it was that the feelin' had all died out, an' she said—thar was a lot of us thar at the time—'I have twelve sons. Each day I tell them who shot their father. I'm not goin' to die till one o' them shoots him.' I'm reckonin' to hear o' trouble in Clay County mos' any time, but I really think that is the last o' them."

"What started that?"

"An argument over a twenty-five dollar note," was the response. "But you don't want to think these were the real causes; they were usually jes' firebrands that made things worse. Most o' these hyeh feuds date back to enmities made in the Civil War an' in moonshinin'."

"But why the war?" asked Hamilton. "I thought nearly all the mountaineers in Kentucky fought for the North—I know you were with Lee, of course, but I thought that was exceptional."

"None o' them fought for the No'th!" exclaimed the old Confederate soldier indignantly.

"Why, Uncle Eli!" said Hamilton, in surprise, "I was sure that most of them went into the Union army."

"So they did, boy, so they did, but those who did it thought they were fightin' for the nation, not for the No'th. An' the slavery question didn' matter much hyeh. Don' yo' let any one tell yo' that the Union army was made up o' abolitionists, because it wasn't. It was made up o' bigger men than that. It was made up o' patriots. I thought them wrong then,—I do yet; but thar ain't no denyin' that they were fightin' for what they thought was right."

"But why did you join the South, Uncle Eli?" asked the boy. "I can understand father doing it, because he was a South Carolinian."

"I was workin' fo' peace," the mountaineer rejoined "When No'th and South was talkin' war, Kentucky, as yo' will remember havin' read, decided to remain neutral, an' organized the State Guards to preserve that neutrality. I was willin' to let well enough alone, but when the No'th come down an' tried to force the State Guards to join their cause, I went with the rest to Dixie. I don' believe," added the old man solemnly, "that thar ever was a war like that befo', where every man on both sides fought for a principle, an' where there was no selfish motive anywhere."

"The Howkles were with the Federals, weren't they?" prompted Hamilton, fearing lest the old man should drift into war reminiscences, when he wanted to hear about feuds.

"Ol' Isaac Howkle was," the mountaineer replied "an' that was how the little trouble we had begun. At least, it had a good deal to do with it. Isaac an' I had never got along, an' jes' befo' the war, we had some words about the Kentucky State Guards. But I wasn't bearin' any grudge, an' I never supposed Isaac was. However, in a skirmish near Cumberland Gap, I saw that he was jes' achin' to get me, an' the way he tried was jes' about the meanes' thing I ever heard o' any one doin' on the Ridge."

"How was it, do tell me?" pleaded Hamilton, his eyes shining with interest.

"Howkle was with Wolford's cavalry, an' I was under 'Fightin'' Zollicoffer, as they called him," the old man began. "Thar had been a little skirmish,—one o' these that never get into the dispatches that don' do any good, but after which thar's always good men lef' lyin' on the ground. We had driven 'em back a bit, an' I was comin' in when I saw a lad—he didn't look more'n about fifteen—lyin' in a heap an' groanin'. Knowin' a drink would do him more good than an'thin' else, I reached for my canteen, an' stooped down. Jes' about then, a horseman dashed out o' the scrub an', almos' befo' I could think o' what was comin', he struck at me with his sabre."

"When you were giving drink to a wounded soldier!" cried Hamilton indignantly. "What a cowardly trick!"

"It was ol' Isaac Howkle," nodded his uncle, "an' I s'pose he reckoned this was a chance to get even on the ol' grudge. But I rolled over on the grass jes' out o' reach o' his stroke, an' he missed. I grabbed my rifle an' blazed at him as soon as I could get on my feet, but he had reached the shelter of the trees again an' I missed him."

"That's about the meanest thing I ever heard," said the boy.

"So I thought," the Kentuckian answered, "an' so the poor lad seemed to think too. I saw he was tryin' to speak, an' I put my ear close to his lips, thinkin' he might have some message he wanted to give. But, tryin' to look in the direction where Howkle had gone, he whispered, 'Don't blame the Union.' He was thinkin' more o' the credit o' his side than of his own sufferin's."

"That was grit," said Hamilton approvingly. "Did he die, Uncle Eli?"

"Not a bit of it. We got him back into our lines an' he was exchanged, I believe. Anyway, I know he was livin' after the war, fo' I saw his name once on a list o' veterans. But most o' the boys were like that—mostly young, too—an' men o' the stripe of Isaac Howkle were very few."

"But you got him in the end, didn't you?"

The old mountaineer looked intently at the boy's excited face.

"I didn't," he said, "an' I don' rightly know that it's good for yo' to be hearin' all these things. Yo' might hold it against Jake Howkle."

"That I wouldn't," protested Hamilton. "Jake isn't to blame for his father's meanness."

"That's the right way to talk," the old soldier agreed. "Wa'al, if yo' feel that way about it, I reckon thar's no harm in my tellin' yo' the rest of it, now that I've got started. When the war was all over an' I got back hyeh, I remembered what had happened, an' I sent word to Isaac Howkle that I didn' trust him, an' after what he had done I was reckonin' that he was waitin' his chance to get me, an' that he'd better keep his own side o' the mountain."

"But, Uncle Eli," said the boy, "that didn't make a feud surely; that was only a warning."

"I wasn't reckonin' to start a feud at all," said the old man thoughtfully, "an' it really never was one. It was jes' a personal difference between Isaac Howkle an' me. Thar was lots o' times that I could have picked off either o' his two brothers, but I was jes' guardin' myself against Isaac."

"But you said he got there first!" said the boy. "Did he shoot some one in your family?"

"Wa'al, yes, he did," the mountaineer admitted "Yo' never knew the one. He was my brother-in-law,—Ab's younges' sister's first husband. He had been married jes' two months, an' was only a hundred yards from this house when Isaac shot him."

"How did you know for sure that it was Howkle who had done the shooting?" asked Hamilton.

"We didn't know for sure, at first. A week or two after, a boy from the Wilshes' place come up with a message sayin' that Isaac Howkle had tol' him to say that he'd get the ol' man nex' time."

"I shouldn't have thought a boy would have had the nerve to bring such a message," said Hamilton thoughtfully. "Wouldn't bringing word like that look like taking sides, and wouldn't it bring his own family into the trouble!"

The old man shook his head in instant denial.

"Po' white trash from the gullies," he said, "no, they don't count one way or the other."

"What happened after you got that message?" asked the boy.

"Nothin' much, for a while, though I was snoopin' aroun' the mount'ns consid'rable. I met the brothers sev'ral times, an' I know they could have had me. But I had nothin' against them, nor they me, an' so it was jes' left to Isaac an' me. Once I found him over near our pasture, but he saw me an' got into cover. At last I found him in the open near our house again, an' in easy range."

"Did you fire right away?" asked Hamilton excitedly.

"I didn't shoot. I got a lead on him, sure, but I jes' couldn't shoot without warnin' him. It seemed kind o' mean to shoot him unawares, an' as I didn't want to take an unfair advantage, I shouted to him. It was pretty far off to be heard, but I could see that he recognized me. I was only waitin' long enough to let him get his gun to his shoulder when some one fired jes' behin' me. Howkle's bullet went through my arm, but he dropped in his tracks. He thought I had shot him but my gun was never fired off."

"Who was it that fired, Uncle Eli!"

"The brother o' the young fellow he had shot befo'."

"Was he dead?" asked the boy.

"Wa'al," said the mountaineer, a little grimly, "I didn' go down to see an' wait aroun' 'till all his friends gathered. But I reckon he was dead when they found him later."

"And the brothers?"

"They never came into the story at all. I'm jes' mentionin' this to yo' to show yo' that thar's reason in my advisin' yo' to keep clar o' this district. If you're reckonin' on doin' census work, yo' go somewhar that you're not known to any one. Thar's trouble enough even for a stranger in the mount'ns, an' a stranger would find it easier than any one else."

"Why is that, Uncle Eli?" asked the boy.

"In the first place, yo' can't show discourtesy to a stranger, an' yo' know that if he doesn' do things jes' the way yo' like to have 'em done, it's because he doesn' know, an' so he's not to blame. I like your spirit about the census, Hamilton," the old mountaineer continued, "an' if yo' can give the gov'nment any service, I reckon yo'd better try, but leave the mount'n districts either to popular favorites or to a stranger."

CHAPTER II

RESCUING A LOST RACE

That same evening, as it chanced, one of the younger Wilsh boys came up to the house on an errand from a neighbor, and Hamilton, remembering that the messenger's father had been a go-between in the feud story he had been hearing, noted the lad with interest. Indeed, his appearance was striking enough in itself, with his drooping form, his extreme paleness, and his look of exhaustion.

"How far is it from the Burtons, Uncle Eli?" asked Hamilton.

"Eight miles," was the reply.

Hamilton stared at the mountain boy. Judging from his looks he was not strong enough to walk a hundred yards, yet he had just come eight miles, and evidently was intending to walk back home that evening. Then Hamilton remembered that this lad was one of the "poor whites" of whom he had read so much, and he strolled toward the messenger who was sitting listlessly on one of the steps.

"Howdy!" said the newcomer in a tired voice.

Hamilton answered his greeting, and, after a few disjointed sentences, said:

"You look tired. It must be a long walk from the Burtons."

"Jes' tol'able," the boy answered. "I'm not so tired. You f'm the city?" he queried a few minutes later, evidently noting the difference between Hamilton's appearance and that of the boys in the neighborhood.

"Yes, New York," answered Hamilton.

But the stranger did not show any further curiosity and Hamilton was puzzled to account for his general listlessness. He thought perhaps it might be that the boy was unusually dull and so he asked:

"Are you still going to school?"

A negative shake of the head was the only reply.

"Why not? Isn't there a school near where you live?"

"Close handy, 'bout five miles," was the reply.

"Then why don't you go there?" questioned Hamilton further.

"Teacheh's gone."

"Funny time for holidays," the city boy remarked.

"Not gone fo' holidays."

"Oh, I see," said Hamilton, "you mean he's gone for good. But aren't you going to have another one?"

"Dunno if he's gone for good," the mountain boy answered.

Hamilton stared in bewilderment.

"Cunjer got him," the other continued.

But this did not explain things any better.

"Cunjer?" repeated Hamilton. "You mean magic?"

The mountain boy nodded.

"Yes, cunjer," he affirmed.

"You're fooling, aren't you?" said Hamilton questioningly, "you can't mean it. I never heard of 'cunjer' as a real thing. There's lots about it in books, of course, but those are fairy tales and things of that sort."

"An' yo' never saw a cunjer?"

"Of course not."

"Reckon they don' know as much in cities as they think they do," the youngster retorted.

"Just what do you mean by 'cunjer'?" asked Hamilton, knowing that it would be useless to argue the conditions of a modern city with a boy who had never seen one.

"Bein' able to put a cunjer on, so's the one yo' cunjer has got to do anythin' yo' want."

"Sort of hypnotism business," commented the older boy.

"Dunno' what yo' call it in the city. Up hyeh in the mount'ns we call it cunjer, an' thar's some slick ones hyeh, too."

"But how did the teacher get mixed up in it?" queried Hamilton. "It doesn't sound like the sort of thing you'd expect to find a schoolmaster doing."

"He wasn't doin' it, it was again' him," the mountain boy explained. "The folks hyeh suspicioned as he was tippin' o' the revenoo men."

"Who did? Moonshiners?"

"Easy on that word, Hamilton," suddenly broke in the old Kentuckian, who had overheard part of the conversation, "thar's plenty up hyeh that don' like it."

"All right, Uncle Eli, I'll remember," the boy answered; then, turning to his companion, he continued "You were saying that some of the people in the mountains thought the schoolmaster was giving information to the revenue men."

"Some said he was. I don' believe it myself, an' most of us boys didn' believe it, but then the teacheh was allers mighty good to us."

"Did the revenue officers come up here!"

The mountain lad nodded his head.

"Often," he said, "an' when they come to the stills they seemed to know ev'rythin' an' ev'rybody. An' then some one tol' that it could be proved on the teacheh. It never was, but thar was a plenty o' people who believed the story. I didn't, but then the teacheh was allers good to me."

"But what did the revenue men have to do with the 'cunjering'?" asked Hamilton, desiring to keep his informant to the point.

"They didn't, it was the men on the Ridge."

"Do you know how it happened?"

"I know all about it," the lad answered, with a slightly less listless air, "for I was in school that mornin'. For a week or more we boys had seen ol' Blacky Baldwin sort o' snoopin' aroun' near the school, but as we allers crossed our fingers an' said nothin' so long as he was in hearin', we weren't afraid."

"What did you do that for?"

The younger boy looked at the city-bred lad with an evident pity for his ignorance.

MOONSHINING. Revenue officers hot on the trail; in the lower picture the fire is burning, the still working, and the moonshiner's coat hangs on a tree. (Brown Bros.)

"So's he couldn't cunjer us, O' course," he said. "Don' yo' even know that? Ol' Blacky Baldwin is a first-class cunjer, an' any one o' them can cunjer you with the words he hears yo' sayin'."

"But if this 'cunjer-fellow' was hanging around the school," suggested Hamilton, "why didn't you tell the master?"

"An' get Blacky down on us? You-all can bet we kep' quiet an' didn' even talk about Blacky to each other. Wa'al, that went on for a week or two. Then, one mornin', while we was all in school, a big storm come up, thunder an' lightnin' an' all. Suddenly, jes' after a clap o' thunder that sounded almos' as if it had hit the schoolhouse Ol' Blacky Baldwin walked through the door an' up to the teacheh's table. He was carryin a twisted thing in his hand, like a ram's horn, an' I knew it was his cunjerin' horn, although I hadn't even seen it befo'."

"What did the master say when he came in?"

"Nary a word. It was awful dark an' the thunder was rumbling aroun' among the hills. I took one look at Ol' Blacky Baldwin's face, an' then hid my eyes. I reckon the others did the same."

"Why?"

"His face was all shiny with a queer green light, sendin' up smoke, like ol' dead wood does sometimes after a rain."

"Phosphorus evidently," muttered Hamilton to himself, but he did not want to interrupt the lad now that he had started, and therefore did not discuss the point.

"He walked right up to the teacheh's table," continued the younger boy, "an' he pointed the horn at him, accordin' to one o' the boys who says he was peepin' through his fingers. I wasn't lookin', I wasn't takin' any chances. And then we all heard him say to the teacheh:

"'You air goin' to have a fall an' be killed. You air goin' to have a fear o' fallin' all your days, an' you air goin' to be drove to places where you're like to fall. By night you air goin' to dream o' fallin', an', wakin' an' sleepin', the fear is laid upon you.'"

"And that was all?"

"That was all," the mountain boy replied. "After a bit, I looked up and Ol' Blacky Baldwin was gone; the teacheh looked peaked an' seemed kind o' skeered, but he didn't say anythin'."

"Well, it was a little scary," said Hamilton. "I don't wonder it shook him up."

"That was only the beginnin'," the storyteller went on. "About half an hour after that, one o' the boys dropped his slate pencil on the floor an' it broke, so he asked the teacheh for a new one. The slates 'n' pencils was kep' on a shelf over the teacheh's chair, an' he got on the chair to reach one down. We was all watchin' him, when suddintly he give a groan an' his eyes rolled back so's we couldn't see nothin' but the whites; his face got all pale, an' his lips sort o' blue; he reeled an' was jes' goin' to fall when he sort o' made a grab at the shelf an' hung on as though he was fallin' off a cliff.

"Two of the bigger boys, thinkin' he had a stroke or somethin', went up an' spoke, but he didn't answer, jes' hung on to that shelf. Standin' on the chair as he was, of course the boys couldn' make him let go, an' they couldn' make him hear or understan' a mite. So they pulled up a bench and one of 'em climbed up an' forced his hand open. Jes' like a flash Teacheh grabbed him so hard that he yelled."

"Just with one hand?" Hamilton queried.

"One hand. Wa'al, they pretty soon made Teacheh let go the other hand, an' helped him down fr'm the chair an' sat him down in it. As soon as his feet touched the floor, he let go the feller's shoulder an' sort o' lay back in his chair. He sat there for a bit an' then he leaned forward, put his hands on the desk, an' stared right in front of him, jes' as if we wa'n't there at all.

"'I thought I was fallin',' he said gruffly.

"We waited a while for him to begin agin, but he jes' sit there, lookin' straight in front of him, an' repeatin' ev'ry minute or two: 'I thought I was fallin'! I thought I was fallin'!'"

Hamilton shivered a little, for the mountain boy told the story as though he were living through the scene again.

"I don't wonder you got scared," he said. "Did he come to?"

"Not right then," the boy answered. "We waited a while an' then some of the fellers got up an' went out sof'ly. I went, too, an' the teacheh never even seemed to see us go."

"Didn't you think he had gone crazy?"

"We all knew it was cunjerin'," the lad rejoined "an' when we got outside the door thar was Ol' Blacky Baldwin waitin', lookin' jes' the same as usual. As I come by, he said, jes' as smooth, 'School's out early to-day, boys.' But I don't think any of us answered him. I know I didn't. I jes' took and run as hard as I knew how. An' when I got to the top o' the hill an' looked back, an' saw Blacky goin' into the schoolhouse again, I couldn' get home fast enough."

"Was that what broke up the school?"

"Not right away," the other replied. "Thar was some that never come nigh the place agin, but befo' two weeks most of us was back. Teacheh allers seemed diff'rent; ev'ry once in a while, one of us would see him walkin' on the edge of a cliff, or fin' him dizzily hangin' on to somethin' for fear o' fallin'."

"How long did that go on?" queried Hamilton.

"'Bout a month, I reckon. An' Teacheh was in trouble more'n more all the time, because folks wouldn' have him boardin' 'roun', same's he'd allers done."

"Why not?"

"Wa'al, he'd wake up in the night screamin', 'I'm fallin', I'm fallin',' and no one wanted to have a ha'nted teacher in the house. An' Blacky Baldwin, he jes' hung aroun' the school, and we-all would see him every day, mutterin' an' laughin' to himself. Then, suddintly, Teacheh disappeared, an' though we hunted fo' him everywhar, he wasn' found. We-all reckoned he had fallen somewhars, but I've thought sence that p'r'aps he jes' went away, goin' back to the city, and leavin' no tracks so's to make Ol' Blacky Baldwin believe he'd be'n killed."

"That sounds likely enough," Hamilton said. "But even if he did get away, I don't believe that he'd want to come back."

"I reckon not," the mountain boy agreed. "Anyway, the school's shut up now."

"How about the revenue men?" asked Hamilton.

"They haven't be'n here sence Teacheh went away," was the reply. "An' I reckon they're not wanted."

The boy stopped short as the old mountaineer came over to where he was squatting and gave him a long answer to the message he had brought. The old man read it to him from a sheet of paper on which he had penciled it roughly. Bill Wilsh listened in a dreamy way, and Hamilton wondered at his seeming carelessness. The old man read it twice, then, rising to his feet, the boy repeated it word for word and without so much as a nod to Hamilton, slouched off in a long, lazy stride that looked like loafing, but which, as Hamilton afterwards found out, covered the ground rapidly.

"Do you suppose he'll remember all that, Uncle Eli?" asked Hamilton in surprise.

"He? Oh, yes," the mountaineer replied, "word for word, syllable for syllable—that is, fo' to-day."

"He must have a good memory," the boy exclaimed "I'm sure I couldn't."

"But he'll forget every word by to-morrow," the other continued, "almost forget that he was hyeh to-day at all. That's why they're so hard to teach, those po' whites, what they learn doesn't stick. I heard him tellin' yo' about the disappearance o' the last teacheh."

"Yes, he was putting it down to 'cunjering.' Is there much of that sort of idea in the mountains?"

"None among the mount'neers proper," replied the old man. "Some o' the po' whites down in the gullies talk about it, but thar's mo' difference between the folks in the gullies an' on the Ridge th'n there is between the mount'ns an' the Blue Grass. They are different, an' they look different, too."

"Bill Wilsh certainly does," agreed Hamilton, "but I thought at first it was because he was tired out with a long walk after a day's work."

The Kentuckian shook his head.

"They're all that way," he said. "They jes' look all beaten out as if they hadn't any life left in them at all. I reckon the most o' them have hookworm, too, an' they just look fit to drop."

"Hookworm, Uncle Eli? What is that?" asked the boy.

"It's a queer kind o' disease," the old man answered, "that comes from goin' barefoot. There's a kind o' grub in the soil, and it works its way in. It's only jes' recently that it's be'n found out that the po' whites are peaked and backward because they're sick, and now they know a cure fo' it, why hookworm is being driven right out o' the South."

"Was there so much of it?"

"Puttin' an end to it will make useful American citizens out o' thousands o' poor critters that never knew what ailed them."

"But where did the 'poor whites' come from, Uncle Eli? What made them that way?"

"Whar they come from I jes' don' rightly know. I reckon I saw more o' them when I was down in Georgia, but the Florida 'crackers' are still worse off. Thar's not so many in the mount'ns an' those that are here live 'way up in the gullies. The sure 'nough po' whites, or 'Crackers' as they call them, belong to the pine belt, between the mount'ns an' the swamps o' the coast."

"Why are they called 'Crackers'?"

"I don' know, unless because they live on cracked corn and razor-back hog. It an't so easy to say how they begun. Thar's a lot o' French names, an' thar's a tradition that two shiploads o' Huguenots were wrecked off Georgia in the early days an' foun' their way inland, settlin' down without anythin' to start with, an' not knowin' for a generation or two whar any settlements could be foun'. An' thar's a lot o' folks that have just drifted down, down,—livin' jes' like the 'Crackers' an' often taken to be the same. An' the slavery system made it worse because thar was no middle white class—either rich or po', thar was nothin' between,—that is, down in that part o' the country. But yo' mus' remember that thar has been a great change in the last twenty years, an' that the children o' 'Cracker' families are doin' jes' as well as anybody in the South."

"How is that, Uncle Eli?"

"Wa'al, in the days befo' the war, the po' whites were jes' trash. The planters wouldn' have 'em, because the slaves did all the work; they wouldn' work themselves, an' they didn' own slaves. So they were worse off than the negroes an' even the black race looked down on 'em. But the war waked them up."

"They all fought for the South, didn't they?"

"Mos'ly all. They were food fo' powder, but I always reckoned they hindered more'n they helped. For the 'Cracker,' however, the war meant everythin'. It placed him side by side with the Southern gentleman, it strengthened the color line, an' jes' enough o' them made good to show the others thar was a chance fo' them, too."

"Then they started in to improve right after the war, did they?"

The Kentuckian shook his head negatively.

"No," he said, "at first they were far worse off than befo' because the Freedman's Bureau an' the carpet-baggers made trouble right an' lef'. The No'th had a fine chance, but the carpet-baggers were jes' blind to everythin' excep' the negro, an' the po' white was jes' as shabbily treated by the No'th as he had be'n by the South. Now that everybody is seein' that yo' can't make a negro jes' the same as a white man by givin' him a vote, thar's a chance fo' the po' white. I reckon the 'Cracker' as a 'Cracker' is goin' to be extinct pretty soon, an' the South is goin' to be proud o' the stock it once despised. Atlanta is the fastes' growin' city in the South, an' Atlanta is jes' full o' men whose folks weren't much more'n 'Crackers.' The po' white, in a few years, is goin' to be only a memory like the backwoodsman o' the time o' Dan'l Boone."

"That promises well for the South," said Hamilton.

"The boom o' the South is jes' beginnin'," the old man said, "an' if you're goin' to do census work this next year, yo' jes' watch the figures an' see whar the old South comes in. It's a pity you're goin' back to Wash'n'ton to-morrow, as I think yo' ought to see more o' this country befo' yo' go."

"I'd like to, ever so much, Uncle Eli," the boy answered, as he got up from the step and started for the big loft where he slept with the mountaineer's two sons, "but, even if I don't get a chance, I've learned a lot from you about the folk on the mountains and about the South generally."

The mountaineer nodded a good-night as the boy disappeared.

"Now thar," he said to his wife, who had been knitting stockings during the latter part of the conversation, and occasionally interjecting a word, "thar is a boy that is really achin' to know things. I wish Rube and Eph were more like him."

"Nothin' but hounds an' vittles worries them," the woman replied sharply, "but they an't none like city boys, an' I'd ruther have 'em the way they air than to come pesterin' with questions like Hamilton does you. I don't set any sort o' stock in it, an' I don't encourage him in sech nonsense."

The big Kentuckian smiled, and filled his corn-cob leisurely as he turned the talk to other things.

Early the next morning, Hamilton and the oldest of the two boys started on their fourteen-mile ride to the station, where the lad was to take an afternoon train for Washington. They had gone about three miles, when they came upon Bill Wilsh sitting on the stump of a tree by the roadside.

"I reckoned you-all would come along this way," he said, "an' I've be'n thinkin' more'n more 'bout Teacheh havin' likely gone to the city, an' not bein' dead after all. Yo' goin' to the city now?"

BILL WILSH'S HOME IN THE GULLY. (Courtesy of Doubleday, Page & Co.)

BILL WILSH IN THE SCHOOL. (Courtesy of Doubleday, Page & Co.)

"I'm going to Washington, Bill," Hamilton answered.

"Is that the city?"

"It's one of them."

"Do yo' s'pose that'd be the city Teacheh went to?"

"I couldn't say, Bill," the lad replied, "there's no way of knowing, but it's likely enough."

"I was thinkin'—" the mountain boy began then he broke off suddenly. "I'm mighty partial to whittlin'," he continued irrelevantly.

"The best ever," interjected Hamilton's companion. "Yo' ought to have shown him some of your work, Bill."

"I was allers hopin' Teacheh would come back," said the boy in his listless, passionless way, "an' he seemed so fond o' the school that I whittled a piece to give him when he showed up agin. But now I reckon he an't a-goin' to come back. Does you-all reckon he'll come back from the city?"

Hamilton looked down at the lad, and wanted to cheer him up, but he could not see what would be likely to bring the schoolmaster back, and so he answered:

"I'm afraid not, Bill. But he might, you know."

"I reckon not. But I'd like him to know he a'nt fo'gotten in the mount'ns. I want yo' to tell him that thar a'nt be'n a week sence he went away that I an't be'n down to the school an' swep' the floor an' seen that his books was in the place he liked to have 'em be. I wouldn' want him to come back from his wanderin', if he still is wanderin', an' think he was fo'gotten. It an't much, I know, to sweep a floor," he added, looking up to Hamilton, "but yo' tell him an' he'll understan'. It's about all that I kin do. He'll understan' if yo' tell him."

Neither of the other boys spoke, and after a moment the mountain lad went on:

"An' when yo' see him, give him this, an' tell him it comes from Bill, his 'tryin' scholar.' He used to call me that because, although I wasn't learnin' much, I was always tryin'. An' yo' can tell him I'm tryin' still."

Reaching his hand into the bosom of his ragged shirt the boy pulled out a slab of wood four inches square. It was carved as a bas-relief, showing the schoolhouse in the foreground in high relief, with the wooded hills beyond.

"That's great!" exclaimed Hamilton. "I don't believe I ever saw better carving than that anywhere."

A momentary gleam of pleasure flashed into the boy's dull eyes, but he went on again in the same lifeless voice.

"Thar's the schoolhouse jes' as it was when he was here last, but it's never looked the same to me sence. I want yo' to give this to him an' show him, if yo' will, that I whittled it with the door open, jes' to show him we're lookin' for him back."

"But supposing I shouldn't meet him in the city?" queried Hamilton gently. "Washington is a large place and there are many other cities."

"I reckon you-all have mo' chance o' findin' him thar than I have hyeh. I reckon he an't goin' to come back hyeh, an' then he'd never know that we an't fo'gotten him, an' he'd think we was ungrateful. But yo'll try an' find him?"

Hamilton was conscious of a lump in his throat at the simple faithfulness of the mountain boy, and he said gently:

"Very well, Bill, if you feel that way about it, of course I'll try. But you haven't told me his name as yet."

"I was thinkin' o' that," the boy answered. Then he took from his pocket a home-made gum-wood case, and opening it, took out a small piece of paper and handed it to Hamilton.

"Be keerful of it," he said, "that paper tears mighty easy."

Hamilton smoothed the paper out on the palm of his hand, and looked at it carefully. It was a "copy," merely of pothooks, done in lead pencil, the strokes wavering and of differing slopes, and the whole so smudged as scarcely to be recognizable But, down in the corner, written in ink, in a firm, bold hand, were the words, "Very Good, Gregory Sinclair."

Hamilton copied the name into his notebook and, refolding the paper as carefully as possible in the same folds, he handed it to the barefooted boy standing on the road beside his horse's head.

"Did you-all read it?" he asked.

"Yes," said Hamilton.

"Did you-all see that he said 'Very Good'?"

"'Very Good' was what was written," agreed Hamilton, thinking of the wavering and smudged pothooks.

"I c'n do better now," the boy said quietly, "an' I've been tryin' jes' as hard as though Teacheh was in yonder schoolhouse. But thar's no one to write 'Very Good' on 'em any mo', an' I reckon thar an't goin' to be. But I'm trustin' that you'll fin' him an' you'll tell him that he an't fo'gotten."

Without a word of farewell, the boy struck into the woods and was lost to sight. The two lads started on their way, but they had not ridden a hundred yards when they heard a hail; looking back, they saw the mountain boy standing on a point of the ridge; and echoing down to them came the lonely cry:

"Fin' him, an' tell him he an't fo'gotten."

CHAPTER III

A MANUFACTORY OF RIFLES

Settling himself comfortably in the train for his long journey to the capital, one of the first things that Hamilton did was to take from his pocket the little carving that had been given him by the mountain lad and put it away carefully in his grip. Examining it closely as he did so, the boy was astonished to note the fineness of the work, and he realized that it must have taken Bill Wilsh all the spare moments of a long winter to finish it. The work was all the more surprising, Hamilton thought, since it had been done just with a single tool, a common pocketknife, and was yet as fine and delicate as though carved with a set of costly tools. He made up his mind to buy a set and send them to Bill Wilsh with the first pay that he got from his Census Bureau work.

Seated across the aisle from him was another lad about his own age, with whom Hamilton rather wanted to make acquaintance, but the opportunity did not arrive until the first meal, when, by chance, they found themselves on opposite sides of one of the small tables in the dining car. The usual courtesies of the table led to conversation, in the course of which Hamilton's companion dropped the word "census" in a manner which showed his familiarity with the progress of the work of preparation.

"Are you interested in the census?" asked Hamilton promptly.

"Rather," the other replied. "I'm going to work in the Bureau. As a matter of fact, I'm just going to Washington to get my appointment now."

"You are!" exclaimed Hamilton. "Why, that's exactly what I'm doing. It's queer we should meet this way."

"Are you going as an assistant special agent, too?" his new friend asked.

"I'm going to start in that way," the boy replied

"How do you mean 'start'?" the other queried. "I understand that work on the manufactures will last three or four months, and by that time all the other census-taking will be over."

"I'm going to try to get some of the population work as well," Hamilton explained. "I think it will be even more fun than the manufactures end, and I heard that they're going to put on a few population enumerators from those who have been on the manufactures work, admitting them without an exam. I think the population census gathering will be fine."

The other boy shook his head.

"I don't think I'd want it," he said, "at least not in a city, and I'm going to do the manufacturing work, of course, in a city."

"Where are you going to be?" asked Hamilton.

"I took the exam in 'Frisco," the older boy replied; "that's my home town, and I expect to work out there."

"That's quite a walk from here!" exclaimed Hamilton.

"I had to come to Washington," the boy answered "and so my people wanted me to go and see my sister down in Florida. She married a fellow who's busy reclaiming some swamp land down there, and he promised me a try at alligator hunting."

"That sounds prime," suggested Hamilton, "and I should think that in that reclamation work there would be lots of chance for it. It would be worth watching, too, just to see how they got at that work. I should think they would find themselves up against a pretty stiff job, engineering down in those swamps. And then there must be barrels of snakes, too?"

ALLIGATOR-CATCHING. The sport at its best; tackling a fair sized reptile with bare hands. (Courtesy of Outing Magazine.)

"Water moccasins and copper-heads mostly," said his friend cheerfully, "but you soon get so used to them that you don't mind them. It's very seldom that you ever hear of any one being bitten by a snake. They all seem more anxious to get out of your way than you out of theirs."

"And you're anxious enough, too!" remarked Hamilton.

"That's pretty good security, don't you think?" queried the older boy with a laugh. "When both sides want to get away, there's not much chance of a meeting."

"But how about the alligators?"

"That was real good sport," the other rejoined. "But I kept down to the smaller chaps most of the time. I don't suppose there's really very much danger, even in the big fellows, as long as you know just how to handle them."

"I don't think I'm particularly keen about handling them," answered Hamilton. "I shouldn't think the big ones would want more than about one bite to put you out of business."

"That's all right," the older boy admitted, "but what's the use of giving one that chance? Anyway, so I learned down there, it's not so much the bite that the hunters are afraid of as the stroke of the tail. It doesn't take such a big alligator to break your leg like a pipestem with a sweep of that long, scaly tail of his."

"But how do they catch them?"

"With a noose, when they're sunning themselves. An alligator lies on a bank, half in and half out of the water, most of the time, with his eyes shut. Sometimes he really is asleep, and sometimes he isn't. That's where the fun comes in. Of course, if you can get the boat right up to where he is, close enough to slip the noose over his jaws, you've got him all right. There's a knob on the snout that keeps the noose from slipping off, and he sort of strangles when you tow him through the water. But if you can't get there with the boat you have to go it on foot."

"You mean you have to get out of the boat and walk right up to his jaws?"

"Yes, just that."

"It doesn't sound particularly good to me," Hamilton remarked.

"It isn't nearly as bad as it sounds," the other replied. "As long as you don't make too much noise, and keep out of reach of his tail, you're all right. If you slip up, you want to jump out of the way about as lively as you know how. But he'll never come after you, or mighty seldom. If you get a slip-knot over his snout, and can throw a half-hitch over his tail, why, the biggest of them is easy enough to handle."

"But what are they caught for?"

"There's quite a steady sale. The big fellows are sometimes sold alive to parks and aquariums and circuses, but most of them are killed and the whole skins dressed and used for hanging on the walls of dens, like trophies. The real market is for the skins of the little fellows, which are made up into all sorts of alligator leather bags. Most of that stuff is imitation, but still quite a lot of it is real. It's plenty of fun catching the little 'gators, because even the smallest of them can give you quite a nip and a reptile three feet long is a handful. I did well enough out of it, because in addition to the sport I had, my brother-in-law let me have the skins of all those I caught myself. Some people, too, want to have baby ones as pets, but I don't think I'd want to have them around, myself, after they grew to any size," he added, as the boys rose and went back to the Pullman.

By the time the train had reached Washington the two had become thoroughly friendly, and Hamilton liked his new acquaintance so much that he would gladly have seen more of him than merely as a traveling companion. But as the other lad was going out to San Francisco, there was no likelihood of their being thrown together at all. Indeed, on his arrival, Hamilton found that he had been assigned to an Eastern city, so he had to bid his new-made friend "Good-by."

The exterior of the Census Bureau building was a disappointment to Hamilton, by reason of its unimposing appearance. Indeed, it was altogether too small for the purposes of the census, and during the rush of the decennial work, there were departments of the census scattered through various other buildings, adding no little inconvenience to the work. Accustomed to the New York structures, towering tens of stories into the air, the two-story red brick building of the census looked small to Hamilton, though comfortable and pleasant to work in. It was deceiving in its size, however, for the floor space was big and not much broken, and there seemed to be plenty of room. But it was not until the boy returned after his population work some months later, that he saw this building as the center of unparalleled activity.

THE CENSUS BUILDING. Where Hamilton learned the immense importance of this great function of the government. (Walden Fawcett.)

"I understand," said the chief of the manufacturing division to him, "that you are desirous of coming to the Census Bureau as one of the permanent force, not just for the decennial period only?"

"Yes, Mr. Clan," was the boy's reply, "that is, if the Bureau is willing."

"That will depend entirely on the work you do. I didn't see your papers personally, but I understand you received a high rating, and that you have had a good deal to do with figures.—That is, for a youngster," he added, noting the youthfulness of the lad standing before him.

"Yes, sir, I have," answered Hamilton.

"What made you think of taking this work up?" was the next question.

"Because I like it, sir."

The divisional chief leaned back in his chair, put his fingers together in characteristic attitude, and smiled.

"Eh," he said, "you are sure you will like the work?"

"Quite, sir," said Hamilton in his decided way. "I looked it all over, and I know."

"You will be less sure of the future when you are older," the Scotchman said, "but if you 'know,' there's nothing more to be said. I'm going to put you under the care of Mr. Burns, and he will instruct you further in the work."

"But, Mr. Clan—" began the boy.

"Well?"

"Where am I going, sir?"

"New Haven, Connecticut—a good town, and one that will give you plenty of work. You'd better start for there to-night. I hope you will like it as much as you expect."

"Thank you, sir," Hamilton replied, seeing that his superior deemed the interview at an end. "I'll do the very best I can."

On arriving in New Haven the following day, Hamilton made his way to the local Census Office opened by his new leader. He found Mr. Burns to be a typical statistician, to whom figures had a meaning beyond themselves, but to whom little was of value unless it could be expressed in figures. Hamilton introduced himself briefly.

"You're Noble," the other said abruptly. "When will you be ready to begin?"

"Any time," answered Hamilton. "Right after lunch, sir, if you want me to make a start."

"There's a portfolio," the census agent answered, "take it along and you can begin just as soon as you're ready."

"What instructions have you to give me, sir?" asked Hamilton.

"I save eleven and a half per cent of the time given to instructions by writing them. You'll find a copy in there," he said, pointing to the portfolio.

"Very well, sir," the boy replied, "I'll go ahead, and if I find anything I don't understand, shall I come and ask you?"

"Telephone!" the census agent said. "Quicker to 'phone even if only in the next room. Average conversation, six minutes; average telephone conversation, two minutes; average value of my time for six minutes, eighteen cents; average cost of 'phone for two minutes, one cent; direct saving to me seventeen cents, not counting time of your traveling to come and talk. No! Telephone!"

"All right, sir," Hamilton answered, "I'll 'phone," and realizing that his new chief had the question of the valuation of time down to a fine point, he hurried away.

On reaching the hotel he examined his portfolio with a great deal of curiosity. The schedules were familiar, for one of the features of the examination he had taken had been the filling out of such a census schedule from financial statements of a group of factories. The written instructions, however, were thoroughly characteristic of the man, and percentage figures were scattered around like punctuation marks. But the explanations were clear as crystal, none the less, and gave no opportunity even for telephoning.

An old New England center, and a college town, New Haven proved a most interesting field in which to work. By far the larger number of people with whom the boy came in contact were of old American stock and gave him every assistance possible.

"The census-taker?" one old man said, when Hamilton called. "Come right in the office and sit down. Now tell me what I can do for you," and when the boy mentioned the principal items of the schedule, the manufacturer spent a good hour working over the books with his office force to get out the figures desired. When Hamilton thanked him, he replied:

"I'm an American, Mr. Noble, and one of the stones they moved from the old churchyard of the Old Center Church and that bore the date 1681 was the tombstone of my direct ancestor. I think you'll find most of the New England stock proud of the United States and only too glad to do anything they can to help the government in its census or anything else for the good of the country."

"I'm sure of it," the boy said heartily, "but there's mighty few of that old type left. There's not ten per cent of the people in the country now that are real bred-in-the-bone Americans."

"It is a pity," the old man said, shaking his head, "and the worst of it is that even that ten per cent lives principally in the country. It's the cities that influence the progress of the nation. We talk about making these foreigners over into our idea of what Americans should be, and we forget that all the time they are influencing us to become the kind of Americans they think we ought to be."

"I guess that's true," the boy said, "because in New York, where my folks live, the old New Yorkers seem entirely strange and out-of-place in the dash and glitter."

"Of course," the New Englander replied. "The real Americans are plain, solid people; it's the Jewish strain in New York that has brought about the display of wealth, and to the large number of Southern Europeans are due the colors, the lights, the music, the public dining, and all the rest of it. It may be the American of to-day, but it isn't what Americanism meant a few years ago."

"A good deal of New York life does seem foreign in a kind of way," said Hamilton, "and I'm glad," he added, as he closed his portfolio, "that the Census Bureau put me at work in one of the old-fashioned towns first."

As the boy went on in his work he came to find how thoroughly the spirit of Yale was felt in the town. Almost all the leading business men were Yale graduates, and instead of displaying the "town and gown" hostility of some university places, New Haven was inordinately proud of its college. Of course, even in such a town, there was quite a proportion of foreign-born manufacturers but the boy found that the Jewish establishments were even easier to tabulate than those owned by Americans, the Hebrew understanding of the details of business being so thorough.

"That's not so very detailed!" one of these remarked to Hamilton when the boy had come to the end of his list of questions.

"It's a relief to hear somebody say that," answered the young census-taker with a laugh, "because I hear a dozen times a day the complaint that no one could be expected to know as much about a business as these schedules require."

It was not to be expected that the work would proceed without an occasional hitch, and Hamilton had one such with a firm of Italian marble-cutters in which the bookkeeping had been of so curious a character that it was next to impossible to get out the kind of figures the government wanted. Another was in a small Chinese place, where they made little trinkets to sell to tourists in the "Chinatown" districts of the larger cities, representing them to be imported articles of value. Another was with a small place run by two brothers, Persians, making fringes and tassels for fraternal order badges and matters of that kind. It was interesting to the lad, for he had the chance to see the works in a number of cases, and he learned a lot about the way many queer things were made.

But Hamilton's hopes were set on visiting one especial manufacturing plant in New Haven, and he had determined to ask that he be allowed to go over it before he left the town. This was the great sporting gun works. Hamilton was passionately fond of sport, and had owned a Winchester ever since he was twelve years old. Indeed, he had read up on guns a good deal, and it was one of his hobbies.

His delight was great, therefore, when at the end of a long day, after he had turned in his schedule to his chief, the latter said:

"Noble, your work is good. Johnson is faster. Up to last night he had turned in one, decimal five-two per cent more establishments than you, but your proportion of capital invested is larger, showing that the works you went to took more time. Your schedules are better. This takes a little over one-fifth more of my own time than I had figured at first. I was going to do the Winchester works myself. I think you can do it. You had better go ahead. It's complicated, but they'll help you all they can. There's not much time left."

"Very well, Mr. Burns," said Hamilton decisively with the characteristic raising and lowering of his eyebrows, "I'll get all there is, all right."

The next morning, about ten o'clock, Hamilton presented himself at the general offices of the company on the outskirts of the town, about a mile from the college. He asked to see the business manager, and was granted an interview.

"Mr. Arverne," said the boy, "I called with regard to securing the figures for the census of nineteen hundred and ten."

"But you are not the special agent surely?" said the manager, looking at him sharply.

"No, sir," the boy answered, "Mr. Burns is the special agent, and I am one of his assistants."

"I should have thought Mr. Burns would have come himself," the man said; "you are young for this work, aren't you?"

Hamilton flushed at this reference to his boyish appearance, but he answered steadily: "Yes, sir, I believe I am younger than most of the assistant special agents, but I have had a good deal to do with figures."

"Burns is a good man," the manager continued. "If the government has men of that stamp all over the country, the statistics will be invaluable. You know Mr. Burns?" he added suddenly.

"Only just since this work began, Mr. Arverne," the boy replied.

"Queer chap. I don't believe he eats a bit of food or drinks a glass of water without mentally figuring the nutritious percentage in the food, and the effect of his drink upon the water supply of the world."

Hamilton laughed.

"He is a little that way, sir," he said.

"A little!" the manager exclaimed. "But to return to the point. You didn't tell me why Mr. Burns didn't come himself."

"He said that the office work was piling up, sir," answered the boy, "and—if you don't mind my saying so, Mr. Arverne—he spoke of it as an opportunity for me, since it was the largest plant in the city and my schedules had been the most complete of those turned in to him."

The manager eyed the boy keenly.

"Mr. Burns doesn't make many mistakes," he said, after a moment, "and if he has confidence in you, he knows what he is talking about. This is a country of young men anyway, and it seems to be getting younger all the time. Where is the schedule?"

Hamilton handed him the paper and sat back, waiting. Several minutes passed, while the manager went over the questions item by item.

"Yes," he said at last, "I think our books can answer every question there without difficulty. We keep very complete books. I am not so sure, Mr. Noble," he continued, "that I can give you those figures immediately in just exactly that form."

"In what points do your books differ?" asked Hamilton quietly.

"Not in any essentials, but in a few minor points," the manager replied. "For example, you want to know here the exact number of employees on our pay roll on December 15th. Now I could have the pay roll department—we keep it as an entirely separate department here—turn up instantly the payments for the week in which that date occurs, but in order to separate that one day from the week, reference will have to be made to the Employment Bureau to find out what workers left, and how many were added, and the day of the week on which each of these left or began work in that week, and to add or to deduct such sums from the weekly pay roll."

"That difficulty has come up several times," said Hamilton, "because not many people pay their employees by the day. But in nine cases out of ten, an average for that week is usually struck, figuring in some cases by the days and in others by the hours. I suppose you noticed that the schedule itself states that what is sought is 'a normal day'?"

"I saw that," was the reply, "but it seems to me that when possible it is better to have all the details carried out to the full. However, even that is not the most serious difficulty of these questions."

"No," said Hamilton, "that one hasn't given much trouble. The hitch usually comes just at the point you're looking at now—the cost of materials."

"That's just exactly it. Our non-productive departments consume a great deal of material, mill-supplies and fuels, but if we include those with all the rest of it, our figures will not show a right proportion."

"What do you mean by your non-productive departments?" asked the boy. "That seems rather a curious phrase."

"Those in which the work done is not directly a part of the making of guns or ammunition. For example, we have a large force of draughtsmen working on new models of rifles and mechanisms and on machinery to enable us to make the new types. We make all the machinery that we use, right here in the plant. We make our own tools, too, so that there is a great deal of designing."

"Those are not non-productive," commented Hamilton.

"We call them so," was the reply.

"I don't think the Census Bureau considers them as such," said Hamilton, feeling rather proud of this opportunity to explain some of the workings of the Bureau; "it seems to me more satisfactory to consider that these works not only manufacture guns, rifles, and ammunition, but also machinery and tools."

"But those are for our own use!" objected the manager.

"Yes, of course, I see that," said the boy. "But even if you do use them yourselves, you make them yourselves. If you leave them out in the schedule it would make the figures all wrong."

"How would it?"

"Well, the schedule wouldn't show anything paid out for machinery, and you've got to have machinery, and you'd seem to be paying wages, without getting anything for it. It seems to me that even if you do use the machinery yourselves you really sell it to yourselves, only at cost price or at whatever figure you name."

"I suppose in a sense we do," said the business manager, "but that seems a very roundabout way of getting at it."

"I don't think it is," Hamilton replied. "If you bought the machinery you would have to pay the manufacturer his profit. Instead of that you make the profit yourselves. The value, of course, should also be carried to the capital account."

"Well," the older man said, "I'm willing to put it down either way, and in that light these departments might be called productive, although not directly productive. You seem to have figured this sort of business out pretty well for a youngster," he added.

"I suppose that's natural," Hamilton answered, "because I've been doing nothing else for the past two weeks."

"Then how about advertising," the manager suggested; "perhaps you can tell me where that is usually listed? As part of the sales force?"

"No, sir," was the prompt reply; "it is reported as a miscellaneous expense."

"Very well," the official said, "if you come back at four o'clock this afternoon I will have the schedule ready for you." Then, seeing that the boy hesitated, he said, "Did you want it before then?"

"Oh, no, Mr. Arverne, thank you," the boy answered "that wasn't what I had in mind at all. I was wondering whether, if I came back at three o'clock, I would be allowed to see something of the works. In quite a number of places I have been shown through the plant, sometimes because I had to get figures from managers of different departments, sometimes because I had a few minutes to spare while a clerk was filling up the schedule. But I've always been so interested in guns, and especially in Winchesters, that I really should like to find out how they're made."

The business manager shook his head dubiously.

"We very rarely show any one over the plant," he said, "because there is very little to be gained by it. And in any case, there are some portions of the works where visitors are never allowed, such as ammunition rooms where there are quantities of powder about, and similar places."

"I'd like to be able to say that there was a desire on the part of the Census Bureau for a report," said Hamilton, "but honestly I haven't the right to say so. I'm only asking as a favor. At the same time I have seen special reports on selected industries issued by the Bureau, and possibly my information might chance to be of value to the special agent who was getting it up."

"Come back at two o'clock, then," said the manager. "One of the members of the Board, Mr. Nebett, is here to-day, and if he has no objection I'll try to find some one to show you round."

Promptly at the appointed hour, Hamilton handed his card to the doorman, who showed him into a waiting-room. In a few minutes the door opened, and a keen-looking, well-set-up man appeared who came forward and held out his hand.

"I've been hearing about you from Mr. Arverne," he said, "and he tells me that you want to look over the works."

"Mr. Nebett?" queried the boy, and in response to an affirmative nod, he continued, "Yes, sir, I'm very anxious to see part of it at any rate. I can see that it's a huge place, but gun-making must be so interesting that I'd like to see how it's done."

"I think Mr. Arverne said something to me about your writing up a special report, a summary or something of that kind."

"That was just a suggestion, Mr. Nebett," the boy replied. "I told Mr. Arverne that the Census Bureau did issue special bulletins on selected industries, and that perhaps I might have an opportunity to make use of some information. But that's a personal idea of mine only, because most of those bulletins are written by experts in the Bureau."

"Well," was the reply, "I don't see that it can do us any harm, anyway, and if you are so interested you can come along with me. I like to go through the works every once in so often, and perhaps I can tell you more about these things than any other man in the place, because I get a chance to see it as a whole."

"If you would," began the boy.

"Come along, then," said the official, without further parley, and he led the way out of the general offices and across the street to the first of a huge group of buildings. Walking through the yard the two came presently to a long structure running alongside the railroad sidings. "This," Hamilton was informed, "is just the storeroom for raw material as it comes off the cars."

He turned half round as though to leave the building, but Hamilton stopped him with a question.

"Steel, principally?" he asked.

"Steel."

"What kind of steel?" persisted Hamilton.

"Oh, different kinds."

"Why different kinds?" continued the boy, working his eyebrows, as was his habit when in earnest. "For different kinds of guns?"

"Yes," answered the older man, evidently deciding that he would have to go into the matter thoroughly with Hamilton, and passing on into the storehouse. "We get mostly three kinds of steel, nickel steel, carbon steel, and soft steel, with a small proportion of other forms. We do that for the very reason you mentioned, that they are used for different kinds of work. Nickel steel we do not use for the cheaper grades of guns, because it is so much harder, and costs so much more to work. Indeed, very few gun-makers use nickel steel for barrels at all, but we do on all our high-grade work."

"I notice," Hamilton said, "that all the steel here is stored in bars and rods. Do you buy it that way, or have you a rolling mill in connection with the plant?"

"Buy it," the other said immediately. "You can't run a rolling mill at a profit except on a large scale, and, anyway, this is too far from the source of supply. We get our copper in ingots, but not our steel."

"I notice," the boy continued, fingering a long ticket attached to a bundle of steel rods by a wire, "that you say here, 'Do not disturb until report from laboratory is received.'"

"Certainly," said the other, "every order as it comes in is tested. We have two laboratories, a physical and a chemical, and not a scrap of material is used until it is found to be fully up to the specifications. There's no guesswork there, but the most rigid scientific tests. That keeps any poor material from slipping through.

"Now," he continued, "I'll show you what happens to those bars."

He led the way to a small building where the bars were cut into certain recognized lengths for the men at the drop forges to handle.

"This forging shop," the manufacturer said, entering it as he spoke, "is where most of the metal parts of the gun are first roughly shaped, and this man is working on part of a cartridge ejector. Watch him now," he went on, following the action of the workman; "he takes a piece of steel out of the furnace behind him, lays it on the die, touches a lever, and the big drop-hammer comes down,—once, twice. He turns it over, brings the drop-hammer down again, once, twice, and the piece is shaped. It has rough edges all round, of course, and so he takes it, while it is still glowing red, to a more exact die, and brings the drop-hammer down once, and turns it over, then brings down the hammer again once. Now the shape is almost perfect but for that fringe of metal all round. He picks it up, puts it on that die on this next machine close by his hand, touches a lever, and a knife, exactly the shape of the die comes down, crunch! shaving off the iron clean all round, and there is your forging done, and all with the one heating. Of course it isn't finished off, but you can see for yourself that the rough work is done, and all in the space of a few moments."

Hamilton found it hard to tear himself away, for while the principle was the same, all the different forges were turning out different parts, and it was a fascination to the boy to see those glowing lumps of steel come out of the furnace and with the few strokes of the drop-hammer, fall a few seconds later, the shaped part of a rifle. Some of the machines were making receivers for the stock, the largest piece of metal, and other small parts like the trigger or the hammer, while still others were preparing the barrels of the gun for drilling.

"It is not likely to occur to you," said his guide, "that it would not do to let all those various parts cool off by chance. For example, in winter they would cool more rapidly than in summer, and those near the door more quickly than those in the inner part of the forging house. That would make them of varying hardness. So, in order to make sure that they shall be the same, all those pieces you have seen being made are annealed."

"How is the annealing done?" asked Hamilton.

"That is simple enough," was the reply. "All that has to be done is to heat them again all to the same degree of heat, then let the oven cool at a certain rate. Here are the annealing ovens."

"This is certainly a hot place," said the boy, as he stepped into the next building. "Whew! I wonder any one stays in here."

"No one does," his conductor answered. "We have this arranged so that all the furnaces are filled in the morning, when they are cold, and there are pyrometers to tell when the right heat is reached. All the ovens, you see, are managed by these switches near the door. Look here—"

He slipped one of the switches into place, and the pyrometer needle swung around and pointed to the degree of heat in the oven which it was supposed to register.

"What are those little clocks for?"

"One for each oven," Mr. Nebett answered; "the keeper of the furnaces sets them when an oven is up to the required heat. Then, you see, it is easy to tell when they have been cooling long enough."

"I should think," said Hamilton, "that making the barrel was the most important part of a gun, because, after all, that is the only part a bullet touches, and it must have to be exact. I've often thought of that, how the tiniest difference at the mouth of the barrel would at a thousand yards range cause it to be away off the mark."

"It does have to be exact," his guide answered, "but that is a matter of care rather than of difficulty. In this next building we bore the rifle-barrels, just a simple boring process, as you see, but there are all sorts of precautions taken to insure absolute steadiness. As soon as a barrel is taken from the boring machine it is put through a test, to determine whether it is correct in size to the one-half of one-thousandth of an inch in diameter. If it is not as exact as that, it is set aside. That is only the first of a long series of tests, too. You would be surprised at the number of barrels that are rejected from the time of the first selection until the gun is completed. Here, for example, is perhaps the most sensational one."

He led the boy to a small building, standing by itself in the middle of the yard, heavily built, and looking almost like a log cabin of the old type, made of great timbers. It was just a bit of a place, divided into two parts by a heavy timber wall.

"What in the wide world is this for?" asked the boy.

"I'll show you in a minute, I think we're just in time," the official said, as he led the way in. Hamilton followed him into the inner chamber. A long row of gun barrels was the first thing the boy noticed, the barrels all lying in slots. A gray-haired man was filling a heavy charge of powder behind each one. The guns were pointing into a bank of sand.

"If you notice," said his guide, "you'll see that a little device, like the old percussion cap is right by each of those charges of powder. Are you all ready, Jim?" he queried, as the old man straightened up.

"Yes, Mr. Nebett," was the reply.

"All right," the other said, "we'll go into the room." He pointed out to Hamilton, as they passed from one part of this little building to the other, that each of these percussion caps was attached to a wire which ran through the wall to the little room into which they were going.

"Look out, Mr. Nebett," said the old man, after he had closed and fastened the heavy door, "and you, young sir, don't be frightened," and he pulled the wire hanging overhead.

There was a terrific explosion and a roar, and though Hamilton had been half expecting it, he jumped. Then he laughed.

"I guess I did jump, after all," he said. "What was that for?"

"To test the strength of the barrels," said his friend, as the old workman slid back the heavy door. "There, you see," he added, "one of them did burst." He pointed to one of the gun barrels rent at the side. "Once in a while," he continued, "they just go up in pieces, and if you look at the walls and the ceiling you'll see any number of bits of metal driven in deeply."

"But he seemed to be putting in an awfully heavy charge," said the boy.

"We do that in order to be sure that we shall not expend a great deal of labor on a barrel which in the end would fail to pass inspection, and also to safeguard against accident," the other explained. "We do use a very heavy charge because our guns sell all over the world, and in some countries—England, for instance—the test is extremely severe. It's a costly process, as it spoils a lot of barrels, but it is better to lose material than to put out a piece of work which might not be trustworthy."

Hamilton looked around the proof-room carefully. Certainly it seemed to have gone through the wars. From the thick wood huge gashes had been rent, and the entire interior was jagged and splintered.

"How much of a charge do you put to each barrel?" he asked; and when the formula was given him for each of the different styles of rifle, the boy whistled in amazement.

"I should think that any barrels that stood that test could stand anything afterwards," he said admiringly.

"Well, they do," the other said. "It's very seldom that you hear of a first-class gun exploding. I don't recall a case of one of ours for years and years. And even if by some chance flaw they did, the good ones, being nickel steel, would just make a hole in the barrel,—not fly to pieces. But, as a matter of fact, any barrel that has been through that 'proof-room' will have been subjected to the greatest strain it will ever have to undergo, for there is no cartridge made that would have one-half the power in proportion to the size of the barrel."

From the proof-room Hamilton's guide led him through different parts of the works, where various machines were employed in preparing and finishing the rough forgings he had seen made and annealed. Thus, for example, in a receiver for a gun stock, one machine worked a bevel edge on it, another bored it to the size of the gun barrel, accurate to the thousandth part of an inch, another pierced the tiny screw holes, and yet other machines made even the minute screw, done, as was explained to Hamilton, so that the threads in each should fit with absolute exactness.

"But do you really mean to say," queried Hamilton in surprise, "that every one of these fifty or more parts of each gun is inspected and tested?"

The official led him to a number of long rows of tables.

"Here," he said, "are girls doing nothing else all day long. Here is a testing die for a part of the ejector of one of our 1911 models. You see that there are two spaces for all of them. It must fit into this one, it must not fit into that, which is a thousandth of an inch smaller. If too big, you see it won't fit into either, if too small, it would fit into the one where it ought not. Every tiny piece is gauged on all its sides and in every hole and at all points with this double gauge system."

"That doesn't leave much for guesswork," said Hamilton. "But there is something that's been puzzling me."

"What is that?" asked his guide.

"I've always heard a lot about gun-metal," Hamilton answered, "and yet all the way through, these parts have been nothing but steel. And all the guns I ever saw had that bluish look, as gun-metal has. For example, my watch is what they call gun-metal," and he took it from his pocket and showed the back of it.

"Gun-metal," said the other, "is an alloy of copper and tin and once was used almost exclusively for cannon and big guns generally. But you're right about all guns having a bluish tinge. That is all steel, but it is treated by a process called coloring or bluing. I'll show you—both the old way and the new."

Going down the stairs and crossing the yard, he took Hamilton into a small building where there were a couple of open charcoal furnaces, in which the charcoal was intensely hot, but not hot enough to catch fire. The pieces of finished steel were buried in this charcoal, and every few minutes the men in charge would draw them out, wipe them over with a bunch of oiled waste, and thrust them back into the fire. It was about the dirtiest, blackest, grimiest work the boy had ever seen.

"That is the old way," Hamilton was told, "and although it is handwork instead of machine work it is not a bit better in its results than the new way. The modern system, besides, is much simpler and cleaner."

In the next building was a row of charcoal ovens, revolving in such a way that the parts to be blued were alternately covered and released from the superheated charcoal, the effect of the greasing also being done at every automatic revolution Each furnace door bore an asbestos clock.

"What are those clocks for?" asked Hamilton. "The same as those others, I suppose, so that the man in charge can put in a number of certain parts of a gun and leave them in for a regular length of time at a certain heat, and pull them out all done?"

"Just that," was the reply. "The only gain in the old style is that each part being handled separately, if there is ever so little difference in the metal, the bluer can give it a shorter or a longer time, whereas the machine treats all alike."

"Then when the gun is assembled, all the work is done?" queried Hamilton, who was becoming a little tired from his long tramp through the works and among the furnace-heated shops.

"No," said the other. "That wouldn't do at all. A gun has not only got to shoot, but it has got to shoot straight."

"But how in the world," said Hamilton, "can you tell whether a gun will shoot straight or not?"

"One of the most important ways," said his informant, "is to let an expert look through the barrel. One of our best men, for example, has done nothing else all his life; his father before him was a barrel-sighter and his son has just entered the works. He does it this way—here, you try," and he handed a barrel to Hamilton. "Rest the barrel in this crotch," he continued, "and look at the window. You see there is a piece of ground glass with a thin black line running across it. Point the barrel so that it is aimed just below that line, and if you get it right, you will see a reflection of that line running lengthways up the barrel."

MAKING GUN-SIGHTS TRUE. Marksmen firing new-made rifles and adjusting the sights until every weapon carries perfectly. (Courtesy of Winchester Repeating Arms Co.)

Hamilton put the barrel up and looked and looked, but for a minute or two he could not get the direction, then he caught the line. But the reflection in the barrel was confusing, and it seemed to him that he saw several lines.

"It's awfully hard just to get that straight," the boy said, "and it's dazzling, too."

"That man you saw there," answered his guide, as they moved away, "can tell almost to the width of a thread of a spider's web if a barrel is straight. Here, too, is another barrel test going on. You see this man is pushing a soft lead slug which fits the barrel snugly through the barrel by means of a brass rod. It takes a certain amount of pressure to push the lead slug through the barrel. Such slight variations in diameter of the bore as one-tenth of a thousandth can be readily detected, for if the barrel is smaller at any point than where it entered, the slug will stick, and if it is the least bit larger at any point, the slug will slide through too easily. Men accustomed to this class of work can readily detect an increase or decrease in diameter of one ten-thousandth part of an inch."

"You certainly have it down fine, Mr. Nebett," Hamilton commented.

"We try to," responded his guide. "Then when the barrel experts have had their turn, the gun is assembled and goes to the action men."

"Who are they?" asked the boy.

"They test the trigger pull, the cartridge ejection, the fall of the hammer, the filling of the magazine, and all such points. They have two sets of dummies, such as were used for testing the parts. One must fit, the other not, and so any fault in the mechanism is detected. The same with ejection,—we must be sure that a cartridge will not stick. Then after that—"

"Still more tests!"

"Didn't I tell you that we had to be sure that a gun could be made not only to shoot but to shoot straight? Our crack shots get the guns next."

"What do they do?" asked the boy, "fire at targets?"

"Yes. But first a man, incased in an armored barricade, shoots a few extra heavy cartridges in each rifle, in order to make sure that no weakness has been caused by the various processes through which all the parts have passed. Then he turns it over to the crack shots. They fire half a dozen shots at a target, then look at the target through a telescope. Those men know that they can hit the bull's eye every time, so that if the shots are wide of the mark, either there is a defect in the gun or the sights are not true. In nine cases out of ten it is the fault of the sights, and they file them true."

"Then really every gun has been fired before being sold?"

"We turn out about sixteen hundred guns a day, and each one has been fired several times."

"Shotguns, too?"

"The same standard of accuracy is needed in those. It is just as important that a shotgun should throw a certain percentage of its shot within a certain radius as it is that a rifle bullet should go straight. Down in this little room," he continued, "a man stands all day shooting down this gallery, forty yards range, and each target is brought back and measured. In a circle with a fifteen-inch radius a boy counts the numbers of holes made in the paper by the tiny shot. There should be 300. If there are 290 the gun is passed, but if less it is rejected. Sometimes you get very queer shot patterns without knowing why."

"Do all shotguns throw as evenly as that?"

"All good ones should. It is astonishing to see how regularly the 'scatter' of a barrel will work out. Every barrel, of course, is stamped with the number of shots it has put into the fifteen-inch circle."

"And you make cartridges, too, don't you?" Hamilton asked.

"That's one of the largest branches of our business," his guide replied, "but there's not very much in that to show you, except of course the making of the metal caps, and this is simply the punching of circular pieces of copper or brass, turning up the edges, or 'cupping' them, as it is called, drawing them to length, inserting the primer pocket and heading—the filling is done in a building perpetually closed to visitors. We think too much of our visitors," he added with a smile, "to risk blowing them up. I don't suppose really, that there would be any danger,—we have not had an accident for years,—but it's a business in which accident is only prevented by extreme care, and we believe in being thorough."

Chatting pleasantly, Mr. Nebett showed Hamilton through the various general offices, the payroll department, and the draughting and designing room, and finally returned to the business manager's office, where they found the schedule awaiting him, filled out in almost every detail. A few spaces had been left blank until the boy's return, some trifling explanation being readily answered by him.

"A BULL'S-EYE EVERY TIME!" The expert looking through telescope at target which he has fired at with new guns to test their accuracy. (Courtesy of Winchester Repeating Arms Co.)

"I must thank you ever so much," said the boy, turning to the director of the company who had taken so much trouble in showing him around, "it has been one of the most interesting afternoons I have had in all my life. I feel quite as though I had been witnessing the equipping of the world's armies on the eve of a great war."

"That would be all right," said the business manager, "if we were making military rifles, but ninety-five per cent of our work is for sporting purposes."

"But how about your cartridges?"

"There, perhaps," Mr. Nebett said, "The Hague tribunal would look askance at us."

Hamilton had his portfolio under his arm, but at the door he turned.

"How many cartridges do you put out?" he asked.

"Six million a day," was the reply.

CHAPTER IV

THE BOY LEADER OF A CRUSADE

So long as Hamilton's work dealt with the larger manufactories of the district he encountered comparatively little trouble, as he knew enough of the desires of the Census Bureau to be able to help those business men whose books did not specifically divide receipts, expenses, and so forth in the same order as the government required. Indeed, he made several very pleasant acquaintanceships during the weeks in New Haven, and it was not until he was "checking up," going to all the small places that had not been listed, that he really found himself in difficulties. He anticipated trouble with the dressmakers, and consequently his delight was great when he learned that this had been omitted from the census since 1904 because it is a "neighborhood industry." But the milliners proved just as bad.

In the first place, Hamilton could not work up any enthusiasm over a millinery establishment, and although he had definite instructions that each one was to be considered as a factory and entered upon the schedules as one, he thought such an idea was stretching the point a little far. Fortunately he had covered a large number of them during the first weeks of the work, visiting the places in the early morning and in the evening when the offices of the larger factories were closed. His worst clash occurred at almost the very last one to which he went.

It was a little after five o'clock, just as it was beginning to get dark, that Hamilton, having ascertained from the Business Telephone Directory the address of a milliner not down on his lists, who did work for wholesale as well as retail trade, went up the steps of a really handsome house, and rang the bell. He did so reluctantly, for there was no plate on the door, and he did not wish to annoy strangers. But the address seemed straight enough.

The door was opened by a becapped maid, and Hamilton was shown into a handsomely furnished drawing room. On a table in the corner, the boy caught sight of a pile of fashion magazines, and he was sure that he was on the right track. After a few moments' delay, a richly dressed little Frenchwoman bustled in. She seemed surprised to see the boy, and halted on the threshold. Hamilton rose.

"I understand, Madame," he said, "that you are an 'exclusive' milliner?"

The woman looked bewildered.

"You make hats?" Hamilton continued, perceiving at a glance that the woman was foreign-born.

"Is it a hatter zat you want?" she asked.

"No, no," the boy replied, "I just want to know if you are a milliner?"

The Frenchwoman, not at all enlightened by this explanation, answered:

"I do not make ze hats; I design zem, and ze ozzers make zem."

"Oh, I thought you were the proprietor," said Hamilton; "then you don't own this place!"

"I am ze proprietor, but I do not own ze house," she said; "I pay ze rent. But why you ask? I pay my rent!"

"Oh, of course," answered Hamilton, "but that has nothing to do with it. I did not wish to trouble you that way. I come from the census, and wanted to make sure that this was the place I was looking for."

"What is zat—ze census?"

"That is the way the government finds out about all the people in the country," explained Hamilton, "their names and how old they are, what they work at and how many people they employ, the wages they pay or are paid, and all sorts of things."

The Frenchwoman's eyes had been getting bigger and rounder at every sentence, and when Hamilton had finished, she said with an air of regretful surprise:

"An' they tol' me zere was no police spy in America!"

"There isn't, so far as I know," the boy answered.

"But you—"

"I'm not a police spy," the boy said, a little nettled at being misunderstood.

"No? Zen zat is all ze more strange. In my country zose are ze questions ze gendarmes ask. An' if you are not policeman, why do you wear badge?" she queried, pointing to the little census shield on Hamilton's coat.

"That has nothing to do with the police," the boy insisted, "that's a census badge. Madame," he added, "do I look like a policeman?"

The Frenchwoman, remembering the military appearance of the gendarmes of her native land and the burly make-up of the American policeman, shook her head.

"Perhaps you are disguise'?" she said, with a smile.

"No, I'm not disguised," Hamilton responded, "and the badge is just to show that I have the right to ask you these questions."

"I do not know anyzing at all about it," the milliner objected, "but if you say you have ze right!" she shrugged her shoulders and sat down.

Hamilton promptly picked up his portfolio, opened it on his knee, and began to put some of the queries required. He got along well enough while the formal questions about name, address, nature of work, and so forth were in hand, but the question about the number of hours worked during the year made the woman most indignant.

"What is ze good of a question like zat?" she asked. "What does it matter if ze girls work all ze night to finish ze hat for ze gr-rand occasion, ze wedding, ze garden party? When zey work more, zey get more pay!"

"Of course," said Hamilton diplomatically, "with such a number of society people as you deal with that must happen very often."

It was a successful move. The Frenchwoman beamed on him.

"In ze season, yes, perhaps twenty or thirty evenings, but even zen ze girl go home by twelve o'clock."

Hamilton smiled to himself as he did a little figuring and filled up the schedule to show the prevailing practice followed in the establishment during the year. He was a little dubious about asking the questions concerning the wages paid, but he found no trouble.

"In your kind of work," he said, "I suppose the girls get good wages."

"Ze very best," the woman answered, and Hamilton found that this was true. Indeed, so anxious was she to impress on him how much better were the wages paid by her than those in other establishments that the boy secured a large amount of unexpected valuable information. But he came to a dead stop on the question of raw material used during the year. For the material used in wholesale work the figures were easily secured, but the retail trade was another matter. This the milliner really could not give, for, as she pointed out, most of the few especial customers she had, brought the materials to her to be made up, and she had no means of knowing what had been paid for them. Nor would she even try to make an estimate.

"But I must know," said Hamilton, in despair. "See for yourself,—here it says that every factory must state the total cost of all material used during the year and the value of the products."

"Factory!" the milliner jumped to her feet. "What you say—a factory! Zis establishment a factory! And me, one of ze designers of ze great Maison Chic in Paris! Zis is insult!"

For a moment Hamilton was amazed at the tempest he had so suddenly evoked; then he tried to pacify the woman.

"That's just a general word," he said, "and it is used for every place where things are made."

"No, no, no," she cried, "I know bezzer zan zat. A factory has chimney, high, high, and smoke, an' nasty smells, an' machines. I have seen zem!"

"That's one kind of factory," answered the boy, "but it is only one kind. But if you like we won't use the word at all."

This time, however, Hamilton's persuasions were of no avail. The milliner had taken offense at the word "factory," and not another word could the boy get out of her on any subject; the deadlock had become absolute when the door opened and the maid showed in a young girl, evidently a customer. The proprietress immediately greeted her in voluble French, recounting as nearly as Hamilton could judge from her gestures her sorrows and trials at the boy's hands.

As soon as there was a lull, Hamilton said to the newcomer:

"I beg your pardon, but since you seem to know French, would you mind explaining to Madame what the census is? She seems to think I am a police spy, or something."

"Oh, the census!" the girl exclaimed. "I could not make out what it was all about. I thought it must be some question of taxes."

"No," Hamilton explained, "it is the Census of Manufactures, and millinery places have to be counted. I got along all right, and have finished my schedule but for one thing, and that I cannot get hold of. If you would just ask her the cost of the materials in the hats she made last year, I'll be through and then I won't be delaying you."

But not even the girl's fluent French could bring any light on this subject, and laughingly she had to admit to the boy that her success had been no greater than his own.

"I'll tell you," said Hamilton; "I've got an idea how we could get at it."

"How?" asked the girl interestedly, for having taken a part in it, she was American enough to be unwilling to give up; "what have you to suggest—what is your plan?"

"You are one of Madame's customers?"

"Yes."

"And, of course, whatever kind of books are kept here, there must be some sort of ledger, so that your bills can go to you every month."

The girl made a little grimace.

"The bills certainly come," she assured him.

"Well, then," said Hamilton triumphantly, "if we can find out from Madame what proportion of all her trade your account is, and if you can make a guess as to what the material you have brought her cost you, we shall come pretty close to being able to make an estimate on the cost of goods of all her customers."

"That's an excellent scheme," the girl said. "I don't know that I can give very exact figures, but you want just a rough idea?"

"I'd like it exact, of course," the boy answered, "but since that doesn't seem easy to get, the next best thing is a close estimate."

With this device in mind, very few minutes elapsed before the required information was secured, a rough guess made at the result, and the schedule finally filled out. As Hamilton rose to go, the girl said laughingly: "I think I should at least receive 'honorable mention' in the dispatches as a census-taker, the same as soldiers do in war."

"Very well," said Hamilton, smiling in return, "I'll bear it in mind," and thanking her heartily, he went on his way, greatly relieved that the difficulty was over.

In a piece of extra territory that Mr. Burns had assigned to the boy, there were several factories in which there had been some difficulty in securing properly filled schedules, partly because much of the work was done on the night shift. Because of this, Hamilton had got in touch with some of these factories—they were principally glass works—on the night side first. He frequently found it necessary to work thus in the evenings, especially after this added work, which was given him because the district proved too large for the agent having it in charge.

Little by little he worked these down until but one remained, owned by Germans, where the boy experienced great difficulty in securing any sort of attention. The night superintendent, however, was ready to help, and Hamilton went to him constantly in the endeavor to have the schedule for that factory filled. This was the easier, as the night superintendent in question had recently been promoted to that position from head bookkeeper.

One night, waiting for the superintendent to work out these figures, he sauntered through the works. A phrase from Edwin Markham's "The Hoe-Man in the Making" kept ringing through his head. It ran as follows—"It is in the glass-factory perhaps, that the child is pushed most hopelessly under the blind hammer of greed," and the boy wondered whether this especial works was one of those which the poet-author had visited. Owing to the number of times Hamilton had been forced to go to this factory, two or three of the men had come to know him by sight, and they nodded now as he passed through. Noticing a boy that looked even younger than himself,—for unconsciously his eye was seeking that of which he was thinking,—he turned to one of the men who had nodded to him, and said casually, and with an air of surprise:

"Why, that chap there doesn't look any older than me!"

"I don't suppose he is so very old," the man replied, "sixteen, maybe."

"Seems a shame to have to start in so young," Hamilton went on, with an assumed air of carelessness, "and I suppose he's been here some years."

"Probably about four or five," was the reply.

"You know," continued Hamilton, in a conversational tone, "I should think it would be hard for a boy to start in working like that, and at night especially."

The man paused in his work an instant, and looked at the lad, passing his hand over his forehead as he did so.

"I was just ten years old when I began," he said. "I'm only thirty now. I look fifty, don't I?"

"You certainly look over thirty," Hamilton admitted.

"Oh, I look fifty all right, I know that, and I'm as nearly played out as a man of fifty. And it's all due to work when I was a youngster. Every year that a boy is put to hard physical work before he is sixteen is equal to five years taken off his life."

"I wonder that any employer does it, and that any State permits it," said Hamilton.

"There's not as much of it in Connecticut as in other States, although the figures show that it is growing here," was the reply. "But you talk as though you had been having a session with 'the crusader,'" the workman continued.

"Who's the crusader?" asked Hamilton.

"Haven't you seen him, then? With your ideas, you ought to get along well together. And," he added, more seriously, "'the crusader' will be heard of yet."

"Why?"

"He's a boy who started at work in this place when he was only seven years old," the workman answered. "He's been here eight years now, and he's an odd genius. He taught himself to read and write, but he doesn't read anything except about labor conditions all over the world, and he knows all there is to know, I guess, about this business of children working. All the labor union people and the socialists know 'the crusader,' young as he is, and they send him, free, nearly every book and paper that's published."

YOUNG BOYS FROM THE PIT. A group of workers in a coal mine during dinner-time. Many even younger work on the night shift. (Courtesy of the Ridgway co.)

"But why do you call him 'the crusader'?" asked Hamilton.

"Because he has some crusade idea on the brain,—thinks he can start a revolution or something that will put a stop to child labor, and he talks all the time of getting ready for this 'crusade' as he calls it. But everybody likes him just the same, and he's a good worker—when he's not talking."

"Which is he?" asked Hamilton. "I'd like to talk to him, if I might."

"No reason why you shouldn't," the other answered "he's kept busy of course, but there are minutes in which he can talk, and 'the crusader' is given special favors, anyway. That's the boy, 'carrying in' over there."

Hamilton looked with interest at the boy thus pointed out. He would have been noticeable, even without the knowledge of his peculiar position, but with it, his difference from his fellows became most marked. Hamilton had a couple of large apples in his pocket, and he thought this might be a good opening. Taking one of them out of his pocket, he started to eat it, and sauntered leisurely over to where the boy was working. He watched him for a minute or two; then, when the boy looked up, he said casually:

"Have an apple?"

Almost wolfishly the work-boy took the fruit from Hamilton and commenced to devour it. It was clear either that he was hungry or that such a luxury as an apple seldom fell to his lot. A few sentences passed, and then Hamilton asked:

"How long have you been in the factory here?"

"Eight years," 'the crusader' replied.

"You must have been just a youngster when you first came, then?"

"Seven years old," was the answer, "and small at that!"

"It's a shame to let little children work like that, I think," said Hamilton, wondering whether this would have the effect of rousing the other, "it must do them harm."

But even though expecting some fiery retort, Hamilton was unprepared for the transformation in the lad. A moment before he had been a stooped childish figure with an old and weary face, carrying trays of hot glass from furnace to bench and bench to furnace, but at the word he turned. The air of weariness fell from him, his back straightened, life and passion flamed into his eyes, and despite the grime and sordidness of his surroundings, despite the rags in which he was clothed, under the dull glow of the furnaces and the flickering violet play of a distant arc light he seemed the bearer of some high message as his boyish treble, rich in the tones of a familiar despair, rang through the factory.

"The land is filled with the voice o' cryin'," he began, "an' no one seems to hear. Tens o' thousands o' children cry themselves to sleep every night, knowin' that the mornin' only brings another day o' misery. Think of a little boy or girl o' ten years old, sufferin' already so much that hope is gone, an' tired enough to die! There are twenty-five thousand children less than ten years old in the fact'ries of America."

"Perhaps the people who could help don't know about it," suggested Hamilton.

"They know," the other continued, "but they don't care. They stop their ears to the cryin' o' the children an' talk about America as the land of opportunity. It is the land of opportunity—opportunity for the children to starve, opportunity to suffer, opportunity to die wretched an' to be glad to die. There's no country in the world where children are tortured as they are in the fact'ries of the United States."

"Oh, surely it can't be as bad as that," protested Hamilton.

The objection only increased the "crusader's" vehemence.

"There don't any children have to work anywhere as they do here," he fairly shouted, "here where they rob the cradle for workers, where the little voices become sad and bitter 'most as soon as they can lisp, where the brightness o' childhood fades out before its time, an' where its only world is the mill, the shop, an' the fact'ry. Their tiny bones unset, they make them stand in one position all day long until you hear the children moanin' hour after hour, moanin' and no one hears, or hearin', cares.

"They send missionaries to China," cried the lad further, "but there's no child labor there; they try to reform the 'unspeakable Turk' but there's no atrocity upon the children there; they call the heathen lost, though in the worst an' wildes' tribes the children have a home an' lovin', if savage care; Russia cries shame on what goes on in our fact'ries here, an' even an Indian chief that they were showin' the sights of our great cities to, when asked what had surprised him most, answered, 'Little—children—workin'.'"

"You mean it is peculiar to America? That there is really more of it here than in Europe?" asked Hamilton incredulously.

"More? There's none there like there is here. An' it's gettin' worse all the time, worse this year than last year, worse last year than ten years ago. 'Child-labor,' somebody says, 'has about it no halo of antiquity. It is a thing of yesterday, a sudden toadstool in the infernal garden.' It is all our own," he laughed harshly, "let us be proud of it."

"How many children did you say?" asked Hamilton tersely, staggered and shocked by this statement of the facts of the case.

"Enough to sink the land in shame," the speaker declared. "There were a trifle over a hundred thousand children between the ages of six and fourteen workin' in the fact'ries of America last year. The figures showed that over half of 'em were workin' more'n eight hours a day, that a large percentage were workin' twelve to sixteen hours, an' twenty-two thousand of 'em are at night work."

As he said the last words, the "crusader" hurried away in response to a call from one of the men. He resumed his carrying in of the red-hot bottles from the benches where the men had been molding them, to the annealing oven, and for a time Hamilton watched him. The work was a fearful strain. Sitting where he was, Hamilton could see all the way to the annealing oven. Counting the number of steps the "crusader" had to take, Hamilton found the distance to be about one hundred feet, and watching another boy, who was working regularly, not intermittently as was the city lad's new acquaintance, he found that seventy-two trips an hour were made, making the distance covered in eight hours nearly twenty-two miles.

The red-hot bottles were carried in asbestos shovels, and these had to be kept fairly straight, imposing a terrific strain upon the back. In addition to this, the boys were compelled to face the furnace each time they came back, passing from the heat of the melting oven, in front of a draughty open door, to the heat of the annealing oven.

In order to keep up with the work, the boys had to run, for it could not be done at a walk, and thus were alternately greatly overheated and chilled with icy draughts.

Seeing that the "crusader" would be busy for a while, but wanting to take the matter up with him further, Hamilton strolled over to where the glass-blowers were working. This particular factory was turning out cheap glass bottles, and there was little of the fascination that exists in factories where high-grade glass is made into many curious shapes and blown with great skill into marvelous thinness. In the middle of the room was a large round furnace containing a number of small doors not quite four feet from the ground, and a glass-blower was stationed before each of these. With long iron blowpipes these men, by giving the blowpipe a little twirl as they thrust it into the semi-molten metal, drew out on the end of it a small mass of glass, of about the consistency of nearly melted sealing wax, and holding this mass on the end of the blowpipe by keeping it in motion, they blew it into balls and rolled the ball of soft, red-hot glass on their rolling boards. Then they lifted the blowpipe and blew again, sharp and hard, forcing the soft glass to its proper form. The now cooling glass was broken from the end of the blowpipe with a sharp, snapping sound, and the blowpipe was plunged in the furnace again for another bottle. The whole had taken but a few seconds.

"Why do they have so many boys around these places?" queried Hamilton of the workman he had been watching.

"Have to, they say," the glass-blower replied, "cheap bottles mean cheap labor. No one ever expects to pay anything for a bottle—that is thrown in with everything liquid you buy. The manufacturer's got to make his little profit somewhere an' in a cheap bottle he makes it by employin' young boys cheap an' workin' 'em till they drop."

"Is it done this way everywhere?"

The workman shook his head.

"No need to do it even here," he said. "It takes money, though, to put in an endless belt to carry the bottles to the annealin' oven. The big fact'ries mostly have 'em, but there are plenty o' places like this in small towns where everythin' is done on a cheap scale, an' a boy's labor is about the cheapes' thing in the United States—unless it's a girl's."

Seeing that the glass-blower was being delayed in his task, Hamilton sauntered away, and went back to the place where the "crusader" worked. The latter broke out again as soon as he saw the boy coming.

"I've been talkin' to you about children workin'," he said, "but you haven't thought of babies bein' made to work?"

"Babies!"

"Of four an' five years old."

"But they couldn't do any real work!" exclaimed Hamilton.

"Do you know what one factory owner in the South said, not knowin' he was talkin' to a member o' the child-labor commission? He said 'A kid three year old can soon learn to straighten out tobacco leaves for wrappers, and a little worker of four is good help in stripping.'"

"In a cigar factory?"

"Of course,—an' the children find it so hard to keep up that they are taught to chew snuff—as a stimulant—before they are six year old. Jane Addams, writin' o' the torture chambers they call cotton mills in parts o' the South, said she saw on the night shift, with her teeth all blackened and decayed from excessive snuff chewin', a little girl o' five year old, busily and clumsily tyin' threads in coarse muslin, an' answerin' a question she said she had been there every night throughout the hot summer excep' two, when 'her legs and back wouldn't let her get up.' An' what do you suppose the fact'ry owner did—send a physician? No, he docked her the two days' wages for the time she'd been away ill, an' another day's fine as a punishment."

"That's brutal!" cried Hamilton. "Didn't the parents protest?"

"The parents? That's where the mill-owners have their strongest help. They threaten to discharge the parents if the children don't work an' work hard, and they force the father or mother into whippin' the child to compel it to stay at the loom. The whole country went to war once over the question of a negro havin' to work under compulsion,—or at least, that had quite a bit to do with the war,—but you can enslave white children, you can starve 'em, you can shut 'em up in rooms without air, you can surround 'em with dangerous machinery, you can force 'em to be whipped, you can snatch 'em from their cradles in their homes, you can snap your fingers at the schools, an' you can fill churchyards with a worse Massacre o' the Innocents than history ever tells about, an' the men and women of America don't care."

"I 'AIN'T SEEN DAYLIGHT FOR TWO YEARS." Trapper boy working a twelve-hour day below ground, often too tired to go up in the cage at the end of the day and sleeping on the ground beside the track. (Courtesy of the Ridgway Co.)

"Oh, yes, they do," again protested Hamilton. "It must be that they don't know."

"How can they help but know? There are a few that have heard what Spargo calls 'The Bitter Cry of the Children,' but those few are very few, an' the misery an' shame goes on, gettin' worse with ev'ry year."

"What's going to be done?"

"The children will have to rescue the children," the boy cried. "If men's hearts are cold and women's hearts are asleep, at least the boys can hear. There's no power like a boy's, an' a boy will do anythin' that's big and brave and worth the doin'. In a year from now I'm goin' to start a crusade, like the Children's Crusade in hist'ry, an' march to every mill an' fact'ry in the United States where a child is workin', and make the owner sign a paper pledgin' himself not to employ a child again. Give me an army of American boys an' I'll sweep the country like a flight o' locusts."

"But who would join?"

"Every boy worth his salt. S'pose I came to you an' said 'In that mill at the end o' your street, little children are bein' slaved and driven to death because no one has the nerve to say what they think. We'll rescue those children. Join us, we're five hundred strong!' Would you go along?"

"Guess I'd have to join," the boy agreed, "but you'd get into all sorts of trouble."

"Can I get into a worse trouble than any o' those babies have?" the other asked indignantly. "What right have I to go on, even as I do, knowin' how they are sufferin'. I don't care about trouble, I've had nothin' else all my life. But if by gettin' into trouble myself, I could get even one hollow-eyed shadow of a child to run about and play like other folks, I'd be willin' to take anythin' that come after. I don't see that carryin' bottles is goin' to help the world much, but if I can carry hope an' health to some little boy or girl, I'm goin' to do it. How, I don't know. But I ain't goin' to die without bein' able to remember some poor child that's better off because lived."

"What can I do to help?" asked Hamilton eagerly and aggressively, as though he expected instant marching orders to some distant factory.

"You can do somethin',—every boy can do somethin'. If nothin' else, you can help to wake a sleepin' an' selfish nation. If the cryin' o' the children has ever rung in your ears, it'll never stop till you're doin' somethin' to help. Do you think I could dream every day, as I do, o' that 'spectral army of pygmy people sucked in from the hills to dance beside the crazing wheel' and not do somethin'?"

"But—"

"Could I hear trampin' round me day an' night, the laggin' step of a 'gaunt goblin army that outwatches the sun by day an' the stars by night, an' work an' sleep in peace? An' there's one thing more to say, an' then I must go,—that there's a stain o' shame 'pon the honor of America that'll never be wiped away until child labor is put down!"

Thoughtful and subdued in spirit, Hamilton strolled back to the night superintendent's office, where he found the figures done at last and the completed schedule awaiting him. He gratefully accepted the offer of a cup of coffee, from some which had just been sent in, and sat down beside the desk.

"I've been talking with the 'crusader,'" he remarked.

The night superintendent looked up interestedly.

"What do you think of him?" he asked, a little sharply, Hamilton thought.

"I think there's no question about his being sincere," the boy answered, "but I can hardly believe that the figures he gives and the facts he talks about are true."

"They're true enough, I'm sorry to say," said the older man, sighing, "but the 'crusader' usually isn't fair to the South. He blames the South for the cotton mill horrors, when, as a matter of fact, a very large proportion of the mills in which the worst conditions were found are owned by New England capitalists. I'm a New Englander by birth myself, 'naughty-two' at Yale, but I'm able to see the mistakes of the North just the same."

"I've always been taught that the North was more or less mixed up in it," answered Hamilton. "It was shown to me a long time ago that the slavery in the South wasn't started by the plantation owners. There were no Southern vessels in the slave trade, they were all New England skippers and New England bottoms. The shame of the slave traffic belongs originally to the North."

"And now a large share of the child labor, too," the other agreed. "But you've got to remember that it was the easy shiftlessness of the South that made such conditions possible. I guess the blame is about even."

"But is nothing being done on this child-labor business?" asked Hamilton. "I tried to find that out from the 'crusader' but he didn't answer."

"Yes," said the superintendent heartily, "a great deal is being done. The Bureau of the Census has been of immense service, and other bureaus of the Department of Commerce and Labor are working on it, largely through information gathered for them by the census. Then there have been thorough Congressional investigations, and the States are being checked up hard to insure that factory inspection shall be real, not nominal. Don't let the 'crusader' persuade you that everybody is asleep and that nothing is being done; the government is doing a good deal, although the country as a whole is unaware of it."

"Yet it is increasing?"

"In spite of all that is done to prevent it, it is increasing," the other said quietly, "that is the sad part. If it could be thought of as a passing thing, it would be bad enough, but to know that every month hundreds of children die from enforced labor and that greater numbers fill their places, is a sad reflection on the industrial life of to-day."

"Well, as the South progresses, that will probably take care of itself, won't it?" queried the boy.

The superintendent looked at him curiously.

"I think you told me last evening that you were a New York boy," he said.

"Yes, Mr. Wharton," answered Hamilton.

"I suppose you consider New York a fairly progressive city?"

"Greatest on earth!" affirmed the boy in true Gotham style.

"Yet that same progressive city," the older man declared, "is the headquarters of several forms of industry in which large percentages of the workers are children under fourteen years of age."

"What kinds of business can those be?" asked Hamilton in surprise.

"Making ostrich plumes and artificial flowers. It's not factory labor, of course, but that doesn't alter the point that at least half the output of artificial flowers is made by the cramped fingers of children, generally after school and far into the night. They are not officially reported, of course, but less than twenty per cent is done by men. The disgraceful fact that the New York schools are so crowded that many of them can only give 'half-time' to the children and consequently teach them in two sections is a great help to the sweat-shop managers. But every city has its own share of this child labor in the homes, although in some of the smaller places, civic associations and municipalities have taken the matter in hand with considerable success. Even that is but a drop in the ocean."

"Your 'crusader' will have to lead his crusade then, it seems," the boy suggested.

"Poor lad!" sighed the superintendent.

"Why?" asked Hamilton.

"He will never lead that crusade," the older man replied pensively.

"Why not?"

The man tapped his chest significantly.

"He is incurably ill," he said, "partly glass-blowers' disease from breathing the particles of glass dust. Men don't mind it so much, but it is fatal to children when the lungs are not yet strong. We keep the 'crusader' here in order to help him as much as we can, although he gives a lot of trouble in the works with his revolutionary theories. I haven't the heart to send him away; he couldn't get other work, and being all alone in the world, he might starve."

"You mean—"

"That he will not live six months. That army of boys of which he speaks so often will never go on the march, the banners he has designed for it will wave over no other battalions than those he has seen in dreams, and the drums will sound the final 'taps' for him before they roll for the advance. And in that sleep, the cries of the children shall all be happy ones."

EIGHT YEARS OLD AND "TIRED OF WORKING." Boy in Southern cotton mill who has been employed "two summers and a winter before that."

CHAPTER V

"DON'T DEPORT MY OLD MOTHER!"

The "crusader's" talk on the child-labor question set Hamilton's mind working, and as soon as he got back to Washington and was busy tabulating the manufacturing statistics which had been gathered and sent in, he tried to learn something about the employment of children. He chanced to meet one of the photographers who had been with the Congressional commission, and the tales this man told were even more detailed. Hamilton found that the figures quoted had not been overstated, and he determined that just as soon as he grew old enough he would do all he could toward correcting this abuse.

But Hamilton found the actual statistical work not a little tedious, although it was work which usually he enjoyed, and this sense of the time dragging was largely due to the fact that the boy had not heard a word about his being considered in line for the population work. It was therefore a considerable relief to him when Mr. Burns said to him suddenly one morning:

"So you're going over to the population side, I hear?"

"Am I? I didn't know," Hamilton replied. "I had wanted to go, but not hearing anything about it, I was afraid the plan had been shelved."

"The Director told me this morning that you were going to be transferred."

"The Director himself?"

"Yes. I had a talk with him about the figures for the manufactures of the New England States, and we happened to mention you; he knew your name, so I told him that your schedules had averaged six and a third per cent better than those of any one else in that section. So he said, 'That reminds me, I had almost forgotten that I had decided to put Noble on the population work. I'll see that arrangements for that transfer are made,' and he scribbled something on a pad."

"That was awfully kind of you, Mr. Burns," said Hamilton, "to mention me to the Director in that way."

The statistician looked at him curiously.

"I wasn't dealing in kindness," he said dryly, "I was dealing in percentages. If that turned out well for you, it is yourself you have to thank, not me. I merely stated the figures, and they read in your favor."

The boy laughed outright.

"I believe, Mr. Burns," he said, "that you would more easily forgive a man who attacked you personally than one who gave you an incorrect list of figures."

"Certainly I would," the statistician replied. "I could hit back in the first case, but in the second who can tell how far I might be led astray!"

"Well," the boy answered, "I'm glad at any rate that my figures tallied up all right."

"I don't want to seem inquisitive," said the older man, "but when did you get in the population examination?"

"There was some talk of my being accepted without going through the exam," said Hamilton, "because of the fact that I was doing census work of a more difficult character already, but I thought I would rather feel that everything had been done in the usual manner. I took the exam at New Haven, one afternoon."

"But are you going to do the population work there?"

"No, Mr. Burns," the boy explained. "The Director wrote to me that I would be allowed to send in a formal application in the regular way through the supervisor of the enumeration district to which I had asked to be assigned. The supervisor of that district had said beforehand that he would be willing to appoint me, as the section was so sparse that enough qualified enumerators were hard to get."

"Well, where are you going, then?"

"I don't know, for sure yet, of course," the boy explained, "whether everything will go through as planned, but if so, I shall be going to Kentucky."

"In the mountains where you had been visiting?"

"Oh, no," the boy answered, "in another part of the State entirely,—down toward the black belt of Kentucky."

"Kentucky isn't a black belt State," his friend objected.

"No, Mr. Burns, but there are parts where the negroes are tolerably thickly settled. The supervisor is a friend of my older brother, and he says that is an interesting part of the country."

"But can a Board of Examiners in one district look over the papers for the supervisor of another district?"

"No, sir," explained the boy, "but they can allow the examination to be taken before them and have the papers sent to the supervisor of the other district. It was a little irregular, I suppose, but the Director knew all about it and it was for the good of the census, he thought, as he had been told there were not enough enumerators in the district to which I hoped to go."

"Well," the statistician replied, "if you're headed for Kentucky I should think you'd like to see your folks before going."

"I had planned to go up on Saturday afternoon," Hamilton said. "I can get to New York by evening and spend Saturday night and all day Sunday there, catching the midnight train back. It brings me in early enough for office hours."

"And this is Friday," said the other thoughtfully. "I'll tell you what to do. I can arrange for you to be off Saturday morning; it is only a half day, and you can catch the first train out after business hours to-day."

"That would be bully!"

"I estimate," the statistician said, rapidly dotting down some figures on a pad, "that the fractions of overtime you have worked recently, cumulatively considered, enable me to do that fairly, so that you've earned it."

"That's fine," said Hamilton, "for the family is going to Europe for the summer, and I shouldn't see any of them at all unless I ran up to New York now."

The older man nodded his confirmation of the suggested arrangement, and returned to his figures. During the noon hour Hamilton hurriedly packed a grip, and was back at the office without a minute lost, for he found a train leaving at a most advantageous hour, and by calling a taxi he was just able to catch it.

At breakfast the following morning, the conversation turned upon immigration, and Hamilton read in a newspaper the statement that two large liners were in New York harbor and would dock that morning, that each carried a record passenger list of immigrants, and that Ellis Island was making preparations for a busy day.

"I've never seen Ellis Island," the boy announced "Father, do you know if visitors are allowed over there?"

"I'm fairly sure of it," his father replied, "but in any case there ought to be no trouble for you, since the Bureau of the Census is a part of the Department of Commerce and Labor, just as is the Bureau of Immigration."

"I think I'd like to go."

"I think you ought to go," his father said. "Taking up the population business, you ought to try to get hold of all the information you can, ahead of time. I have been there several times, on business, and it is a most interesting place."

Accordingly, the eleven o'clock boat from the Barge Office, New York,—a pier near Castle Garden, the historic immigration station,—carried Hamilton to the famous Ellis Island. Preferring his request, the lad speedily found himself in the presence of the Commissioner. He stated his wants briefly.

"Mr. Commissioner," he said, "I'm an assistant agent of the Census Bureau in Washington, and I'm just going to my station as an enumerator for the population. I have two days in New York and I'd like to learn how things are done on the Island here. May I have a pass?"

The Commissioner answered briefly.

"Read this," he said, taking a sheaf of manuscript out of the drawer of his desk, "and here's a short review for the use of visitors, and I'll send you in to the Chief Clerk to get a pass, and if there's anything more you want, let me know." He touched a bell. "Show this gentleman to Mr. Tuckman, and let him be given a special pass," he said,—and Hamilton was ushered out promptly, thinking as he went that this was evidently one place where time was not wasted.

The Chief Clerk was equally ready to assist the lad, and armed with his special pass he started round the building, finding himself practically free of the island. Hamilton possessed the capacity of making friends readily, and with his alert manner and direct appeal, he usually secured attention. Walking sharply through the place he soon found himself down in what was called the Information Division. For the moment one of the clerks was not busy, and Hamilton, stepping up to him, began to ply him with questions. A tall young fellow, who was standing nearby, listened for a few moments, then turned to Hamilton.

"See here," he said, "you can't learn much about Ellis Island just by asking questions, you've got to go around and see for yourself."

"That's just what I propose doing," Hamilton answered, "but I thought it wouldn't be such a bad plan to get an idea of things first, and then I should understand what I saw. There's not much use in watching things unless you understand just what's going on. I have some knowledge of it, of course, because the Commissioner gave me some reading matter to look over, and I've got a special pass, so that I want to make the best use of it."

"Suppose you come along with me, then," said his new acquaintance, who was none other than the Chief of the Information Division, "and I'll show you round myself as far as I can spare the time. It so happens that there are a lot of scattering things I want to look after through the building to-day, and if you don't mind my leaving you alone, once in a while, I'll take you through systematically. Where do you want to begin?"

"Right at the very start," rejoined Hamilton "I always think the beginning is the most important part, and I'd hate to lose any of it."

"All right," said his conductor good-humoredly; "if you want it all, you shall have it. I notice, too," he said, as they walked along the hall and out of the door to the well-kept lawns that stretch between the main building and the sea wall, "that you're in good time, for there's a barge just pulling in."

"The barge is from one of the liners that came in this morning, I suppose?" queried the lad.

"Yes, one of the Hamburg boats," his guide replied.

"Are those barges run by the immigration authorities?"

"No," was the answer, "those are owned or managed by the steamboat companies. They bring all the steerage passengers who can't show that they are citizens, and all the cabin passengers who are being detained."

"Cabin passengers," echoed Hamilton in surprise; "I didn't think any cabin passengers came to Ellis Island. All second cabin, I suppose?"

"Not a bit of it," answered the immigration official; "there's quite a sprinkling of first-class passengers as well. Why, during a period of three months recently, nearly three thousand cabin passengers were detained on the island here, and I suppose twenty per cent of them had come over in the first-class saloon."

"But why should any first-class passengers be stopped and shipped to Ellis Island?" queried the boy. "I don't understand. I thought Ellis Island was to keep out people who were paupers, or diseased, or were undesirable citizens!"

THE BIGGEST LINER IN THE WORLD COMING IN. Ocean steamship with thousands of immigrants on board entering New York harbor; the Statue of Liberty in the distance. (Brown Bros.)

"That's just exactly what it is for," the other replied, "but the United States government doesn't think that having money enough to pay for a first-class passage makes every man a desirable citizen! A first-class berth is no insurance against an incurable disease, for example, and there's nothing to prevent a criminal from coming over in the first cabin." He laughed. "Most of them do, I think," he said.

"It really never appealed to me just that way," the boy remarked; "I supposed always that first-class passengers went right through if they passed quarantine."

"That would mix things up," the older man said. "Why, in that case we should have all the mentally deficient, all the paupers, and all the freaks landing here in shoals. Any group of friends, or any government, for that matter, would find it cheap and easy to dump all the public charges of Europe on our shores for the price of a first-class ticket. Oh, no, that would never do. Once in a while, you hear passengers on the big liners complaining of the inquiries made before they land, but it's got to be done. You can see for yourself what would happen if we didn't."

"But if they bring plenty of money, they would not become public charges."

"No, and we can't exclude them on that ground. But money, for example, has nothing to do with crime or anarchism or things of that sort. I tell you, there's a big slice of our work done before ever a vessel reaches her dock at a New York pier. Of course, problems do come up nearly every day, such as circus freaks, for instance."

"You mean the living skeleton, the tattooed lady, the fat baby, the giant, and so forth?" asked Hamilton.

"Exactly. Are those people to be considered desirable citizens, or not? There is no question as to their inability to make a living by any customary kind of work, but on the other hand it is very difficult to prove that they could not get good money at a sideshow. If, however, they are able to show that they have been engaged in Europe by an American circus manager, they can come under the alien contract labor law."

"Then this string of people," said Hamilton, pointing to those who had just been unloaded from the barge, "may be from all classes of the ship."

"They might be," his guide replied, "but the chances are that they are all steerage. Cabin passengers that are detained usually come on the last boat, with the inspector. We have quarters here with a little more privacy for them, and they are kept together. But now watch this line. Suppose we go this way," and stepping over a low iron railing, the official, followed by Hamilton, walked briskly up beside the line. A few yards from the door of the building, this line of people passed into a long barred lane. At the entrance of this stood an inspector who checked off the large ticket each immigrant had pinned on him to show his identity, in order to prevent confusion further on. Passing before the inspector at brief but regularly measured intervals, the immigrants walked one by one up this barred lane to where it made a right angle.

"There's the first inspecting doctor," said Hamilton's conductor, pointing to a man standing just at the angle and watching carefully each immigrant as he walked up. After a moment Hamilton turned to his companion in surprise:

"But he isn't doing anything!" he said.

"Doctor," said the chief of the division, with a laugh, "I am afraid we shall have to investigate this matter. Here is a lad who says that you're doing nothing. He's watched you for a couple of minutes and you haven't made a move."

Hamilton began to protest, but the big doctor only laughed in reply, without taking his eyes, however, from the procession of figures which one by one walked up to him and made the turn round the angle.

"If he'll wait a minute or two more," he said, "perhaps I'll have a chance to do something, and save my reputation."

There was a pause; then the doctor continued:

"I think there's something doing now; watch this man coming up."

"He seems to limp just the merest trifle, that's all I can see," the boy replied.

"Bone disease of some kind, or maybe joint," the doctor said, "tuberculous hip, like as not," and as the man passed by he leaned forward and chalked a big "B" on the shoulder of his coat. "'B' for Bones," the doctor explained to Hamilton.

"What will happen to him?" asked the boy of the immigration official.

"Because of that mark?"

"Yes, sir."

"It simply means that he will be held for 'special inquiry.' He may be all right, but before he is passed, he will have to be examined physically—a thorough physical examination, I mean. Now here, you see, is another doctor."

Eight or ten yards further on stood another man, all in white as the first had been, who took up the inspection where the judge of bone malformations had left off. A sunken chest, he explained to Hamilton, a hectic flush, a pinched nostril, an evident difficulty in breathing, a certain carriage of the head, a blueness of the lips, certain types of pallor, all these and a number of little points which experience had shown to be symptoms of organic disease his trained eye could detect at a glance, and he, too, every few minutes, stooped forward and chalked upon the coat of the man or the blouse of the woman, as the case might be, a letter which told of a suspected disease.

"I suppose I ought not to say anything," said Hamilton, "but that looks a little 'hit-or-miss' to me. It's hard on an immigrant to be detained on the basis of a medical examination that barely takes ten seconds."

"If that were all," said the official, smiling, "it surely would be a hardship. But you don't quite get the point. All these passengers really are detained, and this arrangement is only a way to render the detention shorter by letting those go through unchecked who do not need further examination. This is not to delay the suspects, but to cause less trouble to the others. Here, however is where most of them get stopped."

He pointed to another doctor, standing close to the last, who examined the eyes quickly and deftly (principally for a chronic and contagious disease called "trachoma"), scrupulously cleansing fingers and instrument between each immigrant.

Passing the eye doctors the immigrants came to an inspector who stood at a place where a large grating was built midway in the passage, dividing it into two parts. All those who had been marked by any of the doctors, and, in the cases of families, all those in the party of any one so marked, passed up the right hand passage which led to the Special Inquiry; the others were guided to the left hand side of the grating, which led directly into the main primary inspection room.

"Do you suppose they understand anything of the meaning of that division," asked Hamilton, "why some go on this side and some on the other!"

"They don't at all," was the reply. "You will notice that there are no signs up, and that no attempt is made—at this point—to talk to the immigrant or to try to make him understand anything. Then, too, since all the members of a family or party are kept together, there is no reason why they should make a disturbance. They simply go where they are sent. If we separated the families, sending some on one side and some on the other, then there would be trouble!"

"That's true," said Hamilton, "in many cases they couldn't read the signs, and they don't know at all what the doctors' marks mean."

"Exactly, and once past the inspector, there is no getting out or coming back, for the two passages lead directly into two series of rooms from which there is no outlet except in a given direction."

"But the others who are all right,—where do they go?" asked the boy.

"They're not safe yet," his conductor answered "They have only passed a preliminary looking over. All that this first group of doctors does, remember, is to detect the questionable or to pass the obviously unquestionable—whichever way you like to put it, and thus avoid delay in the primary inspection room."

"Which group are we going to see first?"

"Those who have been passed," was the reply, "because most of them will go right out, and you can follow that more easily."

Going up the stairs, Hamilton found himself in an immense room all divided up into little lanes by bars and gratings. Each of these lanes bore a large number suspended over its entrance, corresponding to the number of one of the manifest sheets of the vessel, and likewise to the number pinned on the clothing of every immigrant while he was still on the vessel, when his name was tallied with the manifest sheet.

"I see the reason of those numbers they have pinned on them now," said Hamilton, "it's all the same principle, to avoid talk and questioning."

"Certainly," his friend said, "and if you look a little closely, you will see that in addition to the big number on the card that is pinned on, there is also a smaller number."

"I had noticed that," Hamilton answered, "and I was going to ask you what it was for."

"That is the number of the name on the manifest sheet," the other replied. "Thus, for example if Giordano Bruno is the tenth name on the seventh manifest sheet, this man at the top of the stairs will guide him into aisle number seven. Then, when his turn comes and he has moved up to the desk at the end of the line, the inspector doesn't have to waste time questioning him, and finding the place on the manifest sheet. He looks at the number, runs his finger down to the tenth name, and has him at once."

"It's a great system," said Hamilton admiringly.

"Why you're right at the start of it," said the official with a laugh; "wait till you get further on, if you want to find system."

"Here I see, too, the questioning begins," remarked Hamilton.

"Yes, some of the inspectors at the desk know several languages, and they are assisted by interpreters when necessary. They hold a responsible position, because they can decide to let an alien land. You see they ask the immigrant the same questions that are on the manifest sheet. If the answers tally all the way through, if the man understands and gives an apparently straight story, if he has a sufficiency of funds to keep him until he has a chance to get work, and especially if he has already a railroad ticket to friends at some inland point, he is given a blue ticket and allowed to pass directly through to the right into the railroad waiting rooms."

"But if he hasn't?"

"Then he goes down this passage which leads again to the special inquiry rooms where you saw the others going. He is given a different colored ticket, in accordance with the expected objection. You see, the inspector does not attempt to pass upon the merits of the case. He just affirms that the passenger has not made his title clear. Just as before, the aim is to enable the desirable immigrant to land as quickly and easily as possible. Supposing there were no crowd, an immigrant could land on the wharf, be looked over by the doctors, pass through the primary inspection, answer all questions, and be in the railroad waiting rooms ready for his train in less than four minutes. That's not much of a hardship!"

"It certainly isn't," Hamilton agreed. "And I notice that most of them seem entitled to land."

"That varies a great deal," his guide said. "I think it averages about ninety per cent. In a few ships, especially those handling little of the Continental traffic, those held for special inquiry drop as low as five per cent, while for the vessels bringing immigrants from southern and eastern Europe, the proportion held will rise to nearly one-third of the entire passenger list."

"All right," said Hamilton in a satisfied tone, "I guess I have that straight. But I notice there is a third stream of people. One, you say, is going to the railroad waiting rooms, one down to special inquiry, but how about the third?"

"That's the 'temporary detention' group. I'll take you there in a minute, but let us finish up with the man who is to be admitted. Here is the railroad waiting room."

A few feet further on Hamilton found an immense room, like a railroad ticket office, where tickets could be bought for any railroad or steamship route to any point in the United States or Canada. A money-changing booth was in the place, where foreign money could be turned into United States currency at the exact quotation for the day, even down to the fractions of a cent.

"Why are they pinning on more tickets?" asked Hamilton. "I thought when they took off the tickets upstairs that would be the end of it."

"That also is to make it easier for them," the other said. "Most of these people are poor, and we try to make traveling as cheap for them as possible. Nearly all the railroads run one train each day that carries special cars for the immigrant service. They give, accordingly, a cheaper rate to the government. Supposing, for example, that the regular number of the Lehigh Valley train was always numbered '9,' then every man who purchased a ticket for a point on the Lehigh Valley would be given the ticket '9.' Then, when the boat that was taking the passengers for Lehigh Valley points left Ellis Island, all the 9's would be gathered together and no one would be left behind."

"Nothing seems to have been forgotten," said Hamilton, "even food, for I see there's a big counter over there."

"That's quite a thing, too," the other said. "A man can get two days' food, six meals, for a dollar, or a little over sixteen cents a meal."

"And what in the wide world can he buy for that price?" exclaimed the boy.

"Here's a sample of the contents of one box," the other said; "read it, it tells you what there is. 'Four loaves of bread, two pounds of cooked beans, twelve ounces of sausage, one can of beef, one can of sardines, six ham sandwiches, three pies, and four oranges.' I'm sure you wouldn't starve on that."

"No," said Hamilton, "I think I could get along if I ate it all. But why is it that most of the immigrants here are men? Have the women been lost in the shuffle?"

The immigration official laughed.

"They're not lost," he said, "most of the women pass through the 'temporary detention' rooms. We're going to visit there now. Of course there are some women who will be able to take the train directly, but we try to see that they go with some one, or that their being met is assured. The tickets pinned on them are not given until an inspector has seen their railroad tickets, and they do not land in New York streets at all. A boat takes each group to the railroad pier, and they are escorted to the train by an inspector, who places them in charge of the conductor who is responsible for their arrival at their destination. Nearly all go West or South and start from the Jersey side. It is an entirely different matter with women and children who want to land in New York City. In every case they are detained until called for by some relative. And that relative has to prove to us that he really is the relative in question."

"How do they meet?"

"I'll show you right now. In this room," he continued, entering another large waiting room, "are all the people 'temporarily detained.' Most of them will he released shortly. If you listen you can hear just how it is done, because that clerk who has just come in has a list."

As he spoke a young fellow stepped forward and read a list of nine names. Seven of the nine were in the room and came to the front, the clerk ticking off their names on the sheet.

"Can we go on?" asked Hamilton. "I would like to see just how this works!"

"All right," responded his guide, smiling at the boy's eagerness, "go ahead."

As they reached the next room, Hamilton saw the clerk ushering the seven immigrants behind a grating. Outside the grate was a narrow open space and then a desk. On the farther side of the desk the friends of the seven in question were waiting. There was one lad, just about his own age, among the friends, and Hamilton waited curiously to see whom he was to meet. Among the immigrants was a sweet-faced old Frenchwoman, and Hamilton hoped that she might be the lad's relative. As it chanced, this boy was the first to come up.

IMMIGRATION STATION, ELLIS ISLAND. The greatest center of racial activity in the world, where a million aliens yearly pass through to American citizenship. (Courtesy of U.S. Immigration Station, Ellis Island.)

"For whom are you calling?" he was asked.

The young lad answered clearly and promptly, and the clerk nodded approvingly as the questions proceeded.

"You say you have an older brother," the clerk said, "and the two of you are able to keep your grandmother?"

"Yes, indeed, sir," was the reply.

"You are young to have come. Why didn't your brother come instead?"

"He has been a waiter in a French hotel," answered the boy, "and has not learned much English He asked me to come."

A few short, sharp queries established the relationship without question and the boy was released from the desk. The door in the grating was opened, and to Hamilton's delight it was the old Frenchwoman who came out. After a most affectionate greeting, they went off together, the boy coming back to thank the clerk profusely, with true French courtesy.

"I suppose all that is necessary," said Hamilton "but I'll admit I don't see why. No one would be likely to call for some one else's grandmother!"

"We want to be sure that women who land here are really with their own people," said the official, evading a more direct statement, "and sometimes if the chief of the 'temporary detention' work is not satisfied, the immigrant is sent back to 'special inquiry.'"

"How long are they detained?"

"Nearly all go out the same day. A few, however, have to telegraph for their friends to meet them, and we look after that on their behalf. They are never temporarily detained over five days, except in the case where a child has been held in quarantine and some member of the family has to remain until the patient is released in order to take charge of him. That covers, you see, all those who come here except the 'special inquiry' cases."

"May I see those?" asked Hamilton.

"That's not so easy," his friend replied, "and you wouldn't get much out of it. They are handled, one by one, in Courts of Special Inquiry, each court consisting of three inspectors, an interpreter, and a stenographer, while doctors are always on call. Special Inquiry, remember, does not mean that there is any reason for excluding the immigrant, merely that his inclusion is not self-evident. In most cases, answers to a few questions settle all difficulties, and the decisions to exclude are rare. In doubtful cases, a Court of Special Inquiry takes great pains to investigate the whole condition closely. When a decision to exclude is reached, the immigrant is given an opportunity to 'appeal' to the Commissioner, and these appeals vary from fifteen to seventy a day. Further appeals may be taken in rare cases."

"And when all appeals are lost?"

"Then the immigrant must be deported at the expense of the steamship company that brought him."

"What are the usual grounds for deportation?" asked Hamilton.

"Principally persons of unsound mind, insane, diseased, paupers likely to become a public charge, criminals, anarchists, contract laborers, and those who by physical defect are unable to make a living."

"It seems to me that you go to a great deal of trouble here," Hamilton said, "and it must be a big expense keeping and looking after such a mob of people."

"We don't pay for their keep," the official answered; "we make the steamship companies do that. They are expected to bring desirable, not undesirable immigrants here, and if they bring people whom we cannot accept, they must take the consequences and bear the expense of deporting them. Our deporting division looks after that, and it is one of the hardest parts of our work. We've a pathetic case there now."

"You mean that Bridget Mahoney case," said an inspector, who had just stepped up. "I beg your pardon for interrupting, but I was just going to ask you to come and see about that case. There are some new developments."

"I'll go right in," said Hamilton's guide interestedly. "I think you might come along, too," he added, turning to the boy.

"Who is Bridget Mahoney?" Hamilton asked. "That's a good old Irish name."

"And she's a good old Irish soul," the other answered. "She landed here about three weeks ago, fully expecting her son to meet her, but during the five days when she was in temporary detention he failed to show up."

"But why didn't you telegraph to the son?" asked Hamilton, who was beginning to feel as though he knew all the ropes.

"We couldn't find his right address."

"Was he a traveling man?"

"It wasn't that. The woman said she knew he lived in a town called Johnson, or Johnston, or something like that, but she didn't know in what State. Now there are nearly forty post-offices with that name in America, and we sent telegrams or letters to every one of these. But we never received a definite reply."

"Well, if she's all right, as you say she is," said Hamilton, "why can't she land and wait until her son is reached?"

"Bridget's over seventy," the chief replied, "and not very strong; she'd be a public charge, sure."

"And yet she's all right?"

"Oh, perfectly," he said as soon as they reached the building.

"We got this telegram yesterday and I took it to your office this morning," the newcomer answered, "to talk it over with you, but you weren't there."

The chief of the Information Division glanced at the telegram and then turned it over to Hamilton.

"Read that," he said. "That's the way it came, without signature or anything."

Hamilton read it eagerly, and as soon as he had finished, "that's from Bridget Mahoney's son," he announced, with as absolute assurance as though it had been signed.

The deportation official looked up in surprise, but Hamilton's guide made a hasty explanatory introduction.

"We should like to be as sure as you are," said the deportation chief, "although I think we all rather hope it is from him. But you see it isn't dated Johnstown or anything like that, and it isn't signed. Just simply the words:

"'Don't—deport—my—old—mother.'"

"If you notice," he continued, "it comes from away out West, and it might apply to any one of thousands of cases. 'My Old Mother' might have been deported weeks ago."

"But this is yesterday's wire," Hamilton's friend interjected, "you said there were new developments in the case."

"There are," Farrell replied, drawing another telegram out of his pocket. "This one came this morning, and it's just about as intelligent as the one you have. Notice, though, that it's dated from Chicago early yesterday evening."

"What does it say?" burst out Hamilton, too eager to wait until it was read.

"It's very short," was the answer, "it just reads:

"'—Hold—Mother—'"

"Unsigned?"

"Unsigned, just as before."

"It must be from the same person," Hamilton suggested.

"I think there's little doubt of that," the deportation chief agreed.

"Whoever sent it must be traveling fast," the boy remarked, "that last one was from Montana."

"I've been doing my best to persuade myself that I have the right to keep Bridget longer. Twice I've begged an extra stay from the Commissioner, and he's been willing to consent, but he thinks she's got to go back now. There's really no valid reason that I can give against it."

As they walked toward the desk in the deporting division, one of the clerks called the chief. He came back a moment or two later with a telegram in his hand.

"A third one," he said, "it must have come while I was out at lunch. The same person wrote all three, for this is almost the same as the first; it reads:

"'—Don't—deport—my—old—Mother—I—have—plenty—to—support—her—'"

"Where's it dated from?" asked the boy.

"I hadn't noticed," the deportation chief replied. "Oh, yes, why it's from Albany!"

"That's pretty near here!" Hamilton said excitedly. "Oh, Mr. Farrell, what time was that sent?"

"Quarter to twelve."

"Whoever sent it ought to be here by now! Mr. Farrell, I'm just as sure as can be that is from Bridget Mahoney's son."

"If it is, he may reach here in time," the other answered, "but it will mean a great deal of trouble, because the boat sails early in the morning long before the office here is open, and the deported aliens go on board to-night. Indeed they are going now—-if they haven't gone."

"And Bridget with them?"

"Yes, I'm sorry to say Bridget is with them." He strolled to the window. "No," he continued, "they haven't gone yet, but they will in a few minutes."

"Could I see her before she goes?"

"What for?"

"Just to cheer her up a bit," pleaded the boy.

The two men looked at each other, and Hamilton's new acquaintance nodded.

"You won't say anything about these telegrams," the chief warned him.

"No—very well," said Hamilton, "but it seems a shame that she doesn't know."

The three passed through the door to the yard beside the lawns, and there Hamilton encountered one of the most desolate groups he had ever seen, sitting and standing in all attitudes of dejection. Among them was a little old lady with snow-white hair, walking with a stick, but clear-eyed and brisk-looking.

"You're Mrs. Mahoney?" the boy asked.

"I'm Bridget Mahoney, young masther," the old Irishwoman answered, "at your service, sorr."

"I hear you haven't found your son yet," Hamilton said; "did you write to him before you left the old country?"

"I did, dear, but I intoirely disremember what I did wid the letther. I know I intinded to give it to Mickey O'Murry, but I'll niver tell ye whether I did give it to him, an' if I did, there's no knowin' av he posted it. 'Tis a difficult thing to remember, this letther-postin' and maybe he forgot."

"But what did you write on the envelope? Can't you remember what you wrote?"

"'Tis I that am the poor hand for writin', young masther, but there was no schoolin' when I was a gurrl such as there is now. Jim, that's me son, he makes shift to read me writin', but he always sinds me a written envelope to put me answer in so that the postman can read it. An' so I niver learnt the address. I thought, av course, he'd be here. But he isn't, dear, an' so I must thravel all the weary way home again."

"But you don't sail till morning," said Hamilton, as cheerfully as he could, "and maybe he'll come by then. I have a feeling, Mrs. Mahoney, that he's just surely going to come."

"I'm not thinkin' it," the old woman said bravely, "but I take it kindly, young masther, that ye should thry an' make the goin' easy. But it isn't easy, 'tis a hard returnin'. An' me so proud that me son should send for his ould mother. 'Tis a great country this America, but it's too big. I'd niver 'ave lost me Jim in the ould country. I see they're callin' us, an' I wish ye an ould woman's blessin', young masther, for your cheerin' me at the last."

With a certain dignity, the old woman turned away and shook hands with all the officials, with whom she had become a favorite during the three weeks of her stay. Hamilton just ached to be able to do something, to tell the Commissioner of the later telegrams, to appeal to the department, to make some wild effort, but the actuality of the group for deportation slowly making their way to the barge showed him the folly of any such ideas. He roused himself, just as the friendly official who had been his guide turned round with outstretched hand.

"I think you have seen it all now," he said, "and as the boat from New York is just pulling in, you'll have plenty of time to board her."

Hamilton thanked his conductor warmly, and with a final look at the group about to be deported, the last few stragglers of whom were making their way toward the barge, he started along the wharf in the direction of the New York boat. He was on the opposite side of the ship and had to walk round, but, as his friend had said, there was plenty of time. He had a good view of the boat as she landed.

The minute the bow touched the quay, before the mooring chains were on, a middle-aged man who had been standing in the front of the boat, leaped the light chain that runs waist high across the bow, and started on a dead run up the bridge to the shore. One of the inspectors tried to stop him, but he cried, as he went past:

"I'm going to the Commissioner's office. Don't stop me. I'm in a hurry."

Hamilton could just hear him, and it struck the boy as unnecessary for the man to say he was in a hurry, for he showed it clearly enough. But just before the runner reached him a sudden thought flashed into the boy's mind.

"Are you Jim Mahoney?" he called, just as the man swept by.

"Yes," answered the other, scarcely slackening speed and passing him.

Hamilton wheeled on the instant, and caught up to him in a few steps, for the other man was older, not in training, and getting out of breath.

"You'll do it, don't worry," the boy said, as he overtook him, running along beside him. "I was talking to your mother a few minutes ago and she was all right. But she was just starting for the steamer then. There's not a second to lose."

"What shall I do?" puffed the other.

"Go in there, by that door marked 'Information.' Tell them who you are and they'll fix things up in a hurry. Then go up and see the Commissioner. I'll go on and tell them at the boat."

Then, seeing that the man hesitated, he shouted:

"Go in there," and nudged him in the direction of the door.

As the man turned, Hamilton settled himself down to run. In a second he was at the landing. The tender had just cast off her ropes and was moving out.

"Bridget," he cried, and his voice rang high and clear above the dripping of the water from the cable, the creaking of the wheel as it swung round, and the churning of the screw. "Bridget, Bridget Mahoney, Jim's here!"

The captain came to the window of the pilot house and called back:

"What's that?"

"Bridget!" he shouted again. "Bridget Mahoney's Jim's here!"

There was a pause, the captain not seeming to understand the situation, but a cheer went up from the deportation officials on board and from some of the tender's crew who knew; and the cry ran along the decks:

"Bridget, Bridget Mahoney! Jim's here!"

WHERE THE WORKERS COME FROM. Family of German immigrants, passing through Ellis Island on their way to the Middle West. (Courtesy of U.S. Immigration Station, Ellis Island.)

CHAPTER VI

THE NEGRO CENSUS FROM THE SADDLE

Leaving New York the next day after his visit to the Immigration Station on Ellis Island, Hamilton stayed only a few hours in Washington to receive final instructions before proceeding to the southwestern part of Kentucky where his work as a population census-taker was to begin.

At the appointed place he found the supervisor awaiting him.

"I suppose you know," remarked his brother's friend, shaking hands, "that I've given you a fairly well scattered district to cover. You said you wanted to get a chance to see Kentucky as it really is, and this, together with your mountain experience, ought to give you variety enough."

"They told me in Washington that it was largely a negro district?" the boy said questioningly.

"It is about as much of a black district as any in Kentucky," was the reply, "but it isn't solid black by any means. Therein lies its interest. The negroes are of all varieties, from old-time slaves who have never left the plantation on which they were piccaninnies during the war, to progressive negroes owning fair-sized tracts of land, most of them still living in the one-room shacks that you see all over the country, but a few having bought what used to be the 'big house' in antebellum days."