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Show II 1 Saved by a "Special." ii thht it was impossible that he could have had anything to do with the killing of Paxton." Poor Sandy! "That's what ccmes ol trifling with tiie truth," he groaned. "If Dan Poul-ter Poul-ter did kill that man I am his accomplice accom-plice in crime, for that mistake of mine is shielding him from justice." And to make matters worse he remembered re-membered that the horse-trainer was a man of fiery temper a man who was always ready to fight if he believed be-lieved himself imposed upon. For many days Sandy's mind was a whirlpool of troubled thought. "Would it do anybody any good to tell the truth about that feature story? Would it do anybody any harm? Yes, it was bound to do somebody harm, no matter what bearing it might have on the murder case. It would do Sandy San-dy harm. For Sandy would be dismissed. dis-missed. He sat gloomily at his desk. At last, with a quick, nervous movement, he pushed pens, ink, and paper away from him. "No use! No use!" he muttered, starting to his feet. "I can't write. It's all up with me. I'll go and tell the chief the whole wretched truth make a clean breast of it. What's Dan Poulter to me? I'll just " But at this point he sat down again very suddenly. For who should walk into the room at that moment but Dan Poulter himself! The horse-trainer, without a word, extended his hand. Sandy grasped it hesitatingly. Then Poulter drew up a chair, and sat down beside the reporter. re-porter. "Sandy," he said, "you're the most magnificent diplomatist in the country, and I admire you immensely. You and your stupendous prevarications have done me an inestimable service. I am as innocent of that crime as you are. I never shot Paxton." As the horse-trainer uttered these words he became as solemn as a judge. "Now, listen, Sandy. I was In Burton Bur-ton on the morning of that murder. Nobody knew I was there but.my partner, part-ner, for I was ill in bed. When that sad business occurred I knew that I would be suspected. I laid low. Then my attention was called to that story of yours which was going the rounds of the newspapers that story about the jockey who rode asleep, in which you stated a trick of your trade, I suppose that I was in thi3 town on the 2d of March. Sandy," and the horse-trainer paused long enough to send another cloud of tobacco-smoke on a journey to the ceiling, "that story was my salvation. And just before I lelt Plymouth I heard they'd got the man who did it. "Last week I won five thousand on Johnson's three-yea-old Billy Boy. By George, Sandy, 'that horse is a wonder! won-der! Well, if it hadn't been for you I couldn't have won the money, for it's ten to one I'd have been in jail. Half that five thousand is yours by rights, Sandy, and there it is!" And he placed on Sandy's desk a bulky roll of crip banknotes. Wanted Some Data. I've read about the bootblack who Became a millionaire. And ever- after held his head High in the startled air; But, oh! I have not heard of him With millions on the lose. Who gradually got to be A peach at shining shoes! I've read about the office boy Who rose to be a king. And made the Wall street bulls and bears To suit his fancies swing: But who has yet immortalized, In tones of lyric Joy, The man who started at the top And quit an office boy? I've seen in magazines and such That John Smith, good and plain. Content with beer in early youth. Now bathes in old champagne; But, ay! perhaps you know some chap Who started out on wine, And now is mighty glad to get Plain beer at five a stein! 'Tls so through life; we hear about The clothes, the shoes, the hat. Of him who put his ante up Until he drew a pat; But what about the man who plunged And took it as it came. Until he played his last white chip And drew out of the game? fore and, I'm sure, has never published pub-lished since a better special article than that. The editor, true to his policy, pol-icy, had nothing to say by way of approval, ap-proval, but Sandy knew that he was pleased, nevertheless, and so were most of the staff. The next day the editor wished to see him. "Ah, Sanderson," began the editor, gazing sharply at the little reporter through his nose glasses, "where did you get that story of yours about the jockey who rode whilst asleep?" "Why, from the horse-trainer, Dan Poulter," he answered. The editor, picking up hli file of I. The editor had declared in emphatic terms that there must be a change for the better. "What the Thornton Daily Times needs above all else," he had ' Insisted, "is feature stuff local feature fea-ture stuff. We are getting all the news, but there's lots of good feature material in this town that's going to waste." And every reporter on the paper had to exert himself to his utmost ut-most toward attaining the much desired de-sired end. Sanderson, one of the "specials," felt that he was at the end of his string, a3 he expressed it, and when the editor requested him to prepare a good column col-umn feature for next Saturday's paper the little reporter's jaw dropped despairingly. de-spairingly. "What in the name of all that's green-eyed am I to do?" he groaned to himself. Sandy's desperate eye chanced to alight upon a big photograph leaning against a drawer of the sporting editor's edi-tor's desk a photograph of the cele-braced cele-braced race horse "Billy Boy." Quick as a flash of lightning Sandy remembered something, and the recollection recol-lection was as a life-preserver to a drowning man. He remembered the story of "The Jockey Who Rode Whilst Asleep," to quote the headline that appeared over his article in the Times on the following day. The story had been told him several years before, be-fore, and Sandy had never published It on account of a promise he had given a promise to wait until the jockey in question (an intimate friend of the trainer) had retired from the turf before making the matter public property. Sandy sat up in his chair very suddenly. sud-denly. "Dick!" he called across the room to the sporting editor, "what's become of the jockey Tommy Baxley?" "Dead," said the sporting editor. "Died last season." His typewriter was ready for business busi-ness in the twinkling of an eye. A good "special" at last! And without more ado he bent himself him-self to his job, and was soon tapping "1 am as innocent of that crime as you are." Times back numbers, next demanded: "And you wrote the story on the 2d day of March?" "I did," said Sandy. He was conscious con-scious that the eyes of two visitors were scrutinizing him closely. The editor had by this time come across the paper he wanted. "If you had an interview with Dan Poulter on March 2, there's no doubt, of course, that he was in town on March 2?" "Of course, there can be no doubt of it," he replied, without a blush. The editor turned to the two callers. "Is there anything that you would like to ask him, gentlemen?" he Inquired. In-quired. The man who held the paper, and who had been scanning the article in question, shook his head. "No," he said. "Thanks, Sanderson; that'll be about all." Sandy overheard the editor's query, "Are you satisfied, gentlemen?" and the answer of one of the men, "Yes, we're satisfied that we were on the wrong scent." II. Sandy was sorely puzzled. Who were the two strangers? But Sandy did not liave to wait long for enlightenment enlight-enment Judge of his state of mind when, three days later, he read the following telegraph news item: "The mystery surrounding the murder mur-der of the gambler James Paxton is growing deeper. It is understood that a well-known horse-trainer was suspected sus-pected of the crime. It will be remembered remem-bered that the murder occurred early in the morning of March 2. It now transpires that the man who was believed be-lieved to be the murderer was In another an-other town, over four hundred miles away, on the day of the tragedy, and "What in the name of all that's green-eyed green-eyed am I to do?" he groaned. out his afterward famous story of the jockey wno, being worn out on account ac-count of sitting awake for two nights by the bedside of his sick mother, went to sleep while riding In a great turf event and did not wake up until the race was lost. ' The Times had neyer published be- |