BRAMHOPE was strong on etiquette, and Jeff Crane was chafing mildly in the grip of Mrs. Grundy’s propriety restrictions. The day was Tuesday, the date the twenty-second of October. To-morrow Jeff was to be married at the little church in Paradise Corners to Ann Moore, and sundry excited females, who were grooming Ann for the event, had pointed out to Jeff that it was not strictly proper for a bridegroom-elect to see his bride-to-be from, say, the afternoon before the ceremony, until she burst on his enraptured vision as he stood awaiting her at the altar rail.By C. W. STEPHENS35 min
LORETTA MELTON gazed unappreciatively, and ever more and more apprehensively, at the wide expanse of brown prairie through which her train had been rolling westwards for the last thirty hours. There is a great deal of prairie in Canada between Eastern Manitoba and the Rockies, which is some nine hundred miles, and in a vague way the girl felt much as the Ohio farmer visiting New York for the first time, who asked: “What’s it all about?”By HARRY C. DOUGLAS32 min
“THREE, please, miss. First row, orchestra, if you have them.” The girl in the box office paused for the fraction of a minute to glance quizzically at the personable young man on the other side of the plate-glass wicket. “Say,” she inquired amiably, “what’s the big idea?By LESLIE GORDON BARNARD24 min
THE dazzling sun of an April day peeped into the laboratory windows and found Helen Dupont utterly bored. She sat amid what appeared to be the nucleus of a small glass factory, and enveloped in strange odours that arose from stranger looking liquids. She drew a long sigh.By MADGE MACBETH21 min
WHETHER one believes in the supernatural or not is of no consequence in the reading or writing of these experiences. Some strange things have occurred—and there may or may not be a plausible explanation of them. All I have to do is to say that there is full corroboration for any assertion made.By COL. GEORGE H. HAM20 min
IF HE had walked out of the pages of fiction he could not have looked the part to better advantage. This man, however, was no filmy plaything of a novelist’s fancy, but an Essex border whiskey-buccaneer in the flesh—very much so. I had been meandering about the most prominent Canadian booze-smuggling area on the Detroit River opposite Fighting Island for several hours and was taking my time about selecting the right man.By CHARLES CHRISTOPHER JENKINS20 min
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