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New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
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Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

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R >> RALPH CONNOR >> THE PROSPECTOR




"It's yours, aint it? Got your name on, anyway," said Ike. "Where
did you leave it?"

"Don't know," said Crawley, turning green with terror.

"Gentlemen," said Ike, addressing the crowd, "I aint agoin' to make
no speech to this jury, but I want to remark that this here blank
reptile is a blank liar, and if he aint a murderer 'taint his fault.
That there pouch of his," continued Ike, putting a long forefinger
down upon the article lying on the table, "that there pouch of his
was found by the 'Prospector,' as Perault calls him, beside that
there empty cache. That's all I have to say." And Ike turned and
walked slowly back to his seat.

In vain the trembling wretch tried first to bluster and then to
explain. Carroll was again summoned and affirmed emphatically that
he and Crawley had been separated for the greater part of one day,
and that while together they had not approached Mr. Macgregor's
camp.

"That will do, Carroll," said Sinclair quietly. "We believe you
entirely, and I would like to say that for my part I am mighty glad
that you are entirely freed from suspicion."

"That's so, you bet!" came from the men on all sides, as one by one
they stepped forward to shake Carroll warmly by the hand.

"Now, gentlemen," said Sinclair, "make your decision. This man,"
pointing to Crawley, "is charged with a serious crime. What is your
verdict?"

One by one the men threw into the hat on the table a bit of paper.
In silence Sinclair and The Kid read and recorded the ballots. When
they had finished Sinclair stood up, looking sternly at Crawley, and
said:

"Mr. Crawley, this Committee say unanimously that you are guilty.
Have you anything to say before sentence is pronounced?"

The wretched creature fell on his knees with tears and cries
entreating mercy.

"Take him away," said Sinclair sternly. "Now, gentlemen, what have
you to say? What shall be done to this man whom you have decided to
be guilty of murder?"

The discussion which followed was long and bitter. Sinclair and
those who had come more recently to the country were for handing him
over to the police.

"What's the good of that, Sinclair?" demanded Macnamara, one of the
old-timers.

"Well, he'll get justice sure; he'll get sent up."

"Don't know about that," said Ike. "You see, you can't prove
anything but stealin', and you can't prove that, for sure. They'll
take him down to Regina, and they aint going to give him much down
there for stealin' a little grub."

"Well, what do you propose?" said Sinclair.

"Well," said Ike, "hangin's too good for him. He ought to be hung,
but 'taint the custom in this here country, I understand, and I
surmise we'd better scare the daylights out of him and give him
twelve hours to get out."

After some further discussion Ike's proposition was accepted. That
night four masked men took Crawley out of the room where he had been
kept a prisoner and led him out of the village and up the trail to
the woods, and there, unheeding his prayers and cries and groans,
they made solemn preparations for his execution. In the midst of
their preparations Sinclair, with a number. of others, came
galloping up and demanded the prisoner's release, and after a long
and bitter discussion it was finally agreed that Crawley should be
given twelve hours to leave the country, which decision was joyfully
and tearfully accepted by the terror-stricken wretch.

"Hello, old man, there's a letter for you in my rooms. Thought
you'd be in to-day, so took care of it for you." Father Mike drew
near Shock's buckboard and greeted him cordially. "By Jove! what's
the matter with you? What have you been doing to yourself?" he
exclaimed, looking keenly into Shock's face.

"I am rather seedy," said Shock. "Played out, indeed." And he gave
Father Mike an account of his last week's experience.

"Great Caesar!" exclaimed Father Mike, "that was a close thing. Come
right along and stretch yourself out of my couch. A cup of tea will
do you good." Shock, gladly accepting the invitation, went with him.

"There's your letter," said Father Mike, as he set Shock in his deep
armchair. "You read it while I make tea."

The letter was, as Father Mike had said, a fat one. It was from his
Convener and ran thus:

"MY DEAR MR. MACGREGOR:"

"The enclosed letter from the Superintendent will explain itself.
You are instructed to withdraw forthwith your services from the
Fort. I know you will be disappointed. This is the sort of thing
that makes our work in the West depressing: not big blizzards nor
small grants, but failure on the part of Eastern men to understand
our needs and to appreciate the tremendous importance of these years
to the West. Never mind, our day will come. I regret greatly that
the Committee should have been influenced by the petition enclosed.
Do not let this worry you. The Superintendent's P. S. is due to some
misunderstanding. I have written him on this matter. We know some of
your difficulties and we have every confidence in you," etc., etc.

From the Superintendent's letter the Convener had enclosed the
following extracts:

"It has been decided to withdraw our services from the Fort. I had a
stiff fight in the Committee, but failed; they were all against me.
Dr. Macfarren especially so--had private information (from his
brother, I suppose); presented a petition, which find enclosed;
protested against the waste of funds, etc., etc. This precious
petition, by the way, seemed to influence the Committee greatly. I
need not tell you it failed to influence me, unless indeed as an
evidence of the need of our services in that place. You and I have
seen this sort of thing before in the West. Young Lloyd of the Park
Church, too, was eloquent in opposing--the old story, funds
overlapping, denominational rivalry. These young men, who decline to
face the frontier, would show better taste in seeking to learn
something of the West than in hampering those who are giving their
lives to this work. The upholstered seat of the Park Church pulpit
does not induce the liveliest sympathy with the Western conditions.
Meantime the Convener sits on the chest, and the rest of the
Committee seem to feel that their chief duty lies in cutting down
expenses and that the highest possible achievement is their meeting
the Assembly without a deficit."

"P.S.--Dr. Macfarren hinted a good deal at want of tact on the part
of our Missionary, and young Lloyd, who knows Macgregor, seemed to
consider this quite possible. Our Missionary must not antagonise men
unnecessarily. Send him this letter if you think well; I always like
to deal frankly with our men," etc., etc.

As Shook read the letters and glanced at the petition his look of
weariness passed away and the old scrimmage smile came back to his
face. "Read that," he said, handing the letters to Father Mike, who
read them in silence.

"Withdraw!" he exclaimed in astonishment when he had finished
reading. "And why, pray?"

"Oh! don't you see, 'funds overlapping, denominational rivalry'?"

"'Overlapping, rivalry,' rot! You cannot do my work here and I
cannot do yours. I say, this petition would be rich if it were not
so damnable," added Father Mike, glancing at the document.
"'Whereas, the town is amply supplied with church services there is
no desire for services by the Presbyterians'--or by any others for
that matter," interjected Father Mike. "Let us see who signs this
blessed paper? Macfarren. He's a beautiful churchman. Inspector
Haynes. What's he got to do with it? Frank, Smith, Crozier! Why, the
thing is a farce! Not a man of them ever goes to church. 'Whereas,
the Presbyterians are quite unable to assume any financial
obligation in support of a minister.' Why, the whole outfit doesn't
contribute a dollar a month. Isn't it preposterous, a beastly
humbug! Who is this young whipper-snapper, Lloyd, pray?" Father
Mike's tone was full of contempt.

Shock winced. His friend had touched the only, place left raw by the
letter. "He is a college friend of mine," he answered quickly. "A
fine fellow and a great preacher."

"Oh!" replied Father Mike drily. "I beg pardon. Well, what will you
do?"

"Withdraw," said Shock simply. "I haven't made it go, anyway."

"Rot!" said Father Mike, with great emphasis. "Macfarren doesn't
want you, and possibly the Inspector shares in that feeling,--I
guess you know why, but you are needed in this town, and needed
badly."

But Shock only replied "I shall withdraw. I have been rather a
failure, I guess. Let's talk no more about it."

"All right, old chap," said Father Mike. "Come along to tea. I wish
to Heaven there were more failures like you in the country."

Shock's last service at the Fort marked his emancipation as a
preacher of the Gospel. Hitherto the presence of those whom he knew
to be indifferent or contemptuously critical had wrought in him a
self-consciousness that confused his thought, clogged his emotion,
and hampered his speech. This night all was changed. The hall was
full; the Inspector and his wife, with the men from the barracks,
Macfarren and his followers, General Brady and his gracious, sweet-
faced wife, were all there. Ike and The Kid--whose ranch lay halfway
between the Lake and the Fort had ridden in, and far back in the dim
darkness of a corner sat the doctor. As Shock stood up and looked
into the faces of the men before him and thought of their lives,
lonely, tempted, frankly wicked, some of them far down in
degradation, he forgot himself, his success, or his failure. What
mattered that! How petty seemed now all his considerations for
himself! Men were before him who by reason of sin were in sore need
of help. He believed he had what they needed. How to give it to
them, that was the question. With this feeling of sympathy and
compassion, deepened and intensified by a poignant sense of failure,
Shock stood up to deliver to them his last message. He would speak
the truth to-night, and speak it he did, without a tinge of
embarrassment or fear. As his words began to flow he became
conscious of a new strength, of a new freedom, and the joy of his
new strength and freedom swept him along on a full tide of burning
speech. He abandoned his notes, from which he had hitherto feared to
be far separated; he left the desk, which had been to him a
barricade for defence, and stood up before the people. His theme was
the story of the leprous man who dared to come to the Great Healer
in all the hideousness of his disease and who was straightway
cleansed. After reading the words he stood facing them a few moments
in silence and then, without any manner of introduction, he began:

"That's what you want, men. You need to be made clean, you need to
be made strong." The people stared at him as if he had gone mad, it
was so unlike his usual formal, awkward self. Quietly, but with
intense and serious earnestness, he spoke to them of their sins,
their drunken orgies, their awful profanity, their disregard of
everything religious, their open vices and secret sins.

"Say," said Ike to The Kid, who sat next to him, "they'll be gettin'
out their guns sure!" But there was no anger in the faces lifted up
to the speaker; the matter was too serious for anger and the tone
was too kindly for offence. Without hesitation Shock went on with
his terribly relentless indictment of the men who sat before him.
Then, with a swift change of tone and thought, he cried in a voice
vibrating with compassion:

"And you cannot help it, men! The pity of it is, you cannot help it!
You cannot change your hearts; you love these things, you cannot
shake them off, they have grown upon you and have become your fixed
habits. Some of you have tried: I know you have had your periods of
remorse and you have sought to escape, but you have failed."

He paused a moment, and then continued in a voice humble and
remorseful:

"I have failed, too. I thought in my pride and my folly that I could
help you, but I have failed. We have failed together, men--what then
is before us?"

His voice took a deeper tone, his manner was earnestly respectful
and tenderly sympathetic, as he set before them the Divine Man, so
quick to sympathise, so ready and so powerful to help.

"He is the same to-night, men! Appeal to Him and He will respond as
He did to this poor leprous man."

Over and over again he urged this upon them, heaping argument upon
argument, seeking to persuade them that it was worth while making
the attempt.

"Say, boss, seems reasonable, don't it, and easy, too?" said Ike to
The Kid, who was listening with face pale and intent. The Kid nodded
without moving his eager eyes from the speaker's face.

"But I can't just git the throw, quite," continued Ike, with a
puzzled air.

"Hush, listen!" said The Kid sharply. Shock had paused abruptly. For
a few moments he stood looking into the eyes of the men gaping back
at him with such intense eagerness; then leaning forward a little he
said in a voice low, but thrilling with emotions:

"Does any man here think his father or mother has forgotten him or
does not care what happens to him?"

Shock was thinking of his own dear old mother, separated from him by
so many leagues of empty prairie, but so near to him in love and
sympathy.

"Does any man think so?" he repeated, "and do you think your Father
in Heaven does not care? Oh! do not think so!" His voice rose in a
cry of entreaty. The effect was tremendous.

"God in Heaven, help me!" cried The Kid to himself with a sob in his
voice.

"Me too, boss," said Ike gravely, putting his hand on the other's
knee.

Shock's farewell was as abrupt as his beginning. In a single
sentence he informed them that the services would be discontinued at
this end of the field. He wished he could have served them better;
he knew he had failed; he asked their forgiveness as he had already
asked it of his God; but, though he had failed, he commended them to
Him who had never failed any man appealing to Him for help.

There was no hymn, but in a simple, short prayer the service was
closed, and before the congregation had recovered from their
amazement Shock had passed out through the back door.

"Well, I'll be blanked!" said Ike, with a gasp.

"Quit that, Ike," said The Kid sharply. "Look here--I am going to
quit swearing right now, so help me."

"All right, boss, I'm with you; put it there."

Then above the hum of conversation General Brady's voice was heard:

"Gentlemen, it is my opinion that we have lost a great man to-night,
a fearless man and a Christian gentleman."

"That's my entire prognostication, General," said Ike, with great
emphasis.

Meantime Shock had gone searching through the hotels for the doctor,
whom he had seen slipping out before the closing prayer. But the
doctor was nowhere to be seen, and in despair Shock went to Father
Mike. He found that gentleman in a state of enthusiastic excitement.
"My dear fellow, my dear fellow," he exclaimed, "that was great!"

"What?" said Shock simply.

"That sermon, man. I would give my hand to preach like that."

"Preach?" said Shock. "I didn't preach. Did you see the doctor?"

"Never mind the doctor," said Father Mike. "Come in, I want to talk
with you; come in."

"No, I must see the doctor."

"Well, then, wait; I will go with you."

Shock hesitated. "I think I would rather go alone, if you don't
mind," he said.

"All right, old chap," said Father Mike, "I understand. The door's
always open and the kettle on."

"Thank you," said Shock. "You know how I appreciate that," and he
went out.

There was a light in Macfarren's office. Shock knocked at the door
and went in. He found the doctor and Macfarren seated by a table,
upon which were glasses and a bottle. The doctor was pale, nervous,
shaking.

"Sit down, Mr. Macgregor," said Macfarren, with more cordiality than
he had ever shown to Shock before.

"I was just saying to the doctor that that was a fine discourse, a
very able discourse, Mr. Macgregor."

Shock made no reply, but stood looking at the doctor.

"I would like to say," continued Macfarren, "that I regret your
leaving us. I believe, on the whole, it is a mistake; we require
preaching like that." There was a touch of real earnestness in
Macfarren's tone.

"Mr. Macfarren," said Shock, "I am sorry I have not been able to
help you. You need help, you need help badly. Jesus Christ can help
you. Goodnight." He took the doctor's arm and, helping him up,
walked off with him.

"What do you want?" said the doctor fiercely, when they were
outside.

"Doctor, I want your help. I feel weak."

"Weak! Great Heavens above! YOU talk of weakness? Don't mock me!"

"It is true, doctor; come along."

"Where are you going?" said the doctor.

"I don't know," said Shock. "Let us go to your office."

The doctor's office was a cheerless room, dusty, disordered, and
comfortless. The doctor sat down in a chair, laid his head on the
table, and groaned. "It is no good, it is no good. I tried, I tried
honestly. I prayed, I even hoped for a time--this is all gone I
broke my word, I betrayed my trust even to the dead. All is lost!"

"Doctor," said Shock quietly, "I wish that you would look at me and
tell me what's the matter with me. I cannot eat, I cannot sleep, and
yet I am weary. I feel weak and useless--cannot you help me?"

The doctor looked at him keenly. "You're not playing with me, are
you? No, by Jove! you are not. You do look bad--let me look at you."
His professional interest was aroused. He turned up the lamp and
examined Shock thoroughly.

"What have you been doing? What's the cause of this thing?" he
enquired, at length, as if he feared to ask.

Shock gave him an account of his ten days' experience in the
mountains, sparing nothing. The doctor listened in an agony of self-
reproach.

"It was my fault," he groaned, "it was all my fault."

"Not a word of that, doctor, please. It was not in your hands or in
mine. The Lost River is lost, not by any man's fault, but by the
will of God. Now, tell me, what do I need?"

"Nothing, nothing at all but rest and sleep. Rest; for a week," said
the doctor.

"Well, then," said Shock, "I want you to come and look after me for
a week. I need you; you need me; we'll help each other."

"Oh, God! Oh, God!" groaned the doctor, "what is the use? You know
there is no use."

"Doctor, I told you before that you are saying what is both false
and foolish."

"I remember," said the doctor bitterly. "You spoke of common sense
and honesty."

"Yes, and I say so again," replied Shock. "Common sense and honesty
is what you need. Listen--I am not going to preach, I am done with
that for to-night--but you know as well as I do that when a man
faces the right way God is ready to back him up. It is common sense
to bank on that, isn't it? Common sense, and nothing else. But I
want to say this, you've got to be honest with God. You've not been
fair. You say you've prayed--"

"God knows I have," said the doctor.

"Yes," said Shock, with a touch of scorn in his voice, "you've
prayed, and then you went into the same old places and with the same
old companions, and so you find yourself where you are to-night. You
cannot cure any man of disease if he breaks every regulation you
make when your back is turned. Give God a chance, that's all I ask.
Be decently square with Him. There's lots of mystery in religion,
but it is not there. Come along now, you are going home with me."

"No, sir," said the doctor decidedly. "I shall fight it out alone."

"Will you walk, or shall I carry you?" said Shock quietly.

The doctor gazed at him. "Oh, confound you!" he cried, "I'll"--He
stopped short and putting his face down upon the table again he
burst into a storm of sobs and cried, "Oh, I am weak, I am weak, let
me go, let me go, I am not worth it!"

Then Shock got down beside him, put his arm around his shoulder, and
said: "I cannot let you go, doctor. I want you. And your Father in
Heaven wants you. Come," he continued after a pause, "we'll win
yet."

For half an hour they walked the streets and then turned into Father
Mike's quarters.

"Father Mike," said Shock, opening the door, "we want coffee, and
I'm hungrier than I've been for three days."

"Come in," said Father Mike, with a keen glance at the doctor, "come
in, brother mine. You've earned your grub this day."




XVI

"STAY AT YOUR POST, LAD"


Relieved from his station at the Fort, Shock was able to devote
himself entirely to the western part of his field, which embraced
the Loon Lake district and extended twenty-five miles up to the
Pass, and he threw himself with redoubled energy into his work of
exploration and organisation. Long ago his little cayuse had been
found quite unequal to the task of keeping pace with the tremendous
energy of his driver, and so for the longer journeys Shock had come
to depend mainly upon Bob, the great rangey sorrel sent him by the
Hamilton boys, the only condition attached to the gift being that he
should allow Bob to visit the ranch at least once a month. And so it
came that Shock and his sorrel broncho became widely known over the
ranges of all that country. Many a little shack in far away valleys,
where a woman with her children lived in isolated seclusion from all
the world, he discovered and brought into touch with the world
about, and by means of books and magazines and illustrated papers
brought to hearts sick with longing some of the colour and
brightness from the great world beyond, so often fondly longed for.
Many a cowboy, wild and reckless, with every link of kin-ship
broken, an unrelated unit of humanity keeping lonely watch over his
bunch of cattle, found in Shock a friend, and established through
him anew a bond with human society. The hour spent with Shock in
riding around the cattle often brought to this bit of human
driftwood a new respect for himself, a new sense of responsibility
for life, and a new estimate of the worth of his manhood. Away up in
the Pass, too, where the miners lived and wrought under conditions
wretched, debasing, and fraught with danger, and where in the
forest-camps the lumbermen lived lives more wholesome, but more
lonely, Shock found scope for the full energy of his passion to help
and serve.

"A hospital is what they need up here, doctor!" he exclaimed one day
after they had made a tour through the shacks and bunks where men
sick and injured lay in their uncared for misery. "A hospital is
what they want, and some kind of a homelike place where they can
meet together. And by God's help we'll get this, too, when our hands
are somewhat free. We have all we can do for the next few weeks."
And so they had.

Shock had early recognised that the evils which were so rampant, and
that exercised such a baneful influence in the community, were due
not so much to any inherent love of vice as to the conditions under
which the men were forced to live. Life was a lonely thing on the
ranges, without colour, without variety, and men plunged into
debauchery from sheer desperate reaction from monotony. Shock
believed that, if there could be established a social centre
offering intellectual interest and physical recreation, much could
be done to banish the vices that were fast becoming imbedded in the
very life and character of the people. And so he planned the
erection of a building that would serve for church, manse, club-
house, schoolroom, and library, and would thus become a spot around
which the life of the community might gather in a clean and
wholesome atmosphere. He appealed to the Church Manse Building Fund
for a grant, he drew his plans for his building, and throughout the
summer quietly set about gathering his materials. One and another of
his friends he would persuade to haul a load of logs from the hills,
and with good-natured persistence he would get a day's work now and
again from the young fellows who frequently had more time on their
hands than they knew how to reasonably make use of, with the result
that before they were well aware of what was being done a log
building stood ready for the roofing and plaster. His success
stimulated his friends to more organised and continued effort. They
began to vie with each other in making contributions of work and
material for the new building. Macnamara furnished lime, Martin drew
sand, Sinclair and The Kid, who had the best horses and wagons, drew
lumber from the mill at the Fort; and by the time summer was gone
the building, roofed, chinked, and plastered, only required a few
finishing touches to be ready for the opening. Indeed, it was a most
creditable structure. It was a large, roomy, two-story building, the
downstairs of which was given up to a room to be devoted to public
uses. The upstairs Shock planned to contain four bed-rooms.

"What do you want of four bed-rooms, Mr. Prospector?" said Ike, as
they were laying out the space. "You can't sleep in more'n three of
'em at a time."

"No, but you can sleep in one, Ike, and some of the boys in another,
and I want one myself."

"Oh!" said Ike, much pleased. "Going to run a kind of stoppin'
place, are you?"

"Yes; I hope my friends will stop with me often."

"Guess you won't have much trouble with that side of it," said Ike.
"And this here room," he continued, "will do first rate for a kind
of lumber-room, provisions, and harness, and such like, I guess?"