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Chom, owned by Miss Freeman. Chom is also a superior animal, a trifle lighter in color perhaps, but posessing the eyes of blue. His “crest” too is quite proper, his ancestry sans reproche. It is interesting to note that all the Siamese stock on the Pacific Coast is owned by members of the Pacific Cat Club.

The largest Queen Angora on the Coast is Judy, the property of Mrs. Val Court. Coiled and in repose she suggests the thought of a giant snow-ball somehow gone astray and lodged in an out-of-the-way place. In soft and fluffy whiteness, Judy's furry coat rivals in purity the newly fallen flakes of virgin snow.

Fluff, owned by Mrs. Allen Abbott, is a large white Angora weighing twenty five rounds, with eyes of deepest blue. Fluff is not deaf—a rarity in blue-eye cats--and is the finest specimen of his class in the


"Friskerina" Owned by Mrs. A. H. Hoag, S. F. now owned in the United States who first saw light in the Imperial courts of the famous Palaces of these Eastern Potentates.

Direct descendent of imported Siamese stock is "Shulla,” owned by Miss Derrick, said to be a perfect specimen of this rare and highly prized species. She is pure chocolate in color, smooth and glossy of coat, with blue eyes. The “Arms” of this eminently aristocratic puss are two kinks couchant in a tail rampant, which in the Siamese Cats College of Heraldry is taken to denote that Shula is an offshoot of the American branch of this famous family tree, founded by an ancestor who emigrated to America in or about the year 1895.

Cousin, slightly removed, to Shulla, is


"Posey" Owned by Mrs. Harriett J. Martling, S. F. West. He is an expert hunter and in spite of the sure punishment which awaits his return, will strut away whenever opportunity affords in pursuit of birds and mice. He knows his transgression and his cat honor must be appeased by acknowledgment of his fault, which he does invariably by bringing his captures and depositing them entire at the feet of his mistress.

Mrs. McCabe's Doc is equally beautiful in a different style. Doc is a tiger Angora. His magnificent coat shades from tones of softest grey to a coal black. He has perfect tiger markings about the head. Although reared in the lap of luxury, Doc is rather

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land Norton. Omar resents the presence of cats of lesser birth, and is ready to wage war upon them. Like the great Caliph of Bagdad, from whom he is named, he strives to be ruler, and constant warfare has thus far marked his reign. Among the others is Pansy, Persian Tortoise, daughter of Don Quixote and Nunna, noted prize-winners, and Posey, Spanish Tortoise, daughter of Yarrow and Dorothy, while last but not least, is Quaker, the dean of the kennels, blue-gray

plebian in the choice of a chum, having shown a decided preference for a little common stray cat. During the morning hours they may be seen tumbling about on the cool greer. lawn until Doc is called in for his daily "siesta."

Another white Angora of special note is Middy, property of Mrs. A. H. Brod. Middy's eyes are a rare shade of deepest amber and his coat is long and silky. He is a very fastidious puss. His daily menu begins with cream, and he absolutely refuses to proceed with his dinner until he has been served with a raw oyster as an appetizer. Middy is descended from the Duke of Hawthorne.

The mascot of Mrs. A. H. Hoag's cattery is Nilo, for there is luck in black cats, and Nilo is black as a country lane on a stormy winter's night, with eyes bright, round and large as a newly coined half-eagle just from Uncle Sam's mint. The cattery is noted for good strains of tigers, of which Jester and Olive are excellent examples. Worthy of mention, also, is Buster, an imported white Persian owned by Mrs. Hoag.

Of the writer's pets, the most valued is Omar, a pure white Persian, son of the famous Royal, king of the kennels of Mrs. Le

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brej cats-nearly all imported during visits abroad. At present she has among her collection one that is very rare in color, a sort of fawn tinged with pink, and having eyes of deep orange. Her name is Formosa.

We are told that a cat may look at a king, but in these days of democratic manners, it has been the fashion of many kings to look at cats, and monarchs as well as subiects number specimens of the aristocratic felines among their most prized pets. The cat has made its way. It is fair to assume that no distant day will mark its position upon an equal footing with the best classes of pet

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quaint, whose kindly disposition has endeared him to all.

Among the flowers and palms of the sunny South the Maizie Kennels are found, fitted with every luxury conducive to the health and happiness of the happy cat family under its roof. There are sixteen in all, pure aristocrats, descendents from prize-winning stock, and brought from famous eastern kennels. Major, the king of the kennel, is a

of the blue-eyed white prize-winner King Sutro. Maizie, a tortoise shell, is the proud mother of five excellent kittens. Then there are four beauties sired by Royal Norton, and Black Dinah, a solid black Persian. Queen Bess is a magnificent white, with emerald eyes—directly imported from the land of the Shah. The Maizie Kennels are owned by Mrs. Payne of Los Angeles.

Mrs. H. H. Paxton of Healdsburg has for stock, in the affections of the people of all several years owned fine specimens of high- countries.

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FF with you! May God have mercy on your soul!”

The speaker pushed the skiff out into the current. The tightening of the hands that clutched the gunwales betrayed the agony which the impassive features of the occupant of the boat strove to hide. There were no oars, and the man's face was very white; yet among the crowds of men assembled on the banks of the river, not one offered assistance.

It was the Klondike's way of dealing with a murderer. If he managed to survive the perils of the Yukon in an open boat without oars, his life was his own-provided he did not show his face again in the vicinity. But the river was merciless. It was seldom that a wretch lived to recall the injunction,

"There he goes! See, the boat's caught in that eddy and is filling! He's baling with his hands. Child's play! How a man will fight for his life! It's settling now—you can hardly see it. There—it's gone! He's in the water trying to swim! Swedes all swim, but he can't in that water. Look! He's thrown up his hands! He's gone!

The man sank back in a vain effort to recall the events of the night before.

“It must have been something I did—but what? I was drinking with the boys in Pete's saloon, after we'd set that Swede adrift. What were we talking about? Oh, I remember now. Yes, yes, Archie was teasing Pete about that advertisement of his place in the 'Nugget.' He had the paper in his hand and he read out the ad, 'The only second class saloon in White Horse.' Then Pete got wild-couldn't see the joke at all. He was mad because Tom had put it in his paper without telling him. That's as clear as a bell, but afterwards—what happened afterwards? Did I quarrel with any one? Did I shoot?"

He felt for his revolver.

“It's gone! God in heaven, what did I do? Did I kill Pete or Archie that the boys set me adrift in an open boat as they did the man who killed his pardner? How struggled in the rapids after the boat upset! And I-I must have shot the rapids!”

He grasped a branch of the partly submerged tree against which the boat rested and tied the painter to it.

"If I could remember!” He held his head in his hands.

"Archie had the paper and he read out, ‘Go to Pete Smith's, the only second class saloon in White Horse.' Then Pete swore he'd fix Tom for printing it and I said—I said Tom was a friend of mine. Yes-yes, and then I said something about an attack. Oh, what did I say? Attack? Oh, I said


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That'll take him at least three hours. It will be dark before then and i'll slide down the river and try to get past Dawson without being seen. No—that's too dangerous. The boat's been seen and I'd better make for the shore as soon as it gets dusk and strike out across country. That's my best chance now.'. He groaned and struck his head a bow.

‘who attacks my friend attacks me.' That was it. I said that to Pete. And then I can't remember.”

He raised his head and looked up the river. An object on the current attracted his attention and he watched it as it grew larger. An eddy brought the plank within his reach. He seized it and prepared to skull ashore. A sudden thought stopped him.

"Where can I go? I can't go back to White Horse. I don't know what I've done."

He sank back helpless.

"I may have killed Pete or Archie or both. Maybe I fired the town. Maybe I ran amuck on the streets and shot men right and left. I was crazy with drink, and what man can tell what he'll do when he's crazy? They must be hunting me now. When they saw the boat didn't upset and I wasn't drowned, of course they'd go down the river to head me off if I should try to land. I might lie down in the bottom of the boat, drift to St. Michaels and get on board some ship. But the chances are I'd be drowned before I got half way there."

He lowered his head. "If I could remember! Archie had the paper reading about that advertisement. Then Pete abused Tom for printing it. Tom wasn't there and I defended him. How did I defend him? How? Oh!”

He glanced up the rirer.

"Why, there's another plank and another and there comes another! Planks are gold, too. Must be some one's sent them down stream after me. That's certain. Some one who saw I didn't upset has set them adrift, thinking I might get one. He tried to reach the plank, but his attention was caught by something on the river bank.

“What's that moving over there among the trees? It's a man!” He dropped flat in the bottom of the boat and lay staring at the sky, afraid to move lest his presence snould be discovered.

"He'll see the boat and he'll go to Fakaluk Camp and get a dugout to come after it.

“What was it I did ? Good Lord! What wouldn't I give for an answer to that! Must nave been murder. They wouldn't have set me adrift for nothing short of that.

I've got to get out of this or I'll go mad! The man's gone or else he's hiding. I'll land on the other shore and see if I can make Ookaluk Camp by to-morrow.” He cast off the painter and using the plank as an oar sculled the boat toward the shore. The man on the opposite bank shoutetd, but the boatman only redoubled his efforts.

"You're there, are you?” he said to himself. "I thought you were hiding. Now, I've got to run for my life!"

He sprang ashore as the skiff touched the bank and gave a swift glance across the river.

“I'd like to ask him what it is I've donefirst."

As he turned two men ran toward him. The nearer one held a gun and the fugitive rapidly calculated the chances of seizing the weapon and making a dash for the hills.

"Why, it's Tom and Archie!” he claimed. "Then I didn't kill them, thank God'"

"Wait!” he commanded. “I'm not going to be taken alive, boys. You're hunting me for a crime. We're enemies now. But in God's name, first tell me what it is I've done? What's that you say--nothing? I've done nothing? I haven't killed any one? You put me in-you put me in the boat to frighten me? As a joke, you say, and it got adrift!" He broke into wild laughter. "It's a joke-a joke—a joke!” He buried his face in his hands. “God! What a joke!”


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