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and doubling, always working upward. Countess' tongue was soon hanging and her barks came shrill and breathless. No matter how madly she pursued, the jack maintained his lead. Over the boulders they went, and through the brush to the crest of the low ridge, which slanted upward to a shoulder of Cache Mountain, and passed high above the Wolf Creek portal of the tunnel.

Suddenly, as though to put a spectacular end to the chase, the jack reversed in mid-air, stopped, and executed a flying leap right over the on-rushing dog, disappearing at a bound in a scrub-oak thicket. Countess slid to a halt and half-fell in her scrambling effort to repeat this manoeuver. Far down the mountainside a rifle spanged sharply, and her spring ended in a queer sprawling plunge.

"There'll be no more barkin' at me," muttered Eben Grigg, ejecting the spent shell from his scarred Winchester with a vicious snap.

His basket heavy with the parti-colored beauties, and his feet numb from hours of standing and wading in the cold creek-bed, Jim Kelly reluctantly reeled in his line after a final cast and sloshed to shore. The sun was down, and in the deep valley it was already dusk. He looked around for his dog, whistling. She wasn't there. Neither was she on the further bank. He called, but only the echo of his own voice responded, so he struck off down the trail, concluding that she had gotten tired of watching him and gone home.

The afternoon's sport had lured him far-upstream, so it was well after dark when the engineer arrived at the Wolf Creek end of the tunnel.

"Ye'd better be after takin' a lantern wid ye, sir," counseled Murphy, the boss of the conduit gang, when Jim stopped at the cookhouse to share a portion of his catch.

Kelly laughed.

"What's the use, Red? I can't get lost. The tram track and ties are all out now. It was as smooth as a floor when I came through this morning. I've got enough to carry as it is, and a flash in my pocket if I do need a light. See you tomorrow."

He shouldered his creel and started on, then paused and called back, "Hey, Red! Didn't see my dog come back this way, did you?"

"No, I didn't," replied Murphy, "but she might have, at that, them wolf-dogs slides around so quiet like. Lose her?"

"Oh, I don't think she's lost. Just got tired watching me fish. Guess I'll find her safe and sound over in the bunkhouse with Joe. So-long."

He entered the black mouth of the tunnel and tramped steadily into its

level, velvet darkness, heavy boots noisily crunching on the splintered gravel.

About midway of the mile long bore, judging from the distance he had come, Jim Kelly suddenly experienced that cold, prickly sensation that comes to those who, believing themselves alone in absolute darkness, unexpectedly sense an unfriendly presence. He could see nothing, of course, but his ear had caught a slight, indefinable sound somewhere in the black depths ahead, as if a cautious foot had slipped just the tiniest bit on the loose rock of the tunnel floor. He stopped and listened. All was still, it might have been but a fragment of granite dropping from the roof;

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but the feeling that he was not alone persisted. After a few steps he heard it again. Something was surely stealing softly toward him. He thought it might be Countess, and called her name. At the sound of his voice there was a muttered exclamation, and at his next stride he lunged against a heavy, yielding body.

Jim Kelly was not a coward; but he shuddered involuntarily and recoiled as if, groping in the dark, he had touched the clammy folds of a serpent. The thing in front of him seemed human, his hand had momentarily brushed an unmistakably human face, but the sounds. it made were neither human nor animal-unnatural, inarticulate gibberish.

"Who's there?" he called sharply, reaching for his flash-light. The gibber

ings continued and the thing stepped toward him.

Then, as the electric torch flooded the narrow rockwalled passage with sudden light he saw with startling clearness the huge bulk of Jonas Grigg crouched in his path with extended arms, like a great ungainly ape, and behind him old Eben, his eyes glowing like coals, distended with mingled hate and terror, clutching in his arms a cylindrical package wrapped with paper that was vividly white in the electric glow. It was like a tableau, fading as suddenly as it appeared.

Before the engineer could move or speak again, the maniacal imbecile was on him, pinning him with a gorilla-like embrace, driving his bullet-head into Kelly's neck, and wrapping his knotted legs around the engineer's body. The flash-light clattered to the gravel, and, crushed by the sheer weight and madness of his assailant, Jim Kelly was borne back and down until his right leg twisted under him and snapped. His head crashed into the stone floor, and merciful oblivion enveloped him.

"Kill! kill! kill!" screamed Jonas, battering his prostrate foe.

Old Eben carefully laid down his parcel and sprang upon his son, beating him about the head and howling curses until he finally dragged him off.

"Now ye've done it!" he panted, turning on the idiot and striking him across the face in sudden fury.

"Kill! kill!" muttered Jonas; but he retreated, cowed by his father's anger.

"Yes, I reckon ye hev killed him," said the old man, bending over the engineer's body with a lighted match trembling in his hand.

"I didn't figger ter kill nothin' except th' dog, but I don't know as I care much 'bout him. Nobody'll ever find out, anyway."

He lit another match and groped for his parcel.

"You go back now, Jonas. Go back and wait fer me. I'll leave it right here and string th' fuse, and then we'll light it and clear out. It ought ter burn about twenty minutes, thet'll give us time."

Jim Kelly reawoke to consciousness as he had awakened ever morning for the past year with a soft, hairy muzzle nudging his cheek and Countess's little, gurgling, delighted throat sounds in his ear.

"All right old girl, gettin' right up," he muttered thickly. He opened his eyes darkness-darn funny! Then he sought to sit up, and at the pain of his wrenched limbs almost swooned again. He remembered now-in the tunnelJonas Grigg had throttled him. Eben (Continued on page 71)


Glaciers and Golf

swept across the snow-covered
ninth green.
Even in the shel-

ter of the caddy house it made it's bitterness felt and the caddy master huddled closer to the log fire.

"Gosh, Mr. Mudd, it's a cold day," he said, "I don't see how those fellows stand it."

He pointed through the window at a couple of blown-in-the-bottle enthusiasts, who were keeping themselves warm by the simple expedient of swearing violently at the carelessness of a Greens Committee, which failed to have the snow on the winter greens removed so that eight foot putts would not be foozled.

Mr. Mudd, the pro, unbuttoned his coat ostentatiously and snorted:

"Cold? Losh, 'tis no a marker to weather I've seen. Aye, and played in, too."

"And when was this, Mr. Mudd?"

" "Twas back in ninety-four-no, I mind now, 'twas in ninety-five, when Angus McGonigle and I were touring the world."

Mr. Mudd slowly and carefully filled the smelliest pipe in all Christendom. Each grain of tobacco was carefully shepherded into the capacious bowl and tamped down thoroughly, before the pipe was lighted. Mr. Mudd settled himself more comfortably in his chair and the caddy master grinned and lit a cigarette. The shivering group of caddies moved closer and nudged one another expectantly.

""Twas in the early October of ninety-five," continued Mr. Mudd. “Angus and I had just finished a profitable summer teaching the game to the Yakut Indians of Siberia. Ye'll maybe no believe it, but when we first reached Siberia, the Yakuts were that dense, mind ye, that they didn't know a mashie from a cleek, but when we left, there was no a village between Nikolaivesk and the Arctic Ocean but had its eighteen hole course. Ah, 'tis a great and grand thing to bring light to the heathen.

"The end of the summer found us at Cape Deshnef, which, as ye may know, is just across the way from Alaska, so to speak, with naught but the Behring Straits between. Often and often, we stood on the rocky promontory from which the dim blue line of the Alaskan coast could be seen.

""That's home, Mr. Mudd,' Angus would say, as the tears filled his eyes. He was born in the States.


"My thoughts were no of home. I'm no a home-loving mon. The golf courses of the world are my home and I was wondering if I could drive a ball across the straits, a matter of ten miles or so."

A roar of laughter greeted this, which was instantly checked when Mr. Mudd frowned. Then he sighed resignedly.

"Ye may well laugh," said he. "But I was young then and had a powerful pair of shoulders. The balls were livelier then too. Aye, 'tis a crying shame that such a mon as I must get old, so that his best drives are now but a matter of a wee five hundred yards. It was different then. I had my youth and strength and Betsy. Ah, there never was a club like Betsy. She was more than human and knew more golf than any of these namby-pambies who dawdle about these links.

"When I took Betsy out of the bag, she thrilled and trembled like a polo pony does when he hears the referee's whistle. And the power and beautiful lines of her. There was no golfer in the world who did not covet Betsy. There was a Zulu chieftan once who tried to steal her and-"

"But did you drive across the straits, Mr. Mudd?" asked the caddy master, with a wink at the oldest caddy.

"I'm coming to that. One day, Angus and I brought a Yakut with us on our daily constitutional to the promontory. Glagek, his name was. Aye, 'tis the same Glagek who's now a pro at the Deshnef Golf and Reindeer Club. And we taught him the game, did Angus and


"When we reached the edge of the cliff overlooking the sea, Angus, who was a canny man, asked me:

"D'ye think ye could drive across, Mr. Mudd?' which was prearranged. I said I could and Glagek looked incredulous, but said naught. We played that Yakut for fifteen minutes trying to get him to rise to the bait. And finally we landed him.

“Betcha three thousand blachms ye can't do it,' he said at last (blachms being the coin of the realm in those parts.

"'You're on," said I, and Betsy under my arm, fair leaped with eagerness. Angus said naught, but drew out pencil and paper, and, knowing him as I did, I could tell he was figuring the value of three thousand blachms in dollars.

"I teed up carefully on a bit of reindeerhorn and gave Betsy a few practice swings. Ah, how the lassie loved it. I took the famous and perfect Mudd stance and, with every ounce of drive at my command behind her, Betsy leaped at the ball in a beautiful arc. The ball soared and soared. It was a drive of drives. We watched it till it passed out of sight, still traveling high and then I asked Glagek for the money.


"Ah,' said he, 'a very nice drive, but how can ye prove it went across the straits?'

"With that we commenced arguing, Angus and I very certain that my drive had made the distance and Glagek equally certain that it had not. There was no precedent. The laws of Saint Andrews say naught of such a case. We might have been arguing until now, for Glagek was a most tight-fisted Yakut, ye mind, but just as we were nigh coming to blows, we heard a far-off voice from the direction of Alaska shouting: 'Say, you over there, whynell don't you yell "Fore" before you drive?'

""You win,' said Glagek, as he handed me the three thousand blachms."

Mr. Mudd's pipe gave an expiring gurgle and went out. He refilled it in silence and the caddy master waited until it was well alight before inquiring:

"What about the cold weather, Mr. Mudd?"

"Ah, yes, the cold weather. Ye may think it's cold now, but it was fortytwo below zero when Betsy and Angus and I drove into Tin City on a dog sledge. Icicles twenty feet long hung about everywhere and the snow was ten feet deep. And, mind ye, this was in October.

"We felt at home at once for, hanging outside the dance hall was the handicap list of the Tin City Golf Club. We noticed a mon by the name of Newcomb was at scratch.


"We'll have to meet this Newcomb,' says Angus.

"We hadna long to wait for, hardly had we stepped into the dance hall with our golf bags over our shoulders, when a little fellow, whiskered to the eyes, stepped up to me as I was taking a wee nip of usquebaugh at the bar. Angus and I were always great hands for a wee nip on a cold day (this was years ago, mind ye). Ah, I remember a pub in Ochternochie with a Hielan' barmaid-"

"But did you play this Newcomb guy, Mr. Mudd?" interrupted the redheaded caddy.

"Have patience," said Mr. Mudd, and there was a furtive tear in his eye as he thought of the convivial days that are gone. "As I was saying, Little Whiskers stepped up to me and said:

"My name, Newcomb, pard, and I'm the best golfer around these parts, bar none.'

"This wee mannie hadna the look of a golfer and I told him so, being an outspoken mon where golf is concerned, as ye may have noticed."

"That we have," murmured the caddy master, but, beyond an ominous frown, Mr. Mudd elected to take no notice of the interruption.

"Angus backed me up keenly," he went on, "and presently we had the little mon in a fury. 'Tis the best way to get a bet out them, ye mind. A crowd gathered and urged us on and, when the time was ripe, I agreed to play the little mon for the championship of the Seward Peninsula, and, what was more important, for five hundred dollars the match. Ah, we had money in those days, did Angus and me and we made money too. Angus spent the afternoon placing bets. He was a hard worker that way, was Angus and we had over nine hundred dollars on the match before the day was over!

"The bartender was friendly and tried to warn us. He said something about the tricky eighteenth and wanted to take me out and show me the course, but I wouldna listen. I was young then and thought that one course was the same as another and that I knew all about all of them. I know better now, but it took a world of convincing. Boys, take no liberties with a strange course. Why, once in Tibet, when Angus and I were going around the lamasinary course with two of the lamas, we

The caddy master coughed and nudged the youngest caddy, who grinned and piped. "Did you beat dat guy, Mr. Mudd?"

After a muttered imprecation as to the habits and ancestry of certain caddies, Mr. Mudd continued:

"The next morning was bright and sunny, but cold, aye, cold enough to freeze the nose off a brass monkey.

"He'll no play on a day like this,' says I to Angus, over our bannocks and porridge. Hardly were the words out of my mouth, when Newcomb popped into the dining room and shouted to me: "You ready to get beat, Mr. Big Talker?'

"Come on, the boys are waiting,' said the bartender.

"With that, we went out and 'twas a strange procession that lined up outside the hotel. Every sled in Tin City was there and what with the huskies snarling and fighting and the men swear

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of a match, but I'll no deny I was a wee bit worried, for I could see that my opponent had a pair of snowshoes in his bag, along of his driver.

"We drove mayhap half an hour and then they showed me the course. Ye may believe me or no, but it was covered with ten feet of snow, except what passed for greens, which had been watered and were now little skating rinks, with ice slick at glass.

"How d'ye expect a mon to play a course like this,' says I to Newcomb, 'on snowshoes?'

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'We are had," says he mournfully, then he wept.

"It cheered me to see Angus weep. He never wept except when the liquor was on him. He was a queer mon-a fair dolt when sober, but when the liquor is on him to the extent that he weeps, mind ye, his brain is working like wildfire and he can think of more schemes in a minute than a sober man could in a year.

"I took my clubs and floundered through the snow to the first tee. I've played golf in all weathers, ye ken, and under all conditions, but I ask ye, how can a mon take a proper stance when he's up to his knees in snow and sinking deeper all the time? 'Twas a vexing problem. If I choked my club, I could get no power to my swing. If I swung as a golfer should I moved a deal of snow but not the ball.

"I was fair distraught and I asked the stakeholder to call off all bets. He was an ill-favored scoundrel, as big as two houses:

"'You'll play in five minutes,' says he, or the money is forfeited.'

"I could hear Betsy sob, for she, poor lassie, was made in Scotland and 'twas but natural for her to sob when she thought of all that siller we were like to lose. Aye, 'tis sinful to wager. Never do it, boys, unless mayhap, ye have a sure thing.

"It's your honor, Mr. Big Talker,' sneered Newcomb, and hadna Angus held me back, I would have bashed him. He was no so big as the stakeholder, ye ken.

''Play on, Mr. Mudd,' says Angus, 'I have an idea.'

"With that he disappeared and I felt much easier in my mind, knowing Angus as I do. Why, once in Nepal, when-"

(Continued on page 71)


Echoes From Lost Mines

CERTAIN famous novelist is being taken seriously in certain. financial circles of New York, if the report is true that the primary purpose in the organization of the Canada del Oro Mining and Prospecting Company is to search for the lost Arizona mine, about which is builded the plot of Wright's latest novel, "The Mine with the Iron Door."

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It is said that scouts from the New York concern are already in the Santa Cataline Mountains, looking for the mine that Wright made famous, as well as for a number of other "lost diggings, to the whereabouts of which the padres in the ancient St. Xavier Mission are alleged to have a clue. Whether they do or not is to be learned. Nevertheless, the mission is to receive one eighth of all gold that is found.

Perhaps the project looks good to the northern investors, but the same cannot be said of the ancient prospectors of the old Southwest who make Socorro, New Mexico, one time mining capital of the border states, their rendezvous from the alkaline deserts. One has but to listen to the oracle-like mutterings of Diorite Dawley, Lead Ore Levi and Windy Bill Wilgus to draw that conclusion.

That these three gentlemen are qualified to speak with authority is not to be questioned. Has not Mr. Dawley, according to his own admission, panned for colors in every gulch between Tierra Del Fuego and Point Barrow? While Mr. Levi is not so experienced, he is a veteran prospector nevertheless; and, as his name indicates, he is an authority on the heavy yellow metal whether it be in the form of a nugget or the case of a watch. Unlike the other two, Windy Bill is more of a historian than a knight of the pan. He claims to be the one and only living authority on the Southwestern mining lore of yesteryear, which statement it is assumed, definitely excludes Harold Bell Wright.

"Gold in the Santa Catalines!" exclaimed this trio from their favorite bench on the sunny side of the plaza when the news of the operations of the new company reached their ears. "Why doesn't this Del Oro Company look up in the Mal Pais of New Mexico, where the honest to God yellow stuff lies in placer pockets as big as barrels!"

"Is there a 'lost mine' up there?" inquired an uninitiated.

"I'll tell the world there is," responded Mr. Dawley. "The Adams Diggings


are there. It is the only authenticated 'lost mine' in the Southwest."

Silent, affirmative nods from the other two indicated that the statement of their loafing partner was backed, scotched and supported by their professional reputations.

"Did you ask where these diggings are? Stranger, that is hardly a fair question. If I knew exactly where they are, I'd be dipping up the gold nuggets myself, without hoping for the aid of one of these big syndicates. I could carry the Del Oro's expedition to the bones of the main body of Adams's party and that is close enough for a big company to locate the placer. I would do it for less than an eighth, believe me."

There were no nods of approval this time, for, it was revealed later, they too knew the location of the bones in question, and if any one of the three were right it would make the other two from ten to twenty-five miles wrong.

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"I'll let Bill tell you the approximate location and the story of the affair,' continued Mr. Dawley, "Then you can decide for yourself as to whether there. are better chances of luck in combing the Mal Pais than rambling through the Santa Catalines for that mythical shaft about which an eastern bred novelist spread a lot of hokum. You tell it to him, Bill."

Diorite's faith in Windy Bill's loquacity was well founded, for it took that worthy exactly three hours, not counting time out for corrections from his cronies, to get the story off his chest.

It seems that there are as many conflicting versions of the history of the diggings as there are old settlers in New Mexico, but the general trend of the story, as agreed upon by the three Socorro county sages under the leadership of the verbose Mr. Wilgus, may be summed up as follows:

Sometime between '58 and '62, the trio refused to agree upon the same date, a certain Mr. Adams provided pack animals for a party of prospectors, who, under the leadership of an Indian, were going from southern Arizona to west central New Mexico in search of a stream that flowed out of a box can

yon, the bed of which was literally yellow with gold. In return for the animals, Adams was allowed to join the party. The journey ended up in the edge of the lava flows about one hundred

miles southwest of Albuquerque and near the line that today separates Valencia from Socorro county. Here was found the box canyon creek the wealth of which far exceeds the fabulous representations of the Indian guide.

Hardly had the work of washing out the gold begun when clouds of trouble appeared on the horizon. The provisions were running alarmingly low and at the same time the surrounding Indian tribes were showing signs of hostility, in spite of the efforts of the white party's guide. This was the condition of affairs when eleven of the prospectors started for Fort Wingate, about two days, burro time, to the northwest, which left Adams and about nine others in the canyon.

On the fifth day after their departure, Adams and a friend by the name of Davis, climbed to the top of a nearby mesa to see if the returning caravan was in sight. They saw it emerging from a gap in the neighboring range of mountains, but even as they watched, a band of Indians swooped down upon it and murdered the entire party. The red skins then attacked the men in the canyon, who suffered the same fate as the pack train guard. Believing that not a one of the prospectors remained alive, the savages withdrew which permitted the two men on the mesa to escape under cover of the fast approaching dark


Several years later Davis died in New Orleans, but Adams was next heard of in Los Angeles, where he published a book telling of his adventures, the fate of his party, and the native wealth of the box canyon. The book caused quite a sensation, and Adams was staked a number of times to lead other expeditions to the diggings. None, however, succeeded in reaching the lost Eldorado.

The last of these expeditions left Tucson in the early '90's and reached the Mal Pais without mishap, but Adams could not find the canyon. On account of his failure, Mr. Robert Lewis, at present deputy sheriff of Socorro county, and who, by the way, is a real authority on New Mexico history, had to spirit Adams away to keep him from being lynched by his disappointed companions. panions. It might be well for Mr. Wright and the St. Xavier fathers to keep this last fact in mind while guiding the Del Oro party.

Why was Adams unable to return to the diggings?

(Continued on page 88).


Old Players of San Francisco

OR over sixty years San Fran

cisco has had given to it the cream

of the dramatic talent of the United States. In this respect it has been more fortunate than any other city in the land excepting only the city of New York. Many of the stage stars have either here added to their fame or have found fame awaiting them.

There were actors and actresses in the old days, men and women who could act. There was reason for it. Those were the days of stock companies, in which a performer to win a high place in the profession had to study and strive years upon years and to appear in such a round of characters as to establish a perfect claim to dramatic versatility and merit.

The old California Theatre was built in the late sixties and was financed mainly by W. C. Ralston, who after suffering reverses committed suicide by drowning in the bay at North Beach. Ralston was a great admirer of John McCullough and McCullough was selected as the theatre's first manager. The selection was a wise one, for McCullough was not only an actor of sterling qualities but also a keen, far-sighted business man. The theatre was a success from the start.

Shortly after its construction a bill was presented that for both oddity and strength has never been surpassed here or elsewhere. The play was Macbeth and if my memory is not at fault there were five stars, each playing the title role for one act. The stars were E. L. Davenport, Joseph Proctor, Frank Mayo, Lawrence Barrett and John McCullough. "Macduff" was also treated in the same manner, the five stars alternating in the portrayal. Mayo was then an actor of great versatility, shining particularly in Shakesperian roles. He had been leading man at Maguire's Opera House and after his departure from California had written for him the romantic play "Davy Crockett" and for the remainder of his life, with but few departures, he played "Davy" in every city of importance in the United States. Once, in a western city, he shelved "Crockett" for awhile to appear in a number of Shakesperean characters. His first performance in his old stage environment was as "Iago," but the critics who had praised his "Crockett" declared his "Iago" to be nothing else but the simple and untutored son of the plains thrown back to the days of the dons and doges. These criticisms aroused the ire of the actor, who, in


print, defended his portrayal of "Iago," asserting that there was a native element of honesty in the character of "Crockett" and that "Iago" gave a strong simulation of honesty. The one had the rugged gruffness of an American backwoodsman: the other, a Venetian soldier, was blunt, coarse in manner and speech and yet was praised and loved by all his victims for the very bluntness which so grievously deceived them. "Iago's" wife alone knew his true character, while on the lips of others he was "Honest Iago," an encomium emphasized again and again by "Othello," "Cassio," and "Desdemona." Much


The tongues of foam which caress the sand

Blush back to the blushing sky And shore, and forest, and rock and hill Seem melting in ecstasy!

The crescent moon like the lamp of God

Hangs low o'er the darkened sea, And a silver pathway of light leads out To the gates of Eternity!

The dim-lit billows with ghostly hands
Beat on the sounding shore,
And fill the night with a haunting rune
Echoing evermore!

-Thos. D. Landels.

more in the same vein wrote Mayo and yet he failed to convince, for it was apparent to those who had seen him upon the stage that long years of playing the part of "Crockett" had so affected his voice and manner that in going back to Shakespeare he unconsciously "Crockettized" every character he attempted to portray.

Joseph Proctor left San Francisco in the early seventies to become the manager of a chain of theatres in the interior. He was one of the pioneer actors of the American stage and was unequaled in the "Jibbenainosay" in Nick of the Woods, a part he played over two thousand times. His first notable stage appearance, in 1834. was as "Damon," and while he lived his repertoire consisted of Othello, King Lear, Macbeth, Metamora. Richelieu, Jack Cade and Nick of the Woods. He frequently played "Othello" to the "Iago" of the elder

Booth and "Iago" to the Moor of Edwin Forrest. He starred in the principal cities of California in the early fifties, built the Sacramento Theatre and for a time was manager of the American Theatre, San Francisco. While touring in England he had as juvenile member of his company the late Sir Henry Irving. Proctor was over six feet in height, of powerful built, flashing eyes and a voice that was full of melody. I saw him in many of his impersonations and while all were powerful and artistic I liked him best in the Nick of the Woods. After his final departure for the east Tom Keene added Nick of the Woods to his list of attractions. Though his portrayal of the mysterious, melodramatic "Jibbenainosay" was worthy of the enthusiastic applause it everywhere received it was far from equal to the masterly portrayal of Joseph Proctor.

While the California Theatre was in prosperous existence it had, as members of its stock company, as capable a set of performers as could be gathered anywhere in the world. For comedians there were John T. Raymond, C. B. Bisop, J. C. Williamson, Robert Pateman and W. A. Mestayer. Some of the other actors were John McCullough, Lawrence Barrett, T. W. Keene, Lewis Morrison, Barton Hill, James Carden, E. J. Buckley, Fred de Belleville, Frank Roche, Frank Rae, Louis James, Frederic Warde, Nick Long and Eben Plympton. It was, in fact, a cradle for stars for Raymond, McCullough, Morrison, Keene, Barrett and Plympton here shed the chrysalis of preparation to become fixed stars in the firmament of Thalia and Momus.

And these facts remind me that to California, the Golden State, belongs the credit of training and turning out some of the most popular stars that have ever graced the American stage. Among them, in addition to the list given in the foregoing paragraph, may be mentioned Frank Mayo, Charles R. Thorne Jr., Mme. Modjeska, Nance O'Neil, James A. Herne, Lotta, Laura Hope Crews and Fay Templeton.

Though not born in California Fay Templeton blossomed into a charming child actress while she was a resident of this state. She was on tour for years as the star member of a company managed by her step-father, John Templeton, her mother, Alice Vane, playing emotional parts supported by James A. Herne, Harry Courtaine and Charles. J. Edmonds. It was while on these (Continued on page 76)

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