The Texas City Times (Texas City, Tex.), Vol. 4, No. 72, Ed. 1 Tuesday, May 9, 1916 Page: 3 of 4
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is
So a person of experience in
me.
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P9
Shoemaker
1
¥7
251
{4
R8
cent stamps.
/
"Am I Right, Mr. Honeywell?”
Bertram,
observed with a sigh.
envelope
tage of working on the original of the I the paper.
Your time is short.
of your freedom.
haps.
• visitor, Average Jones opened the way
; to Bertram, who, in a wide range of
j experience and study had once spe-
fessional
Bertram.
"No. I
handed the result -over to
who read:
“WANTED — Professional
that he was too frightened and rattled
to know just what he was writing."
"Know anything of him?"
friend?”
"Scared but straight,” was Bertram’s
verdict.
Average Jones pushed the collec-
tion of advertisements aside and re-
turned to the opening phase of the
problem, the fish-bait circular which
less a propaganda for large expendi-
tures on purely military and naval
matters deserves the name.—George
W. Alger, in the Atlantic.
8
dnasa
-—2
1
season.
DEALERS—YOU
man Robinson is himself the delusion
as well as the object.”
"I -wish you wouldn’t be cryptic,
Average,” said his friend pathetically.
“There's been enough of that without
your gratuitously adding to the sum
of human bewilderment.”
Average Jones scribbled a few words
on a pad, considered, amended, and
WANT YOUR CUS-
What did you think of our
tomers to have these 12
ANGLERS_WHEN YOU ARE LOOK-
ing for “Baits That Catch Fish,” do
you see these spinners in the store where
you buy tackle? You will find here
twelve baits, every one of which has a
record and has literally caught tons of
8sh We call them “The 12 Surety Baits.”
We want you to try them for casting and
trolling these next two months, because
all varieties of bass are particularly sav-
age in striking these baits late in the
It said: ‘Make the most
envelope eraser?” asked
Helpful information.
"I want a pair of bants for my sick
husband,” exclaimed the woman.
“What size?" asked the c erk
“I don't know, but I think he wear
a 14% collar."
Call at General Delivery, Main P. O.,
for your warning.’ ”
"You went there?"
“The next day.”
"And found—?”
“An ordinary sealed envelope, ad-
dressed in pen-pricks connected by
pencil lines. The address was scraw-
ly, but quite plain."
“Well, what did it contain?”
“A commitment blank to an insane
asylum."
Average Jones absently drew out
his handkerchief, elaborately whisked
from his coat sleeve an imaginary
speck of dust, and smiled benignant-
ly where the dust was supposed to
have been.
"Insane asylum,” he murmured.
“Was—er—the blank—er—filled in?”
"Only partly. My name was pricked
in, and there was a specification of
dementia from drug habit, with sui-
cidal tendencies.”
i
THE TEXAS CITY TIMES, TEXAS CITY, TEXAS
SAMUE
©HNS
ADAMS
thing to put him out of the way, or I
to make his testimony incompetent I
for the will contest So, when the ex-
lunatic returned from Europe a year
ago, our friend Honeywell here, in
some way located him at the Caronia.
"Thus far,” replied the blind man
composedly.
“Five years ago William Honeywell
Robinson became addicted to a patent
headache ‘dope.’ It ended, as such
habits do, in insanity. He was con-
fined two years, suffering from psy-
chasthenia, with suicidal melancholia
and delusion of persecution. Then he
was released, cured, but with a super-
sensitive mental balance.”
“Then the messages were intended
to drive him out of his mind again,"
said Bertram in sudden enlighten-
ment. “What a dev*;!” \
“Either that, or to impel him, by
suggestion, to suicide or to revert to
the headache powders, which would
have meant the asylum again. Any-
“Which is the first of the series?”
he asked.
“It isn’t among those. Unfortunate-
ly it was lost, by a stupid servant’s
mistake, pin and all.”
"Pin?”
“Yes. Where I cut open the en-
velope—”
"Wait a moment. You say you cut
it open. All these, being one-cent
postage, must have come unsealed.
Was the first different ”
“Yes. It had a two-cent stamp. It
was a circular announcement of the
Swift-Reading Encyclopedia, in a
sealed envelope. There was a pin
bent over the fold of the letter so
you couldn’t help but notice it. Its
head was stuck through the blank
part of the circular. Leading from it
were three very small pins arranged
as a pointer to the message.”
"Do you remember the message?”
“Could I forget it! It was pricked
out quite small on the blank fold of
“Hello! Mr. Robinson? This
He matured his little scheme.
Through a letter broker who deals
with the rag and refuse collectors, he
got all the second-hand mail from the
Caronia. Meantime, William Honey-
well Robinson had moved away, and
as chance would have it, William
Hunter Robinson moved in, receiving
the pin-prick letters which, had they
reached their goal, would probably
have produced the desired effect.”
“If they drove a sane man nearly
crazy, what wouldn’t they have done
to one whose mind wasn’t quite
right!” cried the wronged Robinson.
“But since Mr. Honeywell is blind,’1
said Bertram, “how could he see to
erase the cancellations?”
“Ah! That’s what I asked myself.
Obviously, he couldn't. He’d have tc
get that done for him. Presumedly
he’d get some stranger to do it. That’s
why I advertised for a professional
eraser who was experienced, judging
that it would fetch the person who
had done Honeywell’s work.”
"Is there any such thing as a pro-
Mr. A. Jones. You hear me?”
"Yes, Mr. Jones. What is it?"
“Is there, in all your acquaintance,
any person who never goes out with-
out an attendant? Take time to think,
now.”
"Why—why—why,” stuttered Rob-
inson, and fell into silence. From the
depths of the silence he presently ex-
humed the following: “I did have a
paralytic cousin who always went out
in a wheeled chair. But she’s dead.”
"And there’s no one else?”
"No. I’m quite sure.”
"That’s all. Good-by."
“What was that about an attend-
ant?” inquired Bertram, as his friend
replaced the receiver.
"Oh, I’ve just a hunch that the send-
er of those messages doesn’t go out
unaccompanied.”
“Insane? Or semi-insane? It does
rather look like delusional paranoia.”
As nearly as imperfect humanity
may, Average Jones appeared to be
smiling indulgently at the end of his
own nose.
“Dare say you’re right—er—in part,
Bert. But I’ve also a hunch that our
Two Kinds of Emulsions.
Milk and butter are both emulsions
Prof. F. G. Donnan of University col-
lege, London, defines an emulsion as
a distribution of one liquid in an-
other. A little oil shaken with much
water gives an emulsion in which the
particles of oil have a diameter of
about a thousandth of a millimeter;
such an emulsion is milk. A little wa-
ter in much oil gives particles of wa-
ter even smaller; such an emulsion is
butter.
said. “Am I to assign no cause to the
newspapers for my sudden action?”
A twinkle of malice appeared in
Average Jones’ eye.
“I would suggest waning mental
acumen,” he said.
The blind man winced palpably as
he rose to his feet. “That is the sec-
ond time you have taunted me on that.
Kindly tell me my mistake.”
Average Jones led him to the door
and opened it.
“Your mistake,” he drawled as he
sped his parting guest into the grasp
of a waiting attendant, "was—er—in
not remembering that — er — you
mustn’t fish for bass in November.”
(Copyright, by the Bobbs-Merrill Com-
pany.)
"That’s good. It will make nice,
bold, inevitable sort of letters. Come
over here to this desk.”
For a few moments he worked at a
sheet of paper with the pin, then
threw it down in disgust.
"This sort of thing requires prac-
tice,” he muttered. “Here, Bert, you’re
cleverer with your fingers than I.
You take it, and I’ll dictate."
Between them, after several fail-
ures, they produced a fair copy of the
following:
“Mr. Alden Honeywell will choose
between making explanation to the
post-office authorities or calling at
3:30 p. m. tomorrow on A. Jones, Ad-
Visor, Astor Court Temple."
This Average Jones inclosed in an
envelope which he addressed in writ-
ing to Alden Honeywell, Esq., 550
West Seventy-fourth street, city, aft-
erward pin-pricking the letters in out-
line. "Just for moral effect,” he ex-
plained. “In part this ought to give
him a taste of the trouble he made for
poor Robinson. You’ll be there to-
morrow, Bert?”
“Watch me!” replied that gentle-
man with unwonted emphasis. “But
will Alden Honeywell, Esquire?”
“Surely. Also Mr. William H. Rob-
inson of the Caronia. Note that ‘of
the Caronia.’ It’s significant.”
At three-thirty the following after-
noon three men were waiting in Aver-
age Jones’ inner office. Average Jones
sat at his desk sedulously polishing
his left-hand fore-knuckle with the
tennis callus of his right palm.
Bertram lounged gracefully in the
big chair. Mr. Robinson fidgeted.
There was an atmosphere of ten-
sion in the room. At three-
forty there came a tap-tapping
across the floor of the outer room, and
a knock at the door brought them all
to their feet. Average Jones threw
the door open, took the man who
stood outside by the arm, and pushing
a chair toward him, seated him in it.
The newcomer was an elderly man
dressed with sober elegance. In his
scarf was a scarab of great value; on
his left hand a superb signet ring. He
carried a heavy, gold-mounted stick.
His face was curiously divided against
itself. The fine calm forehead and the
deep setting of the widely separated
eyes, gave an impression of intellec-
tual power and balance. But the low-
er part of the face was mere wreck-
age; the chin quivering and fallen,
from self-indulgence, the fine lines of
the nose coarsened by the spreading
nostrils; the mouth showing both the
soft contours of sensuality and the
hard, fine lines of craft and cruelty.
The man’s eyes were unholy. They
stared straight before him, and were
dead. With his entrance there was
infused in the atmosphere a sense of
something venomous.
“Mr. Alden Honeywell?" said Aver-
age Jones.
"Yes.” The voice had refinement
and calm.
“I want to introduce you to Mr.
William H. Robinson.”
The newcomer’s head turned slowly
to his right shoulder then back. His
eyes remained rigid.
“Why, the man’s blind!” burst out
Mr. Robinson in his piping voice.
"Blind!" echoed Bertram. "Did you
know this, Average?”
Robinson had mailed him. So long
after, that Bertram hardly recognized
it as a response to his last remark,
the investigator drawled out:
“Not such—er—impenetrable - dark-
ness. In fact—er-—Eureka, or words
to that effect. Bert, when does the
bass season end?”
“November 1, hereabouts, I believe.”
"The postmark on the envelope that
carried this advertisement to our
friend advises the use of the baits for
‘these next two months.’ Queer time
to be using bass-lures, after the sea-
son is closed. Bert, it’s a pity I can’t
waggle my ears.”
“Waggle your ears! For heavens
sake, why?”-
“Because then I’d be such a perfect
jackass that I could win medals at a
show. I ought to have guessed it at
first glance, from the fact that the ad-
vertisement couldn’t well have been
mailed to Robinson originally, any-
how.”
“Why not?"
"Because he’s not in the sporting i
goods business, and the advertisement
is obviously addressed to the retail
trade. Don’t you remember; it offers a
showcase, free. What does a man liv-
ing in an apartment want of a show-
case to keep artificial bait in? What
we—er—need here is—er—steam."
A moment’s manipulation of the
radiator produced a small jet. In this
Average Jones held the envelope. The
stamp curled up and dropped off. Be-
neath it were the remains of a small
portion of a former postmark.
"I thought so," murmured Average
Jones.
“Remailed!” exclaimed Bertram.
"Remailed,” corroborated his friend.
"I expect we’ll find the others the
same."
One by one he submitted the en-
velopes to the steam bath. Each of
them, as the stamp was peeled off, i
eraser to remove marks from used
envelopes. Experience essential. Ap-
ply at once.—A. Jones, Ad-Visor, As-
tor Court Temple.”
“Would it enlighten your gloom to
see that in every New York and
Brooklyn paper tomorrow?” inquired
its inventor.
“Not a glimmer.”
“We’ll give this ad a week’s repeti-
tion if necessary, before trying more
roundabout measures. As soon as I
have heard from it I’ll drop in at the
club and we’ll write—that is to say,
compose a letter.”
"To whom?"
“Oh, that I don’t know yet When I
do, you’ll see me.”
Three days later Average Jones
entered the Cosmic club, with that
twinkling upturn of the mouth corners
which, with him, indicated satisfac-
tory accomplishment.
"Really, Bert,” he remarked, seek-
ing out his languid friend, in the
laziest corner of the large divan.
“You’d be surprised to know how few
experienced envelope erasers there
are in four millions of population.
Only seven people answered that ad-
vertisement, and they were mostly
tyros.”
"Then you didn’t get your man?”
“It was a woman. The fifth appli-
cant. Got a pin about you?”
Bertram took a pearl from his scarf
“Well, I’m
exhibited more or less fragmentary
signs of a previous cancellation.
“Careless work,” criticized Average
Jones. "Every bit of the mark should
have been removed, instead of trust-
ing to the second stamp to cover what
little was left, by shifting it a bit to-
ward the center of the envelope.
Look; you can see on this one where
the original stamp was peeled off. On
this the traces of erasure are plain
enough. That’s why manila paper
was selected; it’s easier to erase
from.”
“Is Robinson faking?” asked Ber-
tram. “Oh has someone been rifling
his waste basket?”
"That would mean an accomplice in
the house, which would be dangerous.
I think it was done at longer range.”
Drawing the telephone to him, he
called the Caronia apartments.
Need of the Hour.
It is because the organization of na-
tional life is so eminently important,
because its absence is one of the main
sources of our peril, that we should
be interested primarily in the develop-
ment of a national consciousness and
a discipline, which are good for peace,
and which can be forwarded now by
the peril of war if statesmen of vision
can be found to give the movement
leadership. Any reaction of opinion
which tends to retard or frustrate that
development is a national peril. The
lack of just that kind of leadership
today is conspicuous. The time is
ripe for the development of a disci-
pline adapted to and expressive of the
philosophhy of democracy for a defi-
nite and concrete program. Instead
afraid I set you on the wrong track,
myself!”
Bertram lifted an eyebrow with an
effort “Meaning, I suppose, that
you’re on the right one and have
solved the cipher.’
"Cipher be jiggered. There isn’t
any cipher. If you’d had the advan-
4/1
ft
v m\
S,
U,N I
>,\
"Only what the directory tells, and
directories don't deal in really inti-
mate details of biography, you know.
There’s quite an assortment of Wil-
liam H. Robinsons, but the one who
lives at the Caronia appears to be a
commission merchant on Pearl street.
As the Caronia is one of the most ele-
gant and quite the most enormous of
those small cities within themselves
which we call apartment houses, I
take it that Mr. Robinson is well-to-
do, and probably married. You can
ask him, yourself, if you like. He’s
due any moment, now.”
Promptly, as befitted a business
man, Mr. William H. Robinson arrived
on the stroke of twelve. He was a
well-made, well-dressed citizen of for-
ty-five, who would have been wholly
ordinary save for one peculiarity. In
a room more than temperately cool he
was sweating profusely, and that, de-
spite the fact that his light overcoat
was on his arm. He darted a glance
at Bertram, then turned to Average
Jones.
"I had hoped for a private inter-
view,” he said in a high piping voice.
“Mr. Bertram is my friend and busi-
ness confidant.”
"Very good. You—you have read
it?”
“'Yes.”
“Then—then—then—" The visitor
fumbled, with nerveless fingers, at his
tightly buttoned cutaway coat and,
after a moment’s effort, drew a paper
from his inner pocket which he placed
on the desk. It was a certified check
for one hundred dollars, made pay-
able to A. Jones.
“There's the rest of a thousand
ready, if you can help me,” he said.
"We’ll talk of that later,” said the
prospective beneficiary. "Sit tight
until you’re able to answer questions.”
“Able now,” piped the other in his
shrill voice. “I’m ashamed of myself,
gentlemen, but the strain I’ve been
bait advertisement as I have, you’d
undoubtedly have noticed at once—”
“Thank you,” murmured Bertram.
“—that fully one-third of the pin-
pricks don’t touch any letters at all.”
“Then we should have taken the let-
ters which lie between the holes?”
"No. The letters don’t count. It’s
the punctures. Force your eyes to
consider those alone, and you will see
that the holes themselves form let-
ters and words. Read through it care-
fully, as Robinson directed.”
He held the paper up to the light.
Bertram made out in stragging char-
acters, formed in skeleton by the per-
forations, this legend:
ALL POINTS TO YOU TAKE THE
SHORT CUT. DEATH IS EASIER
THAN SOME THINGS.
"Whew! That's a cheery little
greeting,” remarked Bertram. “But
why didn’t friend Robinson point it
out definitely in his letter?'
"Wanted to test my capacity per-
under--— When you’ve heard my
story—”
“Just a moment, please,” interrupt-
ed Average Jones, “let me get at this
my own way. What are the ‘some
things’ that are worse than death?”
Mr. Robinson shook his head. "I
haven’t the slightest notion in the
world.”
“Nor of the 'short cut’ which you
are advised to take?”
“I suppose it means suicide.” He
paused for a moment. "They can’t
drive me to that—unless they drive
me crazy first.” He wiped the sweat
from under his eyes, breathing hard.
“What are ‘they’?"
Mr. Robinson shook his head. “Mr.
Jones, I give you my word of honor,
as I hope to be saved from this perse-
cution, I don’t know any more than
yourself what it means.”
“Then—er—I am—er—to believe,”
replied Jones, drawling, as he always
did when interest, in his mind, was
verging on excitement, “that a simple '
blind threat like this—er—without 1
any backing from your own conscience
—er—could shake you—er—as this
has done? Why, Mr. Robinson, the
thing—er—may be—er—only a raw
practical joke.”
“But the others!” cried the visitor. :
His face changed and fell. "I believe
I am going crazy,” he groaned. “I
didn’t tell you about the others.”
Diving into his overcoat pocket he
drew out a packet of letters which he
placed on the desk with a sort of dis-
mal flourish.
“Read those!” he cried.
“‘Presently.” Average Jones ran
rapidly over the eight envelopes.
With one exception, each bore the im-
print of some firm name made familiar
by extensive advertising. All the en-
velopes were of softish manila paper
varying in grade and hue, under one-
PN-PRICKS
“The thing is a fake,” declared
Bertram. He slumped heavily into a
chair, and scowled at Average Jones’
well-littered desk, whereon he had just
tossed a sheet of paper.
“A fake,” he reiterated. “I’ve spent
a night of pseudo-intellectual riot and
ruin over it.”
"You would have it,” returned Aver-
nge Jones with a smile. “And I seem
to recall a lofty intimation on your
part that there never was a cipher so
tough but you could rope and tie in
record time.”
"Cipher, yes,” returned the other
bitterly. “That thing isn’t a cipher.
It’s an alphabetical riot. Maybe,” he
added hopefully, “there was some mis-
ake in my copy.”
"Look for yourself,” said Average
Iones, handing him the original.
It was a singular document, this
problem in letters which had come to
ight up the gloom of a November day
!or Average Jones; a stifsh sheet of
paper, ornamented on one side with
olor prints of alluring “spinners,” and
n the other inscribed with an appeal,
n print Its original vehicle was an
envelope, bearing a one-cent stamp,
nd addressed in typewriting:
Mr. William H. Robinson,
The Caronia,
Broadway and Evenside Ave.,
New York City.
The advertisement on the reverse
M the sheet ran as follows:
chief witness against Mr. Honeywell in
his effort to break the famous Holden
Honeywell will, disposing of some ten of such statesmanship, we have noth-
million dollars. Am I right, Mr. ing as yet which is constructive, un-
Honeywell?”
this line would be almost unique. I
was sure to find the right one, if he
or she saw my advertisement. As a
matter of fact, it turned out to be an
unimaginative young woman who has
told me all about her former employ-
ment with Mr. Honeywell, apparently
with no thought that there was any-
thing strange in erasing cancellations
from hundreds of envelopes—for
Honeywell was cautious enough not
to confine her to the Robinson mail
alone—and then pasting on stamps to
remail them.”
“You appear to have followed out
my moves with some degree of acu-
men, Mr.—er—Jones,” said the blind
schemer suavely.
“Yet I might not have solved your
processes so easily if you had not
made one rather—if you will pardon
me—stupid mistake.”
For the first time, the man’s bloated
lips shook. His evil pride of intel-
lectuality was stung.
“You lie!” he said hastily. “I do
not make mistakes.”
“No? Well, have it as you will. The
point is that you are to sign here a
statement, which I shall read to you
before these witnesses, announcing
for publication the withdrawal of your
contest for the Honeywell millions.”
“And if I decline?”
“The painful necessity will be mine
of turning over these instructive docu-
ments to the United States postal au-
thorities: But not before giving them
to the newspapers. How would you
look in court, in view of this attempt
to murder a fellowman’s reason?”
Mr. Honeywell had now gained his
composure. "You ate right,” he as-
sented. “You seem to have a singular
faculty for being right. Be careful it
does not fail you—sometime.”
“‘Thank you,” returned Average
Jones. "Now you will listen, please,
all of you.”
He read the brief document, placed
it before the blind man, and set a pin
between his finger and thumb. “Sign
there,” he said.
Honeywell smiled as he pricked in
his name.
“For identification, I suppose,” he
“Of course. The pin pricks showed
it. And the letter mailed to Mr. Rob-
inson at the general delivery, which,
if you remember, had the address pen-
ciled in from pin-holes.”
"When you have quite done discuss-
ing my personal misfortune,” said
Honeywell patiently, “perhaps you
will be good enough to tell me which
is William Robinson.”
“I am,” returned the owner of that
name. "And do you be good enough
to tell me why you hound me with your
hellish threats.”
“That is not William Robinson’s
voice!” said the blind man. "Who dre
you ?”
"William H. Robinson.”
"Not William Honeywell Robin-
son.”
"No; William Hunter Robinson.”
“Then why am I brought here?”
“To make a statement for publica-
tion in tomorrow morning’s newspa-
per,” returned Average Jones crisply.
“Statement? Is this a yellow jour-
nal trap?”
“As a courtesy to Mr. Robinson, I’ll
explain. How long have you lived in
the Caronia, Mr. Robinson?”
"About eight months.”
"Then, some three or four months
before you moved in, another William
H. Robinson lived there for a short
time. His middle name was Honey-
well. He is a cousin, and an object
of great solicitude to this gentleman
here. In fact, he is, or will be, the
Or, it may have been simply With a quick signal, unseen by the
cialized upon abnormal mental phe-
nomena.
“Pardon me,” that gentleman put in
gently, “has there ever been any de-
mentia in your family?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Or suicidal mania?”
"All my people have died respect-
ably in their beds,” declared the vis-
itor with some vehemence.
“Once more, if I may venture. Have
you ever been addicted to any drug?”
"Never, sir.”
“Now,” Average Jones took up the
examination, “will you tell me of any
enemy who would have reason to
persecute you?”
“I haven’t an enemy in the world.”
“You’re fortunate,” returned the
other smiling, "but surely, some time
in your career—business rivalry—fam-
ily alienation—any one of a thousand
causes?”
“No," answered the harassed man.
“Not for me. My business runs
smoothly. My relations are mostly
dead. I have no friends and no ene-
mies. My wife and I live alone, and
all we ask,” he added in a sudden out-
burst of almost childish resentment,
“is to be left alone.”
The inquisitor’s gaze returned to
the packet of letters. “You haven’t
complained to the post-office authori-
ties?”
“And risk the publicity?” returned
Robinson with a shudder.
“Well, give me over night with
tnese. Oh! and I may want to ’phone
you presently. You’ll be at home?
Thank you. Good day.”
“Now,” said Average Jones to Ber-
tram, as their caller’s plump back dis-
appeared, “this looks pretty queer to
‘Surety Baits” that catch fish. This case
will sell itself empty and over again, for
every bait is a record-breaker and they
catch fish. We want you to put in one
of these cases so that the anglers will
not be disappointed and have to wait for
baits to be ordered. It will be furnished
FREE. charges postpaid, with your order
for the dozen baits it contains.
The peculiar feature of the com-
munication was that it was profusely
be-pimpled with tiny projections, evi-
dently made by thrusting a pin
through, from the side which bore the
illustrations. These perforations were
liberally scattered.
"Yes, the copy’s all right,” growled
Bertram. "Tell me again how you
came by it.”
“Robinson came here twice and
missed me Yesterday I got the note
from him which you’ve seen, with the
inclosure which has so threatened
your reason. You know the rest Per-
haps you’d have done well to study
the note for clues to the other docu-
ments ”
Something in his friend’s tone made
Bertram glance up suspiciously. “Let
me see the note,” he demanded.
Average Jones handed it to him.
Bertram read the message. “Of
course the man is rattled. That’s ob-
vfous in his handwriting. Also, he has
inverted one sentence in his haste
and said 'read through it,’ instead of
read it through.’ Otherwise, it’s or-
dinary enough.”
“It must be vanity that keeps you
from eye-glasses, Bert,” Average Jones
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Bookman, W. F. The Texas City Times (Texas City, Tex.), Vol. 4, No. 72, Ed. 1 Tuesday, May 9, 1916, newspaper, May 9, 1916; Texas City, Texas. (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth1577048/m1/3/: accessed July 6, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu; crediting Moore Memorial Public Library.