A STORY Of THE GREAT NORTH WEST
Oy VINGIE €. ROC
ILLUSTRATIONS 6y ffrfWLTs.p&K
QCPYft/CfiT OY DODO, Y7£AD ACID COMPANY ' ’
SYNOPSIS.
CHAPTER I—Slletz of Daily’s lumber
camp watches a stranger mishandle his
horse in climbing the ridge and directs
him to the camp.
CHAPTER II—Walter Sandry introduces
himself to John Daily, foreman, as “the
Dillingworth Dumber Co., or must of It.'*
CHAPTER III—Sandry makes acquaint
ance with thie camp and the work he has
tome from the East to superintend and
make successful.
CHAPTER IV—Sandry wisely decides to
deyve immediate supervision in the hands
of Daily and writes to his father that
he intends to get a handful of the wealth
in the uncut timber of the region.
CHAPTER V— Sandry gives Siletz per
mission to ride Black Bolt, his saddle
horse.
CHAPTER VT—Sandry fn an emergency
finds himself no lumberman, hut proves
to the foreman that he does not lack
judgment. Siletz tells Sandry of the
Preacher.
CHAPTER VII—Sandry discovers that
Siletz bears the sign of the Siletz tribe
of Indians and wonders what her sur
name is. In the flush of a tender moment i
he calls her “the Night Wind in the '
pines” and kisses her.
CHAPTER VIII— Poppy Ordway, a mag
azine writer from New York, comes to
Daily’s to get material for a romance of
tin* lumber region. Hampden of the Yel
low Pines Co. wants Sandry to keep off a 1
tract of stumpage he c laims title to and
Sundry thir.ks he has bought as the East S
Belt.
CHAPTER IX—Hampden sets up a
cabin on the East Belt and warns tres- j
passers off. Sandry can find no written j
evidence of title to the tract. His men
pull down the cabin. Sandry compares
Siletz and Poppy.
CHAPTER X — Sandry*s and Hampden’s
men fight over the disputed tract. The
Preacher stops the fight.
CHAPTER XI—Sandry finds that the
de« d to tin.* East Bait has never been re
corded. He decides to get out his con
tract first and light for the stumpage aft
erward.
CHAPTER XII—Poppy scents trickery
and flirts with Hampden to gain his con
fidence. She tells Sandry that Hampden
is crooked and that she’ll got him.
CHAPTER XIII—Poppy goes to Salem
In starch of evidence against Hampden. I
Sandry and Siletz ride to the seashore
and Siletz sees the ocean for the first
time. Sundry's men desert him for Hamp- I
den. who has offered more money.
CHAPTER XIV—Siletz Roes to her
friends tlie Si washes and persuades them
o work for Sandry to save his contract.
CHAPTER XV—Poppy tells Sandry that
she lias proof of Hampden's filing bogus
entries in collusion with the commission
er She sees Siletz and Sandry talking
together and becomes jealous.
CHAPTER XVI -The big tlmher raft Is !
storied on its way. but is blown up and
Sandry is dangerously injured.
CHAPTER XVH—Poppy insists on tak
ing care of Sandry and s vs she is Ills
promised wife. "No," ci - Siletz. "lie
kissed me and I ain tils woman.”
CHAPTER XVTTI—Tn Sundry’s delirium
he gives Poppy a clue to his past. On
recovering Daily tells him of the suc
cessful tilling of Ills contract and he says
that he is going after Hampden himself I
and "get him straight."
CHAPTER XIX —Ma Pally shows San
dry Poppy’s notes of his delirious talk.
Poppy plays with Hampden and asks
Sandry when he will let her use her In
formation® to stop the crooked dealing
He refuses her aid and she tells him she j
is going East for a while.
CHAPTER XX—Back East Poppy finds
that Sundry held up an associate of a .
crooked partner of his father for the !
price of the Diliingworth Lumber Co., the ’
associate dying the same night.
it spread across the page. Uncoil*
Bciously, too, his mind caught a shad
owy comparison—the memory of the
olive-colored, slim hands of the girl
Siletz. But she was speaking and he
looked again.
"Now suppose my hero is confront
ed with a man—his friend, it hap
pens—who, in the plausible and un
impeachable methods of modern busi
ness, has calmly become possessed of
my hero's wealth. There is no pos
sible way of touching the swindler, for
it has been done in a manner that
gives it the seeming of legality. Vet
the victim knows in his heart that the
other is a thief. Now here is my
point—”
Miss Ordway was talking slowly as
if thinking carefully and no one listen
ing would have suspected that the
words she uttered were purely me
chanical, having been written out and
memorized that afternoon, and that
her mind was busy with a different sot
of ideas. In fact, this was what she
was thinking, tabulating rapidly a set
of items.
'Widening eyes—aroused interest,
abnormal. Fingers tapping the table—
scartled nerves. No suspicion, but as
tonishment at so unique a coinci
deace.”
Aloud she was going on: “Suppose
lay hero to be a modern man of aver
age good principles, could he bring
hirVelf to steal back deliberately an
amount equal to, or compensating tor,
the amount stolen from him, and not
consider himself a criminal? Could he
go out among men with his beau up,
not deeming himself a thief? And
would the modern man of average
honor do such a tiling?”
Miss Ordway was leaning forward,
seemingly absorbed in her problem,
her eyes on Sundry’s face, where con
flicting expressions were struggling
for the mastery.
“in a moment!" she was saying to
herself, eager as a hound; “in a mo
ment he will commit himself!” for the
bright, blue glance of the young owner
wavered a bit, he opened his lips, shut
Ms hand upon t^s (jih'loth an4, his jaw
hardened with tautened muscles!
"No! He wouldn't hr* a thief—that
would be the right law. ’
Every nerve in Mias Ordway's bod;
jumped, thougn there was no outwan,
sign, as the tension that lmd beei
growing between them snapped will,
the voice of Siletz.
The girl had stopped on the far sid*
of the room, unnoticed by either, aiu:
now she stood leaning forward will
her hands upon the table, her braid;
hanging beside them. The shadow o
her parted hair was over her eyes.
Miss Ordway's fingers crawled into
her palm, rigid with a desire to inflict
bodily pain upon this uninvited hlun
derer. But Siletz was ot the wilder
ness and she did not know she had
committed a faux pas. She knew
only that she had become absorbed in
the exigencies of this mythical man
confronted by so grave a problem and
she spoke as unconsciously as a child.
With a deep breath exhaled slowly,
as it a swimmer drew in swreet air,
Sandry lifted Ids eyes to her.
"The right law!" he said. "Yes
S letz is right. And a man would do
it it he had an incentive grant enough
—even a sane man of today—with the
average nonor. And he would hold up i
nis nead if he was of the strength to
do the thing at aJL ’
Ker a moment Miss Ordway sat si
lent, regarding him intently.
"Good!' she said at last, “then you \
think 1 may go on without danger o! I
overdrawing my character?"
"Unquestionably. ’
She dropped her eyes, toying with a i
bone handled fork lying near.
“1 hanks, Walter,’ she said at last
She turned toward him, spreading
out flat on the paper one exquisite
hand. Among her other hidden vani
ties. Poppy Ordway cherished an inor
dinate pride in these hands of hers—
and she knew their value and their po
tency to the last atom.
With an unconscious appreciation
Sandry now looked down at it where
gently; "I shall go on with more confi
dence. It. is a daring thing to make
my hero do—but—the woman loves
him in spite of a thousand crimes—
above and beyond them.”
Her heart was beating so fast that
her white throat fluttered spasmed
ically at the soft hollrw at the base
and she knew that she took a chance.
She knew also, as Sundry rose ab i
ruptly and left the room, that he had
felt the steel, for his face was gray :
again.
In the silence of the little south
room she stood long, staring into the
yel!owr flame of the hand lamp on the
stand. Then, suddenly, she covered
her flushed face with her hands and
shuddered.
“If I should blunder!” she gasped,
“my God! If 1 should fail to win him
after all! Oh, Walter, Walter—heart
of my heart!”
CHAPTER XXII.
The Price of Peace.
Important events have a way of
striking from ambush, without warn
ing. So did the telegram which found
Sandry idling among these women, so
strangely mixed up with his life, who
held together for his sake, though
wide apart as the poles. It said sim
ply, “Come at once. Mr. Wilton San
dry failing rapidly,” and was signed by
the famous specialist.
When the young man read it his
face went white as a swooning worn
all's and the hands that held the yel
low paper shook uncontrollably.
His lips sot with a deadly illness
and he stared unseeingly out across
the slough.
“The incentive!” triumphed Poppy
Ordway, “but oh, why must it take him
from me just now! I hate it!” and
sullen anger and disappointment flared
for an unguarded moment in her eyes.
Hut the face of Siletz betweei. its
braids had suddenly fallen into the
mold of grief, faithful reflection of
Sundry's own, and she slid off the
porch to step softly, unconsciously
near, with her hands clasped in dis
tress.
An hour later the owner of the Dil- I
lingworth gave a hand to Poppy and
Siletz simultaneously, looked from one
face to the other, saw Love in the
black eyes and the blue, and felt a
pain at his heart that he could not
explain.
Ma put a motherly touch on his
shoulder and said a word that was
simple and earnest and tender as her
great heart. John took his last hur
ried orders, and Sundry was off in the
rig he had telephoned for to Toledo.
Weak and sad and torn by emo
tions, he watched for two whole days
the great West slide by his Pullman
window—that wondrous West whose
subtle charm had laid abiding hold
upon his soul. Then the middle West
raced past—Montana, Idaho, with their
bleak stretches of lonesomeness, and
he roared into Chicago on the Trans
continental. only to shoot out again on
his race wish death. He saw that Last
begin to come back to him, and for
some strange reason it had lost its
charm. Was this what he had yearned
for, there among the mighty hills?
These packed and crowded cities, with
their noise and clangor, their trailing
smoke, their hurrying multitudes and
their dirt stained, towering piles of
stone and mortar?
Wearily he closed his eyes and gave
it ail up, turning his sick thoughts
upon the benign old face of his father.
So at last he reached New Yoik,
looked with odd unfamiliarity upon its
gayety and life, and hurried to the
great old house in Riverside drive
Breathless, weak, scarce able to
stand for the strain on his right limb
Sandry paused with Higgins hovering
adoringly around him in the dusky
draped hall before the magnificent
room of the ivories and browns.
There was the a< he of tears in hit
throat, a terrible horror of what lay
behind the closed doors, an unendur
able anguish of abnormal love, but h<
squared his shoulders, lifted lus head
with his old, jaunty air arid enteren.
He even called a smile to iiis lips.
In tlie hlgh-canopled, copper-posted
bed lay the old financ ier. The fine,
old face with its pleasant tracery was
marked by the hand of the Last Ac
countant, but it was still the face of
a great and good man, still netd its
benignity, its kindliness and courtli
ness.
Now, with Sundry's step, a mighty
gladness fell upon it, a light ot joy
that was all-illuminating.
“Walter!” he cried out. in a voice
of momentary strength. "Oh, my son;
Aly son!”
And with a shudder to the boy’s
ears came an echo, “Absalom!”
He dropped beside the bed, garn
ered the white head in his arms, and
rocked to and fro as women rock in
anguish
Presently Mr Wilton Sandry pushed
his son from him with failing hands I
and gazed upon his face wnu tfe
starved eyes of long-denied affection
"Mv hoy!” he whispered brokenly,
“my life's crown, the point of my
whole success!”
The long white hands quivered on
Sandry’s shoulders the bright, blue
eves began to light marveloui-iy.
“I am at the end of my journev. I
Walter, and it h: s been a splendid
Journey a grand journey—and ! tpank
my Maker for it! 1 have been blessed
beyond most men. beyond my deserts
Your mother—she was above prii e—1
cannot estimate her by any method ;
She was my ore iove and 1 nave never !
thought of another in all my tong life
May von find her equal, my son, a pure
woman with a heart of the gold of
undying iove. She was an Kstahrook—
the best blood in the country. Flic left
me you—a son such as only she could
leave—and you nave proved worthy of
her life. In character, intellect, up
rightness—oh, what a son you are! *
The great specialist standing in the
curtained alcove ot the. window behind
the empty wheeled chair, turned anx
iously. Little Doctor Gentry came tor
ward, hesitating.
"Not too much, Mr. Sandry,” hp
warned, “too much exertion, you
know—’
The dying man looked up with that
glowing fire in his keen eyes.
"Have I not waitfd tor this hour?" [
he smiled. “Have f not held back the j
sickle of the Reaper for this one hour? i
Let it be full, ray friend—this is my )
son —my son, ol' whom 1 am proud as |
Alexander of his conquered world! —
and 1 have him here. Let it be full!”
And Sandry, his heart like stone in
his breast, smiled back with the same
blue fire of keen eyes.
“Old chap.” he said lovingly, “we're
a pair together—I owe what 1 am to
you, sir—you have been my pattern."
“Tush, boy! You got your nature
from your mother. Only your excel
lent grip of finance, your youthful abil
ity, your forging qualities," here there
was a ring om unmistakable pride in
the words, “that, I do flatter myself I
bequeathed you. and it is a good gift,
a great gift when it goes with square- !
ness, uprightness, and this you hav“
to a supernatural extent. That was
my last worry—the uncertainty as tft
whether or not you possessed it—the
gift of ability. You have removed It.
I am at peace."
Sandry, looking full at the speaker,
turned a dull crimson from brow to
throat, but every nerve in his body
thrilled with a reckless triumph.
“My own success has been my third
great blessing. How great a blessing
a satisfaction, a pride—a weakness, 1
may say, I am afraid to think.
“That 1 builded so well and held my
completed structure through the con
tinual changes and dangers of busi
ness life has been my rounding-out.
the pleasant finish to my career. Now.
boy, it goes to you—the fine, great
structure of my fortune."
He ceased and smiled in an un
bounded pride which proved his words
and was as balm to Satidrv’s soul
The son bowed his head in courtly
acknowledgment of a magnificent gift,
and his father went on:
"I have let you make vour start with
the bare purchase price of your under
taking, struggle along on insufficient
capital, fight to make your ends meet— j
oh, I know how it is in a new busi- |
ness!—to prove you. Now the way is
open and you will go far. 1 am—at—1
peace.”
With the last sentence there came a
catch in the strong voice, a snac e be
tween breaths. The specialist stepped
quickly forward.
“Mr. Sandry—’’ he said warningly, ;
but nothing could stop the last up
rusli of that indomitable spirit, the last
flame of joy and hurrying common
ion for which he had lingered with
one hand on the open gate of eternity, j
“No”- he went on—‘This is my hour.
1 am full—of triumph. I'm singing —
my swan song, Walter—and I'm— i
ashamed—to say—it is all on two
notes —love — that s — all right and
gride. Prl<le,_ mi box pride q£ life—
of—your mother's- love—of you—and
—o?—of my financial success!”
lie bolted a moment and the special
ist hurriedly pave him a few drops of
j some powerful stimulant.
"Oh if 1 could hove been here soon
; cr. sir!” groaned Sundry.
“Hush! You -couldn’t. And 1 —
have—von now. That’s sufficient. Just
your dear face, boy—so like—hers-—to
be with me at the—last moment.”
) The gasping was more pronounced
and Sandry, his face like ashes, raised
“My Boy!" He. Whispered Brokenly.
the old man higher in his arms, hold
ing hi n tightly against his shoulder.
He glam id appealingly at Doctor Gen
try, who shook his head. Tnnn the
son smiled down bravely in the bright
eyes upon his lace.
"All right sir,’' he said simply
“your word has ever been my law
Wedl hush if y ou say so. i thank Gob I
i'm here now.”
” 'Satisfied. You re—a man, my—
sen. a man—and a good—son. I’m
satisfied nay—more—thrice blessed
Amen. A—”
I he word trailed off suddenly, leav
Ing the lips open. There was a long
breath broken abruptly. The eye
closed naturally, slowly. The white
head slid gently down from Sundry i
shoulder.
V\ ith a cry that rang through tin
rocm. Waiter Sundry sprang up lifting
the body.
“Father!” he cried once terribly
Then he laid it back upon the bed
turning away with shaking lips
lie clasped his hands hard behind
him, while Doctor Gentry came sheet
fy and laid an arm around his shoul
ders
in his soul was waging a seething
turmoil of emotions—anguish and sol
emn joy, shame and triumph, certainty
and uncertainty.
“At peace!’ he was thinking wildly.
“At peace and content!’ while before
him his strained eyes came the thin
page from Siiet.z’ old Bible with iis
cry Oh, Absalom! .\Iy son, my son!” j
waded for the boy who tell from grace.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Proof at Last.
The summer v, as upon the hills with
a vengeance.
“Mighty unusual,” saitl Ma Daily,
“this here heat. Hottest it's been t'er
many a year; “it's a-goin’ to be a
mighty dry season an’ it's a-couiin'
early.”
Which prophecy seemed due to be
fullillod. A blue heat haze lay deep in
the valleys, huilg amid the hills. The
deep floor of pine needles in the big
woods was already dry as powder, and
it was only late Jul>. The camp was
humming ahead with the work. They
had exceeded their expectations in j
getting out logs, sending out more
than they had planned.
Miss Ordway, still mistress of the
little south room, worked feverishly
at the new story of the timberlands.
A bit of her brightness, some of tier
painstaking cheeriness, was gone with
the summer's heat. She had thought
that long before this she would have
won that the engagement she had so
daringly announced would be a fact.
She could not understand bis bolding
out against her.
Sandry had made many trips to
Salem, consulting with the lawyer he
bad summoned from the Hast, who was
turning heaven and earth in an effort
to prove what Sandry knew to be
true of Hampden, but it was unavail
ing. The young commissioner at Sa
lem was “on to bis job” and the weeks
ilew by with not one raveled end to
the ball of fraud and deception and
criminal intrigue which lay snug in the
doctored records of the state land of
fice. Miss Ordway had dropped her
tiling for the timber claim and the
young commissioner was uneasily
searching his oillces for the two let
ters and a missing account book. He
did not faintly suspect that the In.-.t
time he had seen them was during the
visit to Salem of t.be charming new
acquisition to the "ring." In fact,
some of those days were still shrould
ed in a nebulous haze of mystery- red
wine and red rips and a heady infatua
tion.
But things were approaching an
oilier change in Daily's lumber camp.
One (lav in late July Samlrv wrote sev
eral letters and Poppy Ordwav, lean
ing familiarly over his shoulder,
reached out a hand for them.
"Pm going up to the forked stick,'1
she said languidly, “and I II take
them.”
The dainty fingers were all hut
trembling with ear -mess, foe she saw
that one of them was addressed to
John II. Musseldqrn, at a town in New
Jersey. There was none to observe
her on the sunny Siletz road behind
the low growth of spruce, and w'hen
she strolled down the little meadow
again toward the cook-shack, that par
ticular letter lay safe inside the bosom
of her dress.
She went straight to the south room,
entered and closed the door. Her
hands trembled violently, but there
was no compunction for what she was
about to do in her heart. She was
pretty well armed with knowledge that
would give her a hold on Sandrv, in
case she was forced to use it. but
here, she believed, would be proof pos
itive the actual written word that she
might hold before his eyes in some
nard event of the future.
With strong excitement she slit the
envelope, drew out the sheet and be
gan to read. Faster and faster came
her hot breath, redder and redder
grew her cheeks, while triumph spar
Kled in her eyes. She moved slightly
on her slippered feet, a little motion
! of satisfaction that set her garments
whispering—as when the tiger, scent
ing its prey, squirms before the leap.
With eager haste she sat down at
her typewriter and began to write.
When she had finished an hour later,
after long intervals of study, there lay
under Her hand a very creditable brief
of the famous Whitby case—a verba
tim copy of President Whitby s last
letter, a concise history of Walter San
dry's life since college, the notes in
the red morocco book, plainly speci
fied as his delirious words, and a copy
of this letter to Musseldorn. Taken
together, they made a chain of deduc
tions so plain and simple as to be
condemning evidence.
At that moment Sandr.v himself, |
stepping near the south window, called
her to come out and see the Siletz
squaws with their pyramids ot has 1
kets going down to Toledo. At his
voice she laid a jealous hand over the
papers, hurriedly pushed them back
for safety, and rose. Hut Fate, that
had been waiting, gave overimpetus to
the cautious motion and shoved them
a little too far ba k so that they hung
in the small space between the type
writer stand and the wall—hung ten
tatively until the wind from the clos
ing door, vvnich. as if it, too, were in
conspiracy, did not latch, caught them
and pulled them down to tfte clean,
rag-carpeted floor,
"Come, S'letz,’ called Sandrvas they
started for the rord to intercept the
basket-hearers, hut Siletz. sitting in
the west door with her chin in her
cupped palms, shook her head.
The heat was intense for the coast
country, dry and brilliant, and the
hills were blue as turquoise. She
watched Sandry and Miss Ordway for
a long time as they picked among the
treasures from the tide-lands, and pres
ently they fell in with the small, brown
women and all disappeared around the
bend in the fliletz road.
The aching fury began to rise In her
at thought of those two, alone, leav
ing the women, idling back together
Perhaps they would climb the hills for
a way, and sit together—perhaps—but
here the sadness fell upon her that
said she was unworthy.
Had he not kissed her, and was she
noi his woman? His eyes were true,
and they had spoken things that bade
her he calm. No; yet had she learned
the lesson of his greatness that kept
li m always so quiet and sane, even
in trouble.
There rnmo a step beside her. a soft
step padding on the worn, bare floor,
and Coosnah came from the east j
porch, panting with the heat. He,
leaned against the jamb of the door
to the little south room, scratching
luxuriously, and promptly jumped as
the door swung swiftly inward Again
Fate smil d impishly and sent at that
auspicious moment the first good
breeze of the warm duv sucking up
the valley. It caught the papers on
the flop! under the typewriter table
1
The Young Commissioner Was Un
easily Searching His Offices.
fluttered (neiiTdaringly.'“and “wlfli a
whistle and whoop bore them turn
bling out across the swept boards of
the eating-room floor, to lodge against
the rocker of Ma s little chair.
The girl tn the doorway turned,
reaching out a half-unwilling hand to
save her rival's property Not yet had
Siletz learned a tenth of Sandry’s
code, else she would have folded the
packet and laid it aside.
Instead, with the freedom of camp
life and utter innocence, she began
to read, wonderingly at first, then, as
she saw Sandry’s name, with hushed
breath and parted lips. When she bad
finished the first part she paused and
stared out across the sloping lift of
meadow, already sere and brown will)
the summer heat. Puzzled, but half
comprehending, yet filled with a name
less fear, she felt her fingers shaking
as she turned the page to Sandry's
letter.
Daily's Camp Toledo. July 2#, 19—
John H. Mufuyddorn—
The lime of restitution has begun. A*
you made the structure of my father's
fortune but a gutted and empty shell, ho
you alone have the knowledge and the
cunning to till it to Its former substance,,
unknown to the outside world. Wilton
Sandry is gone, but his pride remains,
and it must be upborne. Here is the re
mittance which 1 told you would some;
day be forthcoming. Take it and obtain,
tin deed to the Meadowlands Karin which
you sold, squandering the money. Put it
in my name as part of the Sandry es
tate No matter what you have to face,
to get it—get It. Tilts iB a threat. Re
member that those proofs, which you and
your accomplice thought destroyed, are
safe in my possession.
“From time to time you will he called
upon to manage tile buying back of ev
er' piece of property, every horse on the
breeding farms, every stock and l>ond
that vou. under tlte power-of-attornev
which an honorable and trusting old man
invested in you when he could no longer
he about, sold—for your own profit.
Through travail and bloody sweat I k«i*i
my father in Ignorance of his ruin
his death
As I had no mercy on James B. \ThR-.
bv for Ills share with you In the infant-,
cusly legitimate ilea Is which made Wil-_
to:, Sandry an unconscious pauper, so.
will I have no mercy on vou. You know
what I know and shake in vour shoe*
because of it So far so good. I shall ex-,
pert the deed to tile Meadowlands Farm*
as speedily as it can be arranged.
WAT.TF.R SANDRY
Trembling with premonition of
aster ft. Sundry, SI let? sat h<\M inu
tile strange documents. A groat anger
began to well in her against the other
woman. She opened the buttons of
tier tine shirt nnd dropped the folded
packet inside its blouse.
On the Siletz road Sandry and M fts*
Ortlwav were strolling hack fnev
stopped a moment Ht the.forked stick,
and Poppy Ordwa.v dropped Sandry >:
letter, re-sealed, into the sack bofertj
his very eves. It was a daring thing
to do and it set her blood leaping fer
joy in her own coolness. When thev
reached the camp she went directly
to her room.
10 BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEU.
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Wiiy Best lor Babies?
“ I am often asked why Chamberlain’s Cough
Remedy is best for babies. Well, there are several reasons:
i irsst: It is perfectly harmless and can be given with every
confidence to the youngest or most delicate child. *
Secondly: It contains no alcohol, opium, chloroform, mor
phine or any other narcotic.
fuirdly: Children like it, and no persuasion is needed to
get them to take it.
For the above reasons alone it is impossible to get a better
medicine for babies than
Chamberlain’s Cough Remedy
But aside from its safety it relieves coughs and colds, is the
best remedy known for croup, and when given as soon as the
croupy cough appears it will even prevent the attack.”