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All summer long you have been running your car. Naturally the brakes are worn. Then there comes an emergency when you must stop quickly-but you find you can't!

That is what is happening to so many motorists this month. That is what may happen to you. There are more accidents in the fall than at any other time of the year simply because brake's have been made dangerous by a season's wear.

Make certain today that your brakes are safe

You will be running your car for two or three months longer; perhaps all winter.

You can't afford to

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are worn. Have your dealer inspect your brakes today. If they need relining have him put on Thermoid Hydraulic Compressed Brake Lining.

Gives greatest security

for three reasons 1st-Contains over 40% more material and 60% more labor than ordinary woven brake lining. This gives long wear.

2nd-It is Grapnalized, a special exclusive process which enables Thermoid to resist moisture, oil and gasoline.

Thermoid
Brake Inspection Chart

At speed of

A car should stop in

10 miles per hr. 9.2 ft.

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3rd-Thermoid is Hydraulic Compressed. It wears down slowly and can be used until cardboard thin.

Support the Brake Inspection Movement and have your brakes inspected today.

OUR GUARANTEE: Thermoid will make good-or WE WILL.

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men hit in all sorts of places that did not show, and in places that did horribly, men who came in with blood dripping from them in little quick puddles as they lay there. As I moved I felt my boots treading in something wet. Just by me a man, as conscious as I-I will not describe his wound, for it was the most awful thing I ever looked upon-was just slipping over the edge to the Great Discovery. . . . A little way on another twitched his lips slightly, and by the time the doctor had reached him and moved his head he had gone.

These men an hour before had waited for the offensive and chuckled at its prospect, like the man with the orange. I felt the sudden catch of a nausea, and remembered with one of those strange flashes of memory that I had only felt like that once before, and that was when as a boy I had watched with some evil fascination some men killing a pig in a Dorset village. Why, I thought now, should they kill these fine specimens of humanity in the same brute and pitiless fashion as those men had killed that pig?

We went out into a farther corridor. There was a string of pigmy lights on the wall, like the Embankment in the old days, seen from afar. In another chamber were more men on stretchers, the less serious cases. You saw their faces before anything else, red with little rivulets of sweat crawling over. And then on into another chamber where there were men who had been gassed, sitting in rows in the half light with dead-white faces, and red halfclosed eyes that cried. .

In one corner was the dim outline of a big oxygen instrument. Beside it a bedlike contrivance that bore a resemblance to an operating-table, and over all a quaint unnatural smell, foreign to anything one has ever met before in a world supposed to be civilized.

We climbed up to the street in time to see a horse's head propel itself like a monstrous football down the street following a close shell-burst.

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The Hun was trying to put a warningto camouflage his movements-into a place he was not going to attack within the next few hours. Looked back upon now, hideousness of war stands apparent when one remembers those torn men who had been destroyed for a German fake, and dragged in there to be made as comfortable as possible till they panted their lives out.

Later, while walking from Neuve Eglise to Messines, and from there to Wytschaete, the writer saw increasing evidences of the storm whose full fury struck and overwhelmed the British a few miles to southward. Fritz, or Jerry-as the German is variously called on the British front-was trying endless experiments that morning:

He was tilting his guns on to places he seldom if ever fired into, he was forcing his airmen out on all sorts of impossible "stunts," he was pushing gas-shells into villages where there were no troops but only harmless peasants tilling fields, he was groping with his "heavies" for railways a mile or more from where those railways existed, he exploded shrapnel in inconsequent places where only children played at soldiers with salved army badges and wooden swords. I saw him sweep a couple of these tiny warriors into his hideous net. He was very eager and searching.

When later that day I walked out to

thence to Wytschaete, the big game was still going on overhead. A few stray bullets sprayed up spots of dirt on the road, a couple of guns suddenly emerged with a blast following a blast from a spot almost under one's feet which one thought was an empty pool of water, so cleverly camouflaged were they.

In the advanced dressing-station a major in reply to my question, "Where is the Boche?" said, "Come out and look at him. Be careful to follow me exactly."

I

We wandered over ground cloven with shell-holes, beside which an ancient turnip or two still showed in the broken soil. pointed to them. "Yes," he said. "Somebody's garden-once." And yet there was no sign of a house ever having been built within miles, so complete was the destruction.

Somewhere at the back of us over the battle-field of Messines some light locomotives rattled along and tootled playfully as if it had been Clapham Junction. When

a shell just missed them they tootled louder than ever.

The Major stopt at last and pointed to a thin line of dirty clay and sandbags. "Plenty of Boche field-glasses watching us now," he said cheerfully.

"And what on earth do they make of us?" I asked.

"Working party. If they continue to think so they won't waste a shell on us. If they discover their mistake they may let us know. We won't loiter. Funny beast, the Boche. Pounded our stables last night and thought it war. The horse gets a rotten time out here, shell-shock and that. Two bolted this morning, sheer, absolute shell-shock. I'm a horse-lover, and I hate that sort of thing."

"It's beastly," I said, and remembered some mangled things in Ypres.

Just then Jerry pushed up two or three sausages from behind a distant ridge, the first he had shown hereabouts that day. Spots of white fluff arrived as suddenly and hung lovingly around them. They crept up, these sausages, a few hundred feet, dubiously. Very dubiously. They would halt as if to look about them, as a burglar might when he is climbing the drain-pipe, rise a few hundred yards and pause to look again. In these hesitations and halts was all the demonstration of nerves that had crept into the Boche system. He may have known that he was going to attack in a few hours, but he was very uncertain about his enemy, and about his own skin.

Journeying on down to Arras, where British officers were willing to give betting odds that the first great attack would come, the writer records a small but significant bit of French romance:

I chanced to see amid a string of broken houses some curtains in the lower window of a building which had been crumpled like a silk hat that has been sat upon. "Surely," I remarked to the officer, one lives there!"

66

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"Come and see," he said, and led the way across the street.

He knocked at the door.

A Frenchwoman of about fifty years of age, obviously of gentle birth and breeding, came to the door. At the sight of our visitors she smiled and insisted on our going in.

"He wouldn't believe," the officer told her, pointing to me, "that any one lived here, so I wanted to prove it to him!"

She took us into a small room on the

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This is Mrs. Cynips Tinctoria

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This pleasing blue, after the writing has been exposed to the light, turns to an intense permanent black, and continued exposure to light, which fades. writing made with other types of inks, only intensifies writing made with Carter's Writing Fluid.

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EXPECTANT MOTHERHOOD

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ground floor facing the main street. It had been turned into a bed-sitting-room.

It was the only room in that house, or probably in the street, that had not been smashed to fragments by insistent shellfire. And in it this woman who had been rich before the war lived alone. All her relatives and the owner of the place had been killed in the house and buried in the garden.

But she was not eirely alone. She had with her a woolly dog of uncertain breed, a green-and-red parrot in a cage on the only unbroken chair, and upon the sill of the window sat a ginger cat looking out at the destruction across the street with that mysterious brooding peculiar to its tribe. Stuffed into this room was the salvage of the furniture of the house. In the ceiling was a shell-hole big enough for a man to let himself down through. And on the mantelpiece, shelves, and cabinet were lumps of shell that Madame had picked up at odd times as they had come into the house, including a splinter which was cut out of her own forehead and is her most cherished possession.

"Madame," the officer explained to me, "has refused to go out of her house all through the war. She has stood the German occupation and the continual bombardment, and she won't budge."

At this Madame shook her head and laughed.

"When I go out they will have to carry me," she answered.

She lives there and spends her whole time writing poetry. She has written reams about the valor of her own soldiers, and now, she explained, she had begun to write about the British and Americans.

"And what do you do when the Germans bombard Arras?" I asked her.

"Come and see, m'sieu'." She took me into the hall and opened a door through which I peered down into darkness. "I go in there-the cellar. And pull this table against the door-so. And these chairs so. And I am barricaded in. And if the Germans ever return, I go down with my cat and my parrot and my dog. So we shall live till the English push them out again."

"And how long will you have to endure all this?" I said. A foolish question enough, but one does not speak of their heroism to women like that.

"Oh, m'sieu'," she said, "it will all end some day!"

And that is how "My Lady of Arras" waited for the great offensive.

She was so like France. So sure.

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A few hours later the storm began. All night it raged. Of the next morning, the morning of the fateful 21st of March, 1918, Mr. Flower writes:

The pandemonium was unlike any other pandemonium I have ever heard. The ground moved beneath one's feet-veritably moved. The sun came up in a wide, splendid sky. It seemed the only placid thing above a world that had suddenly gone mad.

The noise it was not so much a noise as a blast that never stopt-appeared to have a well-defined horizon. Nearer sounds, the rumbling of hurrying lorries, the tread of men's feet were inconsequent-they

passed almost unnoticed.

The hour had struck. Germany had come over the top to buy certain stretches of soil for a price that has never been paid for ground in the whole history of the

human race.

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Cheerful News from "Over There."

It's a shame to do it, but public safety impels us to expose the sergeant who is palming off his Mexican border serviceribbon as an American croix de guerre, thereby raising his own holdings of "amourique Amerique" stock in the eyes of petite Madelon.

Even so, sleeping on the rocks has its advantages, for in the rosy days of the future when friend wife turns the lock on our late nocturnal home-coming, we can curl up on the front porch with sleepful abandon.

And when we are in the parlor with our best girl telling her of the great rôle we played in the world-safe-for-democracy drama, we'll not mind it a bit if the passing guard orders," Camouflage those lights!"

So many Yanks are over here now that there is scarcely room to house them, there. by creating the necessity of extending the eastern frontier of this domain of Foch, Pershing, et al.

To our exchange-desk has recently come a copy of the Kriegszeitung, the official organ of the Seventh German Army. The most we can say for the sheet is that it is Boche and bosh.

What gets us guessing is how this daylight-savings plan works out in the land of Eskimos, but we suppose all they have to do is to get up six months earlier each morning..

Elsie Janis danced so gracefully that. after she had alighted from a perfectly stunning flip-flop, a doughboy in the third row was heard to remark: Just like a wheelbarrow I saw in the air after a high explosive hit near it."

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Our staff correspondent who made the trip to Paris is recovering from a rather severe headache.

Cursed be the mule whose braying is like.unto the whistling of a shell.-The Ohio Rainbow Reveille, Official Organ, 166th Infantry, Somewhere in France.

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