against him with unprecedented solidity, he will need a lot of luck.

A great deal depends on the Republican nominee. Apparently Mr. Coolidge has definitely removed himself, and the Republican choice is likely to be Hoover, Lowden, Dawes, or a dark horse. For some reasons the Coolidge retirement diminishes the Smith chances. There is, for example, no other Republican with whose personality he would so favorably contrast. The virile, vibrant, colorful, salty Smith with his intensely human qualities, his sure-fire sense of humor, and his ability to sum up a situation in a phrase that rings, would have been wonderful in opposition to the flat, flavorless, timid, cautious, and supremely solemn Cal. It would have strained every bolt and bar in the Republican propaganda machine to have kept the people from laughing at their candidate which is of course fatal. Also the Coolidge candidacy would have presented the third-term issue, which, regardless of the contempt of the administration office-holders and patronage brokers, is pretty deep in the hearts of the people, and might have gone a considerable distance in offsetting the antiCatholic feeling. The spectacle of a cunning politician twice using the great power of the Presidency and the vast weight of the Federal machine to force a nomination in clear violation of a basic American tradition, might have brought about a helpful revolt. There were, as the impish Senator Moses of New Hampshire recently pointed out, certain signs of sullenness within his party on this subject. On the other hand, no other Republican candidate will likely have quite the solid railroad, financial, business, and banking support of Mr. Coolidge. These "inter

ests" have been frozen behind him for five years, and could not have been shaken. It is extremely doubtful whether they can congeal with the same solidity back of any other. There is no other who suits "Big Business" as well-and never will be. He was-and is-the Big Business idea of an ideal candidate. His very defects charmed them. With Mr. Coolidge out there is, however, no apparent reason why the Republican party will not be united behind its candidate whoever he may be, and certainly no reason to believe he will not as usual have the support of the bulk of the "business interests." It is, however, possible that the "profitless prosperity" which is the naïve name given by Senator David Reed, of Pennsylvania, to the slow-down of business now being experienced, may by 1928 have become much more uncomfortably pronounced. The ranks of the unemployed, already increased over last year, may be still further augmented. In that event the output of the Republican propaganda machine might very easily turn sour and soggy.

But beyond all this "might stuff" the real thing is the capacity of Smith to make a campaign. Time and again, fighting against odds in New York, he has shown a marvellous ability to reach the mind and heart of the average American in a way no other man of this generation has done. As a candidate for President it is conceivable he could do that with the average American the country over. In any event, it would be a different campaign from any that has been waged before and more worth while. It would be a great test for the country. He might upset all political calculations. He's a long shot, but they sometimes win.

I

T always struck me sort of queer how sometimes things can happen when they're the least expected or thought of, and when just being able to live and navigate around seems the greatest privilege in the world something just seems to drop out from under you and of a sudden you're in a fix where you begin to count the minutes you've got left to live in. . . . It seems to me there ought to be some sort of warning so a feller can kind of prepare, or dodge, if he can.

I was riding along one day whistling a tune, my horse was behaving fine and all was hunkydory and peaceful. Ahead a ways I'd noticed a narrow washout and I kept on a riding. I'd rode over many a one of them, and nothing was there to warn me that I should go around this perticular one.

My horse cleared the opening and I was still a whistling, then, of a sudden my whistling stopped short as I felt the earth go out from under my horse's feet, . . . the next thing I know I was in the bottom of a ten-foot washout and underneath twelve hundred pounds of horseflesh.

I was pinned there to stay, and lucky I thought afterward that my whole body wasn't underneath that horse. It could of just as well been that way, only past experiences with horses had saved me and natural instinct had made me try to stay on top of the horse whether he was upside down or right side up. As it was, I was kind of on the side of him, my head was along his neck and only my left hip and leg felt the pinch of the weight.

wide, at the bottom, just enough room for me and that horse to get wedged in nice. The old pony was fighting and bellering and kicking big hunks of dirt down on top of us. I was kinda worried that he might undermine the bank of the washout and have it cave in on us and bury us alive so I grabbed his head and hugged it toward me thinking that would quiet him down and keep him from tearing things up so much. I figgered that if there'd be any squeezing done it would be on the other side, for as it was I sure had no room to spare.

Well, he fought on for quite a spell, then he laid still for a while. If that horse had been good and gentle I could of maybe got him to lay still long enough so I could try and dig myself out with my hands, but just as soon as I'd move to try anything like that he'd let out a snort that sounded mighty loud in that perticular place and go to fighting again.

His hoofs would start flying and tearing things up and what little dirt I'd scraped away with my fingers would be replaced with a few hundred pounds of the side of the washout. I was having a mighty hard time keeping my head clear and out in the air and the dirt kept accumulating and piling up on top of us till there was nothing but part of the horse's legs, still a going, and our heads sticking out.

Then it comes to me that if that horse keeps on a kicking and bringing down more dirt he'd soon be in a fix where his legs would be all buried and he'd have to be still, but I was sure worried about a big hunk of overhanging dirt he might loosen up while doing that. It looked like it weighed at least five tons and I didn't want to think of it dropping down

and possible to get at. With that six-gun I could shoot the horse, there'd be no more dirt coming down and I could easy enough dig myself out with the same gun, and I could take my time about it too.

That was one way and the best one, but I sure didn't want to shoot that horse and decided I wouldn't till I just had to to save him from suffering. Shooting

pleasure in looking for other ways out than just that one.

I kept my eye on the hunk of dirt above my head, and while the pony by me would have another fit once in a while and small piles of dirt would keep a coming down I was finding my breathing capacity getting smaller and smaller. My body was beginning to feel numb from my chest on down

and I felt that the only part of me that was living was from my chest on up.

I thought of the boys I started out from camp with that morning and wondered when they'd miss me and start looking for me, and then once again I thought of my six-gun. If I could get it out and fire a shot once in a while some of 'em would maybe hear.

I'd been digging pretty steady and with just the idea of keeping my right arm and head clear. I knowed that I couldn't get away even if all the dirt was off-the horse was on me and holding me down, but from then on I wanted my gun and I sure went to work for it.

It took me a good hour's time to get it out and my gloves was wore to a frazzle, but I finally managed it, and soon as I shook the dirt out of the barrel I held it straight up and fired. The shot echoed along the washout and sounded like it could be heard for many miles. I waited and listened for an answer and then I noticed where the sun was. It was slanting in where me and my pony was getting buried alive and it was making things all the hotter down there.

By it I figgered it was along about noon, all the boys excepting me would be back to camp from the first "circle" and wouldn't be starting out again for a while. I was about ten miles from camp and when they would start out again I knowed they'd go another direction as all the cattle in the country I was at was run in that morning. The shot I fired had been for nothing.

Riders was often late getting in with cattle and I knowed they hadn't thought. anything had happened to me as yet. I also knowed they wouldn't think anything was wrong till that evening when they gathered in to eat, and till then I thought was an ungodly long time to wait.

And what was more, how was they going to find me if they did start looking. I was sure well hid and they'd have to pretty near know the exact spot where I was located, I could make a noise with my gun of course. . . . All them thoughts was mighty cheerful thoughts not to have, but I couldn't dodge 'em. If only that big ton of dirt above my head hadn't been so threatening things would of been

easier, but there it was as big as death and I couldn't take my eyes away from it.

Finally the sun left us. It was going on west to its setting point and left me still doing some tall thinking. The big horse alongside of me was quiet for good-the dirt had piled up on top of him till his toes disappeared and he had to be still. But his breathing wasn't very good to listen. to so close to my head, and I didn't find it at all inspiring as to ways and means of getting out of there.

Člods of dirt would still keep a falling off and on but there was signs of 'em quitting since the horse had got quiet. It was too late for me to try to dig out though, but I was still at it and at the same time watching that I didn't tickle or jar the side of the bank that held the all-powerful heavy piece of earth.

As I worked and clawed at the dirt and wished for badger claws instead of bleeding fingers I found that my resting spells was coming oftener and stayed longer. It was just as the sun was going down and when I'd took an unusual long rest that I realized I was holding something in my hand that I'd grabbed a hold of when I was ready to quit. It was a clump of rabbit brush that'd fell in from the top with the dirt that'd got loosened-more of it was a hanging up there.

My hand was on my chest as I studied where that piece of brush had come from. I felt a chill run up and down my backbone as I realized that it'd come from no other place than the big hunk of overhanging dirt. It was loosening up.

The thought of that near had me moving, my hand closed in on my shirt just for something to grab a hold of, and as I did that I felt something breaking in my shirt pocket. It was matches.

I held my hand there for a while and done some thinking. I noticed the clump of rabbit brush my hand was still holding and then I looked up ten feet above to where there was lots of the same brush hanging over the edge.

I couldn't think so very fast along about then and I only realized it was dark when I lit a match and it throwed a light, but the rest of the programme didn't need no thinking everything was in front of me to follow and that's what I did.