The semi-weekly messenger. [volume] (Wilmington, N.C.) 1897-1908, 1905-03-10

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d a money-getter. and il was re
marked that there were few days in
the month when John Walton did %
carry something to town TO sell-eggs.
chickens, butter. or, in season, fruit or
vegetables He always drove the light
,~one-norse wagon to cown himself, and
sold out his load. His son never show.
1eo MS face in the town. though some
OF the farm hands said that he seem
ed TO be in the best OF health. and per
sons passing along the road saw him
ET0inS rapidly across the fields. and
even cutting wood down by the barn.
Nearly three years had passed since
the W~altons. father and son, had
nlighted from the stage in front Of tic
motel that winter morning, and early
fall had come. m day John Walton
drove his wagon, laden with farm
truck, apples, peaches and grapes, up
to the pavement of the hotel, which
twas naturally one OF his best cusaon-
.ers- A New York drummer named
IEdward Tate was sitting at a windog
looking upon the street from the hotel
IofTice, reading a newspaper. Casually
tglancing up, an expression Of perplex-
ed attention came over his face as his
EYE rested on the produce wagon ara1
the farmer, with his face turned TO him
talking to the hotel proprietor. This
repression gave way to one of pleased
surprise, as the drummer rose hastily
ITO his feet, and went III through the
front door. by which time the farmer
had turned his lack, and was taking
something from the wagon. Tate step
ped up and slapped him on the Shout
der, exclaiming: ''Jere Wilson, how
Ibid you come down into this part of
the world, and a farmer at that" Wal
ton visibly shrank from the rough salu-
~ttatio1, but he slowly turned, and with
every feature as fixed as if carved III
stone, said slowly: You are mistaken,
My name is John Walton; I do no.
know you,'' Great Scott cried the
drummer, don't know me, Edward
fTate. raised with you from a boy in
never removed his eyes from the others
face, as he reiterated in a sturdy voice:
F'You've got the wrong a I never
was in Poughkeepsie, New York, in all
my life. and 1 never set eyes on you
before that I know Of" Saying this,
The his wagon n drove eff.
fTate stood looking after him dunno
founded as he went on down the street.
then turned ON his heel. and re-enteccd
1.-THE hotel, saying: well! that beats
lme! I'll be damned if I am mistaken
Ieither!'
Tate made inquiries concerning Wa
ton, or Jere Wilson, as he swore was
ibis real name and finding the hotel
tclerk was filling that position When the
stranger first made his appearance,
mailing from Indiana, ne even induced
him to go into an old lumber room aid
Hook Up the register in use at that time.
fThe names of job H. Walton and his
son OF the book he scrutinized very
closely, and questioned the clerk partic-
lularly about the younger mar seeming
Ito be especially impressed with the fact
THAT the latter arrived at the hotel SICK
land wrapped up, that he kept his room
Iup to the time of his departure for the
farm, n so preserved his incognitio
THAT not a person about the hotel mad
ANY idea what sort of looking man he
Twas. The New York drummer asked
where Walton's farm was situated, how
Hong after his arrival before the ap-
Ipearance Of his wife and daughter; and,
lin fine, displayed an absorbent inter-
lest ia everything connected with them.
1T am convinced now though" said
Tate alta last, that I was mistaken.
land that this is no the Jere Wilson of
la blind Tate meant mischief. That
might a letter was dropped into the
~ipostoffice thus addressed:
Chief of Police,
Poughkeepsie,
confidential. N. Y.
[ will let a northern newspaper tell
1.-THE rest of the story. About one month
latter Edward Tate met John H. Wal
ton with his wagon in front of the no
ltel, h following appeared in a lea J.
ling daily journal of New York city:
"MURDEREiR STILL AT LARGE'
IAbe and Jere Wilson Again Too Sharp
for the P~olice.-Second Escape from
Arrest.
THE readers Of this paper may re-
member the sensational murder III
Poughkeepsie, ABOUT three years ago,
where Abe Wilson killed a companion
lin the curse of an alteration in a bar
room in that city, and the still more
sensational escape of Wilson from JUS
tice, aided by his father, Jere Wilson,
a Well-to-do and respected citizen, who
displayed the most consummate skill
land art in utterly battling the police,
land ~effecting the mysterious disappear
lance of his son as completely as if the
learth had swallowed him, and follow
ling him in twenty-fOur hours. 1t will
lbe recalled, too, that the elder Wilson.
besides the task of completely hiding
ihis son from the authorities, managed
Ito convert his whole estate safely into
leash, n hat his wife and daughter
shortly followed the father n son.
the whereabouts Of the whole family
lbeing INC up to the present time.
This paper has come into the pos
session of the facts from the lips OF the
IPoughkeepsie chief of police, of the de-
inouement, unsatisfactory as it is, Of
the nine days wonde and sensation
in the beautiful town on the Hudson
three years ago.
"Abount a month since a New York
travelling salesman named Edward
Tate, a native of Pougnkeepsie, whose
fathers family still live there, saw in
Ia town in eastern North Carolina
|Jere Wilson, passing under the name
LOT John II. Walton. Under this alias
The had made his appearance in the
Iplace about three years ago, just after
1.-THE Poughkeepsie homicide, hailing
from Indiana, accompanied by a young
imam whom he called his son, and Sol
ilowed after an interval by his wife and
daughter. He had bought a valuable
farm, where he vas living with his
family; but, through the whole three
Years, the son had never appeared OH
1.-THE streets of the town, and, not TWEEN
|ty people had ever seen his ace. Tate