A MILLIONAIRE'S FRIGHT

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1666, 3 February 1904, Page 19

A MILLIONAIRE'S FRIGHT

(From Our Own Correspondent.) ' ’ “ LONDON, December 18.

Taking one thing with another, an American millionaire’s life does not seem to bo a very happy one these days. They have top take all sorts of precautions in their walks abroad which we. who would only be too pleased to take Consul rate of interest on their incomes for our own incomes, need not trouble about. A friend who recently visited Mr J. D.. Rockefeller at his country seat in Ohio describes the oil king as playing golf over private links surrounded by a high steel fence, and guarded by a small army of stalwart green-coated henchmen, who promptly chase any stranger off the premises. ‘Last month,” said the friend, “I was playing with John when a serving man gave a yell, ‘Look out!’ and the next thing I knew. John had dropped his brassey and was off down the hill like a whirlwind. Looking arouiyl to see what was the trouble, I caught sight ot a figure flying over the knoll hack of tus, with something black waving in his hands, and a six-footer coining behind* him like a steam-engine. Then I started alter John, and found him in the bushes by the first tree. I crawled' in near him. and T tell you we were both pretty badly soared. John was wondering whether the crank would throw the bomb before Peter caught him, when, suddenly Peter appeared over the hill with the fellow by the coat collar. We coul/l see the anarchist had a bottle in his hand, and John yelled out, ‘Hey, Peter. Stop where you are and l —and destroy the bomb or do someth ng, you fool.’ Then the anarchist slang out, ‘Mr Rocky-fell or, I believe. Well, 1 have here —’ and lie held up the bottle, but before ho could throw it Peter had jerked him back, and the bottle flow out of his hands and up in the air. When wo took cur heads out of the bushes again, we saw some rod liquid spattered about on the grass. John came out cautiously, looked at the broken glass, and said, ‘Thank God.’ Then he went up to the anarchist and sad, ‘lour bomb, sir, didn’t work, it seems.’ ‘Bomb!’ said the anarchist, ‘your servant, sir, has destroyed my magical hair oil. But allow me, Mr Rocky-feller to •” Tou bet, John and I were through with golf for that day.”