A MILLIONAIRE'S FRIGHT

New Zealand Times, Volume LXXVI, Issue 5199, 13 February 1904, Page 15

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 to take all sorts of precautions in thoir walks abroad which we, who would only bo too pleased to take Consul rate of interest on their incomes for our own incomes, need nob trouble about. A friend who recently visited Air 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 chaso any stranger off tho premises. •Last month,” said tho friend, “1 was playing with John when a serving man gave a yell, ‘Look out!’ and tho next thing I know John had [dropped his brassoy and was off down the lull like a whirlwind. Looking arounfl to seo what was the trouble, I caught sight of a figure flying over the knoll back of ns, with something black waving in his hands, and a six-footer coming behind 1 him like a steam-engine. Then I started after Jolm. and found him in tho bushes by the first tree. I crawled in near him, and I tell you wo were both pretty badly scared. John was wondering wdiether the crank would throw tho bomb before Peter caught him, when suddenly Petor appeared over the bill with tho fellow by tho coat collar. We conl,d seo tho anarchist had a bottle in his hand, and John yelled out, ‘Hey, Peter. Stop where you aro and—and destroy tho bomb or do someth ng, you fool.’ Then tho anarchist sung out, ‘Mr Rooky-feller, I t*elievo. Well, I have hero —’ and he held up tho bottle, but before bo could throw it Peter had jerked him back, and the buttle, flew out of his hands and up in the air. When wo took aur heads out of the bushes again, wo saw some red liquid spattered about on tho grass. John came out cautiously, looked at the broken glass, and said, ‘Thank God.’ Then bo went up to tho anarchist and said, ‘Your bomb, sir, didn’t work, it seems.’ ‘Bomb!’ said tho anarchist, ‘your servant, sir, lias destroyed my magical hair oil. But allow me, Air Hocky-fellor to —” Y'ou bet, John and I were through with golf for that day.”