Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, March 22, 1893, Image 1
IjKWIS >1. GRIST, Propi'ietor. j Jwlepriulent <d?imilp JJeirspaper: ^ the promotion of the' political, Social, 3tgi;iciiltural and Commercial Jntrrosts of the ,^outh. jTERMS?$3.00 A YEAR IX ADVANCE,
fc VOL. 39. * YOEKVILLE, S. C., VEI>jsrESDA.Y, MARCH g?>, 1893. NO. 1'2.
? ? <
BY JAMES KJ
[Copyright, 1SJI2, by American Pres
CHAPTER VIII.
As time passed he grew more and
more depressed, and would sit for hours |
brooding over the remembrance of those
dreary years. Lina watched him with
i?J 4. ?
teuueieai wuumuc.
"You must have some change," she i
Baid at last. "You must get out of |
yourself. Why do you not go away for ;
a time? You might go down and see
George."
He looked at her a long time without j
answering, then he said slowly:
"Yes, that will be best. I should have 1
known it before. I will go away."
"Will you go down and see George?" j
"No. I am afraid I should hate him
if I saw him happy and prosperous and ,
. contented."
L "Why, that is what you wanted; that '
is what you did it for.""
"Yes, I know; that is what 1 wanted, |
but that is not why 1 did it. But 1 will j
go; perhaps that will be best."
"And you Tfrill come back again be- j
fore long, will you not?"
He had got up anil was holding her I
hand in silent farewell. He looked at J
her searchingly and made a movement i
as if to draw her toward him. Then he !
raised her hand to his lips, let it fall |
again gently and wont away.
The trip south did not serve much to !
divert him. He felt a sense of isolation J
from his fellow passengers; felt as if in j
some way he were a marked man; fancied
that they could discern from his
bearing that he had been in prison. This j
made him morose, and more than once I
he was inclined to turn back. But he !
kept on, finally deciding that he would j
go down where George was, get his j
money out of the business as soon as !
possible and go abroad, where no one j
wonld know him.
After he had crossed the Mexican line i
he began to take more interest in his
surroundings. He liked the genial
warmth of the climate, even the hot,
> glaring sunshine when it reflected back j
from the saudy soil at midday. It was ,
in such blessed contrast to the dull, cold j
and ever gloomy interior of the prison. |
He would like to lie dowu there in the j
sand and bask in the sunlight as the |
brown, half naked children did. Ho [
liked the dark, friendly, ignorant faces J
of the pecple, so full of human interest
were they, so in contrast with the
brutal, vicious types with which he had
been so long surrounded. Sometimes
*? he wondered if his own face had taken
on such a lowering cast as theirs. He
had heard that one would grow to resemble
those whom they were constant- j
ly about.
How would George receive him?
Would he be grateful for all that had
been done for him, or would he look 1
down upon his brother because he had ,
been in prison? These thoughts tor- i
mented him so that he stopped in his
journey and gave himself up to them, j
and idled and hesitated for a week when
^ only a day's journey distant from the
end. But at last lie summoned up all
his resolution and went ou. Pie would ,
put the matter to its final test.
"Duty is duty," he snld.
It seemed strange that he must inquire I
for himself?for Ogden Chalmers?but I
this was one of the j>enalties. He had |
given up his own name for another, and
that other was only a number upon the
records of a prison.
He found the office of Ogden Chalmers
easily enough; a clean, busy, bustling '
looking broker's office in a good part of
the city, and he found Ogden Chalmers,
there too?a suiug, respectable, successful
looking man of business.
Chalmers could find no fault with his
brother's greeting. He had recognized
him at once, and with arms about his
neck had dragged him iuto the private
office and closed the door behind them. '
"Dear old boy," he said, "I have been
afraid you wouldn't come."
"There was no other place for me to
go," answered the other without emotion.
"I have lost touch with the world."
"Yes, you have been out of it a long !
time, and all for me." Then with a
sudden outburst of feeling he went on: i
"Look here, Ogden, have you thoughti
I would be ungrateful, that I wouldn't;
appreciate it? I know it looked so when !
I let you do it all. But I couldn't help I
that; I wasn't strong enough morally.
And I knew that term there would
wreck me, unman me, make a brute of
me like the rest of them. I could see it j
all before me. But you had more resist- '
anceinvou. I knew you would come
through unharmed."
"Yes; it hasn't hurt me in the least,"
returned the other.
"No, I don't mean that. Of course it
hurts any man to live in such a devil's
hole. But I knew it wouldn't lower you
morally."
"Yes: the associations are elevating."
"This isn't like you, Ogden," said the
younger man quietly. "But I don't
blame you. I know it was more than
if you had given your life for me?more
to me than to barely have given me life
But I would like to make you understand
that I am sensible of this, that 1
am not ungrateful, for indeed I am not.
Whatever I can do now in the way of
money or position or name"
He stopped suddenly there for a moment
and then went on.
"Why, of course; or name, either.
For the very name I am using here is a
borrowed one, is yours, like all the rest?"
"I don't know that I want it. A number
does as well as a name. Number
thirteen hundred and seventy-six souuds
pretty well: don't you think so?"
The younger brother placed his hands
affectionately on the other's shoulders. .
"I see, Ogden," he said,"it's the disgrace, ;
as you fancy it. that has hurt you. It
ought not to. You did nothing wrong: .
if you had been in iny place, now."
The last was an unfortunate sentence.
It stirred all the deep, rankling, ugly
memories that Chalmers had been struggling
so wildly to keep down.
"In his place!" Had he not been there
through long, weary days of prison toil,
?through longer, drearier and more
hideous nights of restless tossing upon
his prison bed. praying for the coming
of the morning light? And then, when 1
it had come, praying again for night,
that the pall of darkness might hide his
misery at least from sight. And so for
days and months and years no thought
Put this?that so much of his life might
speed by into eternity. And now this
man, for whom he had done it. talked
of "doing something" in return?of
money and position. Did he not know
that if he should grovel before him for i
all his life he could not make up for the
bondage of those years?
r is t*
H?
JAPP REEVE.
is Association.]
Chalmers had repressed himself so
long that it had grown to be habit, second
nature almost. But now hot, bitter
words, taut: insults, curses, began
to form themselves in his mind and leap
for utterance. He would let them have
way for once; he would humiliate this
sleek, prosj)erous man of the world before
him; and then he would go away,
he cared not whither. He would not
be truculent; he would look him squarely
in the eye while he told him every
bitter word, even to the last one.
He looked up. resolved and intent
upon his purpose. But just inside the
door which had been closed behind them
stood another man, a stranger. George
recognized his presence at the same instant,
and turned angrily upon the intruder.
' What is your business, sir?" he demanded.
"This is our private office."
"Very well. My business is private;
at least I suppose you would rather have
it so."
"What do you want?"
For answer the man threw back the
lapel of his coat, disclosing the bright
shield of an officer.
"1 hope we won't have any trouble,
gentlemen," ho said obsequiously. "I'll
do this business as quietly as I can. I
have papers for the arrest and extradition
of George Chalmers, wanted for
escaping from the Columbus penitentiary
February ?, 18?."
He stepped forward and placed his
hnnrl rmrm tlin slinnldpr nf t lirt nlrlpr tnm>
"I believe you are my man," he said.
Chalmers was about to shake the fellow
off indignantly and exclaim as to
his real identity, when he was arrested
by a sudden movement of his brother.
"Stop," he said calmly, "I am George
Chalmers. Now explain yourself."
The officer looked from one to the
other suspiciously.
"Play fair now, will ye, gents:" he
slid, " 'cause I don't intend to let either
of you get away, at least not until I'm
sure of my bird."
"Don't be afraid," returned the other
contemptuously. "Now explain this
business,"
"Well," said the detective, still eying
the two men questioningly, as if trying
to establish their identity in his own
mind, "you may remember a little exchange
of prisoners that was made in
cell number thirteen hundred and seventy-six
one night somo years ago. I
was on duty in the prison then, and have
had my suspicious ever since and have
been trying to follow 'em up. But,
you see, 1 couldn't find out where the
one that went away had gone; so I just
waited till the time of the other one was
up, naturally supposing he'd follow the
first one then."
"But what do you want now? The
state has been satisfied, because the sentence
of prisoner number thirteen hundred
and seventy-six has been served in
full."
It was Ogden Chalmers who said this,
and he spoke with so much repressed
passion in his voice that the officer
nrwni*> r>v\/l rvni'A Ui it l/\nf# 1aa1?
luiucu a^am auu nun a auij^ iuua.
"I guess you're the one that served
most of it," he finally said; "you've got |
the prison look. A man never quite gets I
rid of it after so long a term. Then it's
the other one I want. But you do look
uncommonly alike."
? "Yes." said George Chalmers impatiently.
"I am the one. Let me see if |
your papers are all right."
As the officer opened and began to I
read the warrant, Ogden arose and ,
crossed over by his brother.
"Let him take me, George," he wliis- j
pered. "It won't make any difference,
and I shall be as well off there as here.
Didn't you hear what he said? 'I have
the prison look.' Let me go back again.
Then the past won't have been wholly
in vain."
"It has not been in vain; believe that, ;
Ogden, whatever happens now. But :
you shall not go back; I am not weak
enough to allow that." George clasped I
his brother's hand firmly as lie spoke.
"I must?there is no other place for
me," insisted the other. "1 will go i
quietly; there will be no disturbance? |
nobody here will know."
"No, no. Ogden. I have been a crimi- j
nal once and a coward once, but 1 will i
not do this. If either of us must go it j
shall be me, and do you stay here, with j
your own name and your own interests.' j
"Sorry to interrupt you, gents," said
me omcer, coming nearer uiem. At tne
same time he drew a pair of handcuffs j
from his pocket. "Duty is duty," he
said, "if it is mighty unpleasant sometimes,
and until we can settle which of
you is which I guess I'll have to make
sure of both." As he spoke he extender
the handcuffs toward the cider brother !
meaningly.
For a moment there was again a fierce (
contest of passion in Chalmers' breast.
All the hot hatred of his nature against
wrong and injustice and oppression, so ;
long restrained, leaped up and took form
in the sudden movement of his strong
right arm. For an instant he thought
to fell this man who had dared to offer !
him this insult to the earth, but in a t
moment he had mastered himself again j
and put out his hands in submission.
The man moved nearer to place the circlet
of steel about his wrists, when
George Chalmers' arm came like a flas li
of lightning between them and the fel- 1
low went down like a stone before it.
"That was not wise," said the older i
man quietly. "It was not worth while.
I thought of it?wanted to do it; but it
will only prolong the matter?make it
worse." Then lie looked steadily at his
brother, as if considering the whole j
affair. "But I am glad you did it," he
said finally. "I know now that you
care. I was beginning to doubt that as
the fellow came in."
" I am glad you believe it," said Hie
other simply, "only I wish 1 could
prove it better than this : I suppose now j
we must see to this fellow."
He went to the door and gave some
quick directions to a clerk, then came j
back and sat down beside his brother. ;
"I have sent for my lawyer and for an
American doctor," he said.
These soon came. The physician examined
the man, who lay in a stupor I
where he had fallen.
" He is not badly hurt," he said. " We
will get him off to the hospital, and no
use of any fuss about it."
Meantime the lawyer had examined I
the papers that wore scattered about the |
floor.
"These are all palpable forgeries," he
said; "the fellow is evidently a blackmailer.
I can take care of him for you
?if he gets safely out of the hands of j
our friend, the doctor."
CHAPTER IX.
This little incident of the attempt at i
blackmail seemed to make an impression
upon Chalmers that was out of all
due proportion to its importance, but on
the whole its effect was for good. It
turned out that the man was himself the
guard who had been on duty at the
prison the night of the exchange; he had
found out, too late, that he had been
duped, but was afraid on his own acrvmnt
tlifin tn ovimsn the matter.
After the expiration of the substitute's
term he 1ih<1 followed the thii^t up as a
private speculation, thinking the brothers
would buy his silence at a good figure.
Before he was ready to leave the
hospital he was thoroughly frightened
into the abandonment of his scheme anil
his future silence insured by Chalmers'
lawyer, who promised him a good long |
term in prison himself fur the attempt
at blackmail and for personating an ofti- ;
cer if ho should ever meddle with the '
j I
j "Do you love mc.Oadcu?" she asked sojtly.
matter again.
George, after this, with the ready !
carelessness with which lie dismissed [
I most serious matters in life, gave it 110 1
further thought; but with Ogden it was j
different, and seemed never absent from |
his mind. He delighted to recur to the
i whole scene, and would linger especially j
| upon his brother's action when he threw
himself with such tigerish ferocity upon j
i the man that he had nearly killed him j
; with a single blow.
1 "I was doing you injustice, George," j
he would say. "1 had brought myself j
to think you didn't care; that was why !
I was so willing to go back."
"I am glad you know now," George :
would answer each time and then would {
let the subject drop. One day, however, J
1 he took up the subject of their personal
relations himself.
"I wish you would make up your mind i
to go into things here," he said. "You ;
1 would be happier, better contented, if j
j you could assimilate yourself with the j
I life here. It is a full, free, wholesome !
j life; perhaps not quite so prudish as that
of the north. If it was, of course Leonie j
j wouldn't be here with me: but it's a life j
that suits me."
This was the first time that Leonie's
name had been mentioned between them,
and in answer to Ogden's look of inquiry
his brother went on:
"I guess that is the only thing in
which 1 ilidn't do as you said. But I
didn't send for her, Ogdeu, until after 1
had made some money of my own. and i
then I spent and risked only that."
j "We will let that pass," returned the ,
other. "Perhaps 1 went as much* too
far in one way as you did the other. You i
were made to live your own life out in !
your own way, and I am glad you are
having the chance. The reason 1 was so
hard on you in that was because it was ;
wrong toward Lina Tennant."
"I was not fit for her, and perhaps the
only way she could ever have seen it
was just this way. And I did hope, old \
fellow, that matters would all come |
right between you and her. i thought j
that was what you went to Cleveland j
for."
"Maybe it was. 1 don't know."
George wanted to ask another question,
but hesitated, because it coined like
trying to force his broth: mfidence.
Finally his curiosity preva..e l.
"How much does she know." he asked.
. "of this whole matter?"
"Everything. She was at Columbus
when I was released."
"Good heavens! and she had come to
meet me as she promised."
"No; only to tell you goodbv."
"She knew part of the story, then?" .
"Yes; and then I could not help telling
her the rest. I would not have done
it if I could have helped."
"And then?"
"That is all. There is nothing more
to tell."
"And you did not tell her, then, that
you had cared for her all your life?"
"No; how could I?" Chalmers gave a
suggestive shrug that implied the memory
of all those hated years.
"She should have made you: she
should have thrown herself at you. She
would at first have cared more for you
than for me if you had not always so
persistently exalted me to her."
This and other conversations in the
same lino led to no end, and as time ;
passed Chalmers sank further and fur- |
ther back into the state of listless de- i
Bpondency. From this he only emerged ;
at times to speak of the affair with the !
psuedo officer, and to thapk his brother j
again for the timely blow struck in his j
defense. It was the only thing the poor
fellow could remember having been done
for him in long years by any human be- :
ing, and the reason why it was done, j
The attending circumstances, even tho
original fault behind it all that was cer- ,
tainly not his, all these sank into insig- j
niticance besides the one central fact
that it had been done. No words could '
have told him so eloquently that his !
brother did care for liim, and he had
been longing strangely for human love
and sympathy.
George noted with alarm his brother's
growing despondency and exerted himself
without avail to find means of di
verting him. The business was extending
rapidly, and some matters in Eng- j
land finally demanding personal attention,
he suggested the trip to Ogdon.
The latter agreed to it with more readiness
than his brother had expected, but
without any apparent anxiety for the
change. As he went into the details of .
the business that would employ him,
however, he gave himself with all his
old time thoroughness to their mastery.
"1 hope the trip will be pleasant and
that it will do you good," said George,
as they clasped hands cordially at parting.
"1 don't know that 1 am ill,' was the
answer, "but it may give me something
besides myself to think of."
He went northward by rail, and was
to take steamer from New York. As lie
neared that city lie could not resist the
temntation to turn aside for a stop at
Cleveland. He did not know that he
should go to see Lina Tennant?thought
probably that he should not, but he
wanted to be near her once more. He
had some idea that he might stay
nbroad: in that event it world be just
as well to see her. and say goodbv. By
the time he readied Cleveland he had
fully decided on this, so he went to her I
at once.
Miss Tennant was shocked at his up I
pearance.
"Have you been ill?" she asked.
"No: I am very well."
She waited for him to go on, to say
something of himself; but he sat passively
and looked steadily at her. It became
embarrassing.
"Did you find George well?"
"Yes: very well, very happy, very
contented."
"Did you enjoy your stay there?"
"No: 1 enjoy nothing. All places are
the same to me. But a pleasant thing
happened." His face lightened up with
the memory as he recalled it.
"What was that?" she asked expectantly.
"George nearly killed a man forme."
Miss Tennant shuddered.
"That was horrible," she said.
"1 tell you it was fine," lie cried. "It
is so good to know that one will do
something for you. I shall never forget
that."
"But there are other and better .hings
to do for one."
"1 don't know what they are," he said
moodily. "George is a splendid fellow.
He would have killed the man quite if I
had wanted him to."
"You are not yourself when you talk
in this way," said Lina. "You hurt i
me."
"I don't want to do that. There are
hurts enough in the world now," lie an- j
swered.
"Poor fellow," she breathed softly.
"Don't," he said impatiently: "don't
do that. 1 don't want to be pitied. ,
Don't pity me. 1 can't stand that."
"Oh, how von have suffered!" she I
1 continued, not heading his appeal. "Does
George understand'/"
"Yes. He would not let?that?be
done again: he cares for 111c now."
"And do you think that no one else
cares for you'/"
For a moment the blood tingled in his
I veins, and he bent toward her with a
quick, searching look. But he was
quickly himself again?calm, composed,
expecting nothing. He would not let
himself be deluded again by any fancy.
He would expect nothing, hope for nothing,
from any man or woman. Then
there would come no more disappointment.
"No," he said shortly, "I don't expect
any one else to. That man he struck
said I had the 'prison look'?that 1
would always have it. One can't care
for a man with the 'prison look.'"
"Yes, 1 can; I do, Ogden. 1 can't
bear to see you like this."
"No, you can't care for me; you pity
roughly given, and the voice was a man's.
"You mean you won't. Kate, and
there's an end of it."
Then the girl whispered something
that J did not catch, but I could hear
the man half push her from him as he
exclaimed:
"I am a ruined man without it, and
you won't lift a finger to save me."
This, would never do; they evidently
fancied me still asleep, and would be
talking over all sorts of private affairs, so
I coughed, moved uneasily, rustled my
newspaper, and, as the first distant
gleam showed that the train was nearing
daylight, planted myself firmly in
my corner prepared for apology or defenso,
and when we rushed out of the
darkness found myself absolutely alone.
This was absurd: I had been asleep,
indeed, but yet, as I looked around and
turned to the window to see trees and
Sclds gliding past, 1 knew I was wide
awake now, and began to dislike the
situation. For I still heard the two talking,
though not so clearly, and could
only conclude that they were in the compartment
occupied by the racing set,
that these last hud got out at the station
we had evidently passed while I slept,
and that their places were filled by the
two whose voices reached me with such
unnatural distinctness. And yet how
improbable that the men who were so
evidently going to the races had got out
before the junction. Horror! 1 thought,
the blood rushing to my face at the bare
idea, I cannot have slept past the junction
too! No, my watch showed that 1
had not been forty minutes in the train.
I pulled myself together and looked
around.
The carriage in which 1 sat was old
and dirty, as 1 have said: opposite to
me, just where, with my eyes shut, 1
could swear that a man and a girl sat
talking, the dingy brown cloth was
I me, tnat s an, ne answered nioouny.
He got up to go. Lina placed her
hand in his.
"You will come and see me again,
will you not, tomorrow?"
"Did 1 not tell you? I am going away
?to England."
"At once?"
"1 had meant to start tomorrow."
"Must you? Is there any need?"
"There is 110 hurry. Nothing that I
do is important."
"Then you will see me again?"
Ho promised and went away.
Once more by himself and there began
an hour of struggle as bitter as any that
had come before in the whole course of
Chalmers' life. When Lina Tennant
had said that she did care for him it had
demanded the whole strength of his nature
to keep from reaching out and taking
her in his anns and telling her the
wholo story of his love, and how the
sacrifice of those long years had been
made for her sake. Now lie thought
over her words and the look in her deep
eyes, and if he could have divested himself
of the harrowing belief that her
kindness had been only prompted by
pity lie would have gone back then and
asked her to be his wife.
Ho walked 011 and 011 through the
long night. Should lie ever he able to
throw off this feeling of abasement that
was now always with him?to hold up
lii3 head among men, to believe that lie
could be valued by them at his real
worth, instead of being pitied and
shunned because of what he had been?
He wished lie might never have to see
men any more. The stars shining above
him were quiet and congenial companions.
They asked no questions; they
let their light shine out as freely for
him as for any.
He stopped beside the still river and
watched the reflection of the si;ars in its
6ilent bosom.
"A man might go down there," lie
thought, "and sleep with them and be
quiet and still and content forever. I
wonder if that would not be best after
all?"
But no; that would not be right toward
George, who had sent him on this
business and trusted him with it. He
would attend to that first; then, maybe,
he might?rest.
And then George would care, too; I10
knew that now?had known it over since
he struck that detective fellow.
Lina had said she cared too. But did
she? How could he tell? Siie had done
nothing for him. Perhaps she had never
had the chance; well, he would give her
one now; lie would ask her to marry
him and go to England with him.
He found his way back to the hotel,
and with this new resolve firm in his
mind slept long and well. Then he arose,
bathed and dressed with unusual deliberation
and went to her again, keeping
his errand steadily before him.
She made it easy enough for him
doubtless, but lie had 110 longer his old
steadfastness of will. She saw his hesitancy.
"You came to ask me something,"she
said. "Is there anything you want? Is
there anything I can do for you?"
"Yes, there is something I want. I
want you."
Womanlike, she could not resist playing
with him at the last.
"Why, you have ine now," she said.
"I will stay here with you as long as j
you like, and 1 wish you would come
here often."
"Yes, but 1 want more. 1 came to
?sk you to marry me, but I won't do it
how." He spoke moodily, and voice and
manner were without the fire of passion
or of love. "No, I won't do it," lie repeated,
"for if you should it would bo
from pity?not from love."
He did not look at Lina, hut let his
gaze wander restlessly about, and spoke
again, half to himself.
"You won't do it, though, even from
pity," lie said, "because I am an cx-convict,
a 'prison bird;' because I've got the j
prison look.' " He laughed bifterly. f
Lina rose and came toward iiim, drop- !
ping 011 her knees beside his chair. "Do
you love me, Ogden?" she asked softly
"I love you. Perhaps I have always
loved you."
Ogden looked at her carnesllv. Then
he rose to his feet and lifted her with
him.
"Do you mean it, Lina?"
"Yes." m
There was a new light in Chalmers'
eyes as he bent down and kissed her;
new spirit and courage and manliness.
"My time is out now, Lina," lie said. "I ;
shall never regret the past again. I am j
well repaid."
THE END.
THE EMPTY COMPARTMENT.
I am not a racing man, and therefore
looking at others through myself
after the manner of my kind 1 did not
imagine that I should be delayed 011 my
journey homeward by the fact that the
ilnv up inv ri'tnvn was tlm irrrnt dav at
F races.
A fortnight of my slimmer holiday |
had been devoted to fly Ashing on eer- j
tain well preserved streams in north J
Wales. 1! had Ashed from tiie bank, 1
had waded through mountain torrents-, ;
and every evening had come back tired
and happy, and laden with silver brown i
treasures, jeweled with specks of am- !
her and vermilion.
And now the nets were up r.t sea and 1
was waiting, waiting for the great salm- '
on that were surely hurrying toward me. j
For dnvs 1 had nictured tin i coming, !
had stood by a pool through which they ,
must pass, had studied the tiy, gaudy, J
but not too gaudy, with a glint of pea- I
cock amid its pheasant's coloring, and j
one touch of crimson in the silk which
bound it, which no salmon of any curi- I
osity could resist.
And just then, just when 1 had heard ,
of fish six miles below me, when weather j
was perfect and long patience about to j
be rewarded, a telegram summoned mo i
home and blackness settled upon every- i
thing.
The landlord sympathized with me at j
the little Angler's inn, where I was i
staying, but when I told him the serious
nature of my telegram he did not like to
refer to the pleasures that j.waited me
if 1 remained, but only pointed out the
dangers on my path if I left, "Those
dreadful F races!"
One train only would get me to Lon- j
dun that night: by starting at once 1 !
could run to an important junction, a j
couple of hours away, change there and j
be in town by eight or nine o'clock. ' j
Now this junction was on the direct ,
line to F races.
I reached the station a trifle late, for !
it had been quick work to take my rods j
to pieces and get my flies that were on
the casts tenderly into my book. IIow- '
ever, I was in time, and found a rather
noisy set of h.ulf. a dozen men on the [
platform whom 1 took to be bookmakers,
why I cannot say, as I do not know any '
signs to distinguish a bookmaker when j
I see him, and 1 may be mistaken.
I gathered that one train had passed I
somewhat stained, and tlieie was a long,
jagged slit, apparently cut with a knife,
out of which the stuffing of the cushion
hung miserably.
This slit would account for the distinctness
of the voices I heard. 1 argued
with a sophistry 1 would have
scorned in another. No, it would not
account for it, urged common sense;
but it must, or my eyes were playing
me false.
Just as I decided this, half hearted];-,
a loud guffaw from the racing men assured
me that they at least were still in
the other compartment.
Then where were my two companions?
Talking in whispers, pleading, disputing,
with four or five rough, noisy men,
side by side with them, their voices
coming to me through the horrible jagged
cut in the faded cloth opposite. Or
?or where? Here with me, not to be
seen, though 1 rubbed my eyes and
looked out of the window, and forced
myself to look back at the spot where
the voices sounded, just above that horrible
slit in the cloth. For it was horrible.
1 confessed this to myself at last,
and drew my feet up on the seat of the
carnage and felt the cold dampness of
fear creep down my face as I heard a
girl's voice, hoarse and eager, as it
seemed to me, striving for calmness
against growing terror.
"Listen, Harry," she said. "This
money is not mine. You do not understand,
so I must tell you, though it isniv
father's secret. He has owed this sum
for ten years, and for ten years has
worked and saved and starved for it.
Little by little he has gathered it all,
and I have watched him growing older
and paler and seen the stoop in his
shoulders and the dimness in his eyes
until, Harry, my heart has nearly broken
for pity. But a week ago the last pound
was put in th? bank and he was free."
"A week ago," the man's voice muttered
harshly; "and why not have paid
it a week aim and have saved toiimtiiiL'
me':"
The last words were said so low that
I scarcely heard them, and the girl took
no notice of them, and hardly even answered
his question.
"It was for my brother's sake, dear,
tho brother you never know, who is
dead, and who, but for his father, would
be disgraced as well. He was weak,
poor fellow, in body and mind. Ho was
a clerk, and betted and lost, Harry;" !
and the poor little voice grew so pitiful j
here that I could fancy I saw pleading j
eyes raised to the other's face, "and he ,
took money, two hundred pounds, from |
his master and"
"Two hundred pounds!" Tho shout
with which these words were uttered
made mo tremble. "Never mind the |
story, Kate; tell it to me another time; i
it's common enough, God knows! Where
is the money?"
"No, Ilarry?no," she panted; "you
shall not havo it. My fathei? Oh.
Harry, let mo tell you. My father went
to Frank's master and pleaded for him.
he swore that if lie would forgive the
boy he himself would pay tho money
back, and at last it was agreed. Frank
went to Australia and died there a year
after, and my father worked on, faith
ful to his promise.
"Half way through the time he took
one hundred pounds,to Frank's master.
through too full for them to get seats,
and I heard one say to the station master,
"Look here, I gave you a good tip. and
| it's hard lines if you don't put a carriage
on for self and friends if the next's as
' full as the last."
"The next" was full, if about six
above the usual number in each com;
partment constitutes repletion, and the
1 station master's gratitude led to the run:
ning out of an old carriage from a shed,
j into one compartment of which jumped
"self and friends."
Profiting by this importunity, but not
i anxious for their company, I got into
the next compartment, and was glad to
find myself alone. I settled my rods in
the rack above my head, disturbing dust
and cobwebs as I did so, pulled a news!
paper from one pocket and a traveling
( cap from another and read myself to
' sleep. We had had a long sitting in the
! smoking room the night before over the
j momentous question of the salmon, and
i I slept soon and heavily.
I raul myself to sleep.
How long I slept I cannot say, but 1
awoke in the roar and rattle of a tunnel
?awoke in thick darkness to hear the
slow panting of the engine and feel the
labored strain which told me we were
going up hill: also to a more disagreeable
consciousness, namely, that 1 was
not alone, that there were other persons
in the compartment and that therefore
I must have passed a station.
What a fool I must have looked, sleeping
heavily in broad daylight, so heavily
that two persons at least had passed me
in getting in without disturbing my
boorish slumbers. Two at least?for
they were talking and I listened for a
moment to their conversation, wishing
to gather who my companions might be
before daylight showed them to me.
They were very near me, it seemed,
on the opposite seat by the door, and tho
first words I heard were these, spoken in
a gentle girlish voice, but with a sad
firmness in it:
"I cannot, Harry!"
The answer startled me, it was so
J My father thought lie was surprised to
see the money, A friend said lie could
not claim it, now my brother was dead.
Anyway, he told my father he would
forgive him the other half, but father
would not hear of that. He said for his
dead boy's honor he would pay all, and
this morning, Harry, he told me to go
and get the money from the bunk, and
tomorrow he will pay it over himself
and be free and happy again. Now.
Harry, you understand."
The man's tone was changed when he
spoke again.
"Of course, dear, I understand," he
i said more gently, and I could hear him
! draw her toward him; "and now you
! must listen to me. You know you are
j mine, Kate; you have promised to marry
me, and you ought to trust me a
little."
"1 do, Harry," she whispered, "only
: you promised to give up betting."
"You talk liko a woman, Kate, and a
! woman with 110 experience. 1 tell you
i most men bet; it all depends how you do
it. Now here I am doing nothing rash.
I am behind the scenes. 1 have the
trainer's word for it, and ?rohn of Gaunt
? 1
lb iia biuu LU \> in cia tuc uuijivi -Acia
think he is safe to lose, ami that is saying
a good deal. With a paltry five
pounds in my pocket 1 am safe to make
fifty pounds, and with one hundred
, pounds?think. Kate, we could marry
tomorrow!"
' I would rather wait than marry so.
I dear," the gentle voice answered.
"But, by George, Kate, 1 would not"
: ?the briefly repressed fury burst out
! again?"and I tell you again the money
I will save me. Lend it me, child; just
; for tonight; 1 will bring it you doubled
i tomorrow, Kate. 1 swear! Doubled!
You don't know how I'll multiply it.
And hark you, girl?for I see your meek
| eyes set themselves, and your lips, that
i can tremble sometimes, press together?
1 you had better know the truth; your
l brother's story will be mine without
this money; I owe more than that weak
boy dared venture. I love you, Kate,
and I'll marry you if you are true tome;
but, by heaven, if you think to put a
1 dead brother before a living husband
! I'll be more like killing than marrying!"
"I must give you up, Harry; I can
never be your wife now. When you are
calmer you would despise me, as 1
should despise myself, for lending you
| what was not my own. The money is
in a dead hand. 1 dare not touch it."
"What do you mean, child?" the man
who laughed asked in a hollow voice;
"what makes you talk of dead hands?
Come near me. Kate. 1 will not give yon
up so lightly; see, we will talk of other
things. Don't look so frightened; come
j and kiss me, Kate: you are a brave girl:
we'll forget that cursed money."
| I heard her creep back to her old
place, hoard her crying as woilien cry
after a tension of mind and heart has
been removed, heard him kiss her and
ask her forgiveness, and then, just ;is
the cold fear that held seemed to relax
its hold, I felt?no, 1 felt nothing, but 1
heard, close tome, now, in the silence, a
movement of a trembling, fumbling
j hand?a hand that Bought something,
; something secret, something that it
j would grasp unseen.
The two were not speaking now, or
only in murmurs so low that the moving
hand which fumbled near me seemed
to claim my ear more than their words.
My head throbbed with the tension of
: listening; all the blood in me seemed to
i be beating there, leaving my heart stone
cold. Suddenly the groping hand passed
| swiftly close to my face; I felt the waft
j of the parted air against my wet temples,
and then I heard a cry?ah! such a
cry of surprise breaking into terror, of
: terror overmastering love, as the girl's
j voice shrieked:
"No, 110, not that, not that: oh, father,
' help! help?help!"
Help? Against what? What had the
girl's eyes seen; what dread had forced
that bitter, broken cry from the poor
j lips? At last I leaned forward; 1 cried,
: too, "Help, help!" At least I think 1
I did, but if any sound came from my dry
j throat I knew not; before me I knew the
man bent over something, something
that moved a little, that moaned, that
i sighed softly. And after the sigh the
| bending form lifted itself and muttered
| and searched. 1 heard the hands tearing
at something: then I heard a quick exclamation,
a rustle of crisp paper, and
i then the door at my side was open. I
j felt the rain on my face, for a heavy
shower was passing over us.
The bios.-.d rain! The comforting, commonplace
wetness reassured me. I felt
i my terror passing and even reached a
hand, half lieartedly shut the door, with
a feeling that 1 had had a bad dream,
i But some object was dragged against
it, was forced through it keeping it
; open, until I heard a dull thud outside,
| and then for the last time a harsh voice.
| now in the doorway, mutter:
"What devil drives me? There's the
junction: I must leap!"
The train slackened speed, the swinging
door fell into its place slowly, as
though released from the pressure of a
restraining hand, and I looked up and
saw a porter run forward as we steamed
into the station.
I caught at his arm as he came to the
carriage. I saw him look in my face
fiiriniKli'
"Are you ill, sir?" ho asked. "Your
carriage door was open; were you geting
out?"
L could not answer liiiu.
"You hurt your hand, sir, I suppose;
it is not safe to open the door too soon."
"My liand! No, I have not hurt itwhy?"
I managed to get the words out at last.
The porter looked at me again queei'ly.
"Well, you were staring at it when
I came up as if you thought it would be
covered with blood or something like."
"I did, I did!" Then realizing what
1 was saying I broko off. "No, no, it is
not hurt, but I am not well. I will stay
here an hour or so: I cannot go on just
yet."
The porter seemed surprised, but
helped mo out and then got out my
things. As he did so ho exclaimed at
the state of the carriage:
"Who has been pulling this stuffing
j out here? Were you alone, sir? This
looks queer. Somebody's been cutting
the cushion. I must speak to the station
master."
j But the station master was already
there. Ho had noted tho delay and
made his way to the carriage, glancing
at me rather strangely and then looking
into the compartment I had left.
".Ire you ill, sir?' he naked.
"Who put this carriage on?" he called
out.
The guaril came up.
"It was put on at B , sir. The
train was full, anil all the stock had
been sent on for the races; it was the
only one they had, I understood."
"That is so, sir," said one of thoi
racing men, putting his head out of the
window, "and dirty enough it is, too;
but here we are, and here we mean to"
stay, anil we'll be glad to be moving, j
toward F . if convenient." I
I thought the station master looked
Inquiringly from me to the man who
ipoke, and back again to me. Ilis face
was pale, and he seemed about to tpoak.
but looking at his watch, only signaled
with his hands to the guard, and then
stood apparently in much perplexity as
the traiu slowly left the station. Then
he glanced at me.
"You look cold, sir," he said; "come
and have a cup of coffee in my room.
I suppose yon will go on by the next
, train?"
"Would you mind telling me, sir," he
asked in the whisper I so well remembered
my small brother adopting in the
dead of night when we were boys, and
...l.w,l. n1ittn?*Li ttiorln ma fool "
>>111111 ui?aj o iiiuu*? 1110 icct ,
"how that door came open?"
"That's just what I don't know," I
said, in the would be reassuring tone 1
always used to that small brother, and
with the old result, namely, of blending
! our fears together and doubling their inI
tensity.
"1 was asleep?1 mean 1 had been
asleep, and perhaps 1 kicked it."
"Ah!" breathed the station master.
"Why?" I ventured to ask. after a
silence.
"Only that four years ago, on the first
j day of F races, that same carriage
ran into our station with its doors open,
as it did today, and inside was a woman
in a dead faint. She came to herself in
an hour and talked of a murder."
"But that carriage?how do you
know?"
"This is how 1 know, sir," and the
man got up and shut the doo.r, which
opened onto the platform, and pulled
his chair near mine when he came back,
i "Some seven or eight years ago 1 was
master here and waiting for the train
passing through to the races, as it might
be today, and as she came in I saw a
door open, and going forward found the
compartment in disorder, a knife on the
floor, blood on it and on the seat and
carpet and a slit in the stuffing of the
cushion at the back just at the heightwell,
at the height you saw it, sir, if it's
as I think. We sent men back along
the line and soon found a girl's body
stubbed and thrown on the metals.
"Thrown on the line?"
"Yes. so they said. It was all found
out quickly enough when her old father
came to identify her; he said she'd been
' robbed, too, for she had one hundred
i pounds in notes on her when she was
murdered."
I "And the man?he did not escape?"
"No, the police guessed what he ha '
been up to, and traced him to the races,
where they made out he had lost ever"
note he stole. He had been betting
j largely on 0110 horse"
"John of Gaunt," I cried eagerly, but
with some of the recent terror on uir
! again.
''John of (Jaunt," I cried eagerly.
| "Yes, that was it. sir: you've heard
the story before?"
I shook my head and he went on:
"Well, they followed him pretty well
all over the country, public feeling was
so hard against him that every one
knew he could not hide long, and at last
they came upon him half starved in a
barn: he faced them and shot himself,
and escaped hanging."
I did not speak: I was going over my
recent experience in the train.
"The queer part of it, sir, is this," said
tTio station master: "after the coroner's
jury had been there and seen the carriage?left
untouched for them, you'. 1
understand?we never used it; somehow
the men did not like it, and one markr1day
they sent it back to the station you
came from, sir, and for years it was not
used. Then four years ago, as I said,
they hooked it on for the races, every
bit of rolling stock being wanted, and
j then it dfime in here with its door swingI
ing, and a swooning woman inside, who
; told a strange story when it could bo
got out of her. The men liked it less
after that and sent it back again, and
| now that fool down the line drags it out
on race day of all days in the,year, and
| puts you in it, sir, and in my idea it
ought to be broken into firewood."
Wo talked until my train came in,
and 1 told him all I heard on that awful
journey.
"Poor soul." lie said. "I seem to know
that girl."
"By the bye," 1 asked, as 1 packed my
things into a carriage in the train that
was to take me on, carefully choosing a
compartment full of smokers, "what
was her name? Do you remember?"
He curved his hand around his mouth
and leaned toward me.
"Kate Lee," he said.
I do not often tell this story. Sometimes
I have old it and seen an incredi
ulous smile cross the polite faces of my
! hearers. 1 cannot account for its incidents
or explain its improbability, but
for me it has had one marked result?1
never enter an empty railway carriage.
?Murray's Magazine.
Tiik Stuanukh at Ciiuu'ii.?The
following problem is of sufficient im!
portance to demand a special paragraph.
If we were away from home
among strangers, at the close of an
earnest, faithful sermon, would any
i of us feel it an intrusion to be spoken
to, welcomed; and invited to come
I again? The act would be deemed ac'
ceptable Christian kindness by all;
: and yet we stand back, afraid that an
other would not so regard it. timer
people are strikingly like lis, and
, touched by the same thoughtfulness.
A short while ago, a young lady of
! more than ordinary culture and ability
! found herself on the Sabbath out of
reach of any church of her denominn!
tion save a poor little German one.
j She went there an entire stranger,
1 somewhat depressed by her solitariness.
She was met by an old lady at
the door, who cordially welcomed her,
forgetting in genuine Christian courtesy
that her own dress was poor while
that of the stranger was of rich material.
At the close of the service many
i others spoke to her, assuring her of
j their pleasure at seeing her. She left
the little church with her heart warmed
and refreshed, and expressed her
purpose to return there again when
she felt the need of Christian sympathy.
For speedy and large returns
for outlay of time and ellbrt,-a welcome
to strangers in church oilers a capital
! investment. There are but few risks?
not one in a thousand. Try it, and
test the efficacy of the Golden Rule.?
tikir Ludicrous deliverances are com|
inon in advertisements, especially in
those of a personal nature. Here is
one that appeared not long ago in a
New York paper: "Willie, return to
, your distracted wife and frantic children
! Do you want hear of your old
mother's suicide? You will if you do
not let us know where you are. Anyway,
send back your father's meerchaum."
BStSf Mamma?What in the world are
you making such a noise down there
for? Roderick?To let you know how
good I am. Mamma?Why do you
think you are good when making so
great a noise? Roderick?Because you
! always say I'm in mischief when I'm
I quiet.?Harper's Young People.
miscellaneous Reading.
THE LOCATION OF HEAVEN.
The people of Ilackensack have
been talking a good deal for the past
two weeks about their new Raptist ,
minister, the Rev. I>. I). Read. Mr.
Read is delivering a course of lectures
on "Heaven ; Its Locality, Inhabitants,
I Occupations, and Life." He believes
in a material heaven, built on the plan !
i oi anearuuy ciiy, aim loeaies u 111 me
. star Alcyone. When asked for a brief
i explanation of his ideas on the subject
of heaven, Mr. Head said :
"The soul is an entity and must have
a dwelling place somewhere. There
is no reason why it should not have a
material dwelling place, since we know
that there are material bodies in hcay- j
; en, as for instance, Christ, Enoch. Elijah,
and Moses. The teaching of Christ :
is explicit that heaven is a place, and
i in the verse which I took for my tex^ '
Hebrews xi, 1(> it is written : 'For He
hath prepared for them a city.' It is i
i ; settled in my mind that heaven is a
place, but where is it? Some say it
: I is the sky, other that it will be the ,
! earth purified by fire; but we know
| that heaven is already in existence,
1 | since Christ and the angels came :
1 ! from heaven.
"Both the Scriptures and astronomy
ofi'er us light on the location of heaven. ,
There is no eonllict here between sci1
once and religion ; on the contrary, to
.1 4 I 1 : * \\r?
my niiiid inuy narmoni/a-. >? c
} know that the earth not only moves |
around tlie sun, hut tlie whole solar j
system is traveling through space at
an incredible rate of speed. Some
astronomer has figured out that we |
' are moving in the direction of the star
l'i, in the constellation Hercules, at a
rate of 33,350,000 miles a year. There
are other solar systems in space moving
likewise. Maedler has shown that the
motion of all-stars is around Alcyone,
| | and that this fixed star is therefore the
i centre of the material heavens. The
earth moves about in an orbit of 20,000,000
of years. Alcyone shines with i
a light equal to 12,000 of our own
suns and is the brightest star known
to us. It takes light 700 years to travel
thence to the earth. What if here, at
J the centre of the gravity, should he I
the place where the King eternal, im|
mortal, and invisible, the only wise '
(tod, reigns? Why should it not he
' so ?
In Kphesians, iv, 10, it is written :
j "Christ ascended far above all the
heavens," and Paul says he was caught
; up "into the third heaven." The He- j
I brews believed in three heavens. The
first was that where the birds and
1 clouds fly through the air; the second
; was the stellar heaven, and the third
i the heaven beyond our solar systems,
i It seems to me that it is at this point
that scientific and religious teaching
converge.
"All these theories of astronomy may
! be true, and, if they are, Alcyone is a i
; most fitting place for the eternal city.
Hut remember, I am not speaking dogmatically.
I am feeling for the truth. I
I believe in a material heaven, where ,
we shall enjoy eternal life and recog- '
ni/.e our friends whom we loved on
on earth."
j "I)o you believe in a material hell ?"
1 "Well, f don't know. I don't say j
that I do, but I have material enough I
j collected to warrant me in delivering j
a series of sermons on the subject, and |
I may do that when I have finished |
! with heaven."
Mr. Read went on to say that, hav- j
! ing demonstrated to his satisfaction
that heaven might he in the star A Icy- !
one, he would in his next sermon ile- I
scribe the life and occupations of the 1
heavenly inhabitants.?X. V. Sun.
BY RAIL TO NAZARETH AND DAMASCUS. !
Up the rocky inclines of the Judean
i hills the railway already climbs to the
city of David. Jerusalem is now a
terminus, as indeed, it ever was, and
passengers are informed of the fact of
arrival there in the usual way in which ,
the British porter announces the name
of the local station. But there was
another and a greater undertaking began
during December?a railway from
Acre to Damascus. In presence of a
large number of English visitors, the
first sod of the Damascus railway was I
cut on December 12, last, by an Kngish
lady. Acre, the city of the fifteen |
i sieges, has always been considered the j
key to Palestine, and its importance
will he greatly increased by the fact j
that it is the starting point of the
most important railway in Syria. Two
thousand six hundred years ago Shalmaneser
took it, and fifty years ago it !
was taken by storm by Sir Charles
Napier. Across the bay, immediately ;
I under Mount Carmel, lies the modern
town of Haifa, forever memorable to
all readers of Laurence Oliphant's life
and work as the place of his visions
ami voluntary isolation while he waited
on the Spirit. There in front is
the Kishon, now clear as crystal, j
which once ran red with the blood of
tlu? iirrmhois of Baal, in number four
hundred. The railway runs by Haifa,
and under the haunted fastness of
Carmel. A line sixty-foot viaduct
spans the little river, never crossed in
this manner before. Then eastward
the rail makes its way through the
gorge of the Kishon out upon the
plain of Ksdraelon. ifere is Je/.reel
station, where Allah's palace once
stood. From a junction not far from
i here, a branch line of a dozen miles !
will take passengers for Nazareth and
Mount Tabor. A little farther on we
pass over the spot where at Bethshan
the Philistines nailed to the walls of
the city the body of the first king of
Israel?the hills of Gilhoa looking
down on us as we go with the sadness
; of the most famous lyric in the world
still upon them. Down into the valley
of the Jordan the railway runs in
steep gradients, till it crosses the river
parallel with the ancient Roman
. bridge which carries the old road to
Damascus. Then up the valley of the [
Yarmuth, the railway will mount the
high lands of Garada which lie on the
east of the Sea of Galilee. Thence
through the fertile Hainan, and with- i
in sight of the snow-clad peak of Herlnoii,
the railway will go straight on j
till the passage of the river Pharpar j
brings us to the gates of Damascus. I
Steam vessels are to be placed 011 the
Sea of Galilee, and a sulphur cure like
that of Buxton may be looked for in I
the neighborhood of Bethsaida. All
this sounds like the exaggerations of
an American humorist. Yet it is all
serious and true?backed by English
capital and being carried through as
fast as English engineers can drive
the picks of the Syrian laborers. It is (
indeed passing strange, and it sounds
as if the old sacredness would depart ]
when the tourist familiarly took cir- 1
cular tickets for half a score of Scrip- '
tni-r? sitos! hut after all. the sacred
ness cannot depart. We take the re- j
verent mind with us. or leave it behind.
We shall realize the actuality i
of our Bibles more when a cantilever
, is thrown across the Bosphorus, and
we take our tickets and seats at Lon- 1
j don Bridge in order to join the
through train for Jerusalem!
Tin-: Safkst Railroad Car.?"I'm
very particular," said a commercial
traveler at a down-town hotel, "what
car of the train I select. I travel {
thousands of miles a year and have
made it a rule to observe in the ae- :
counts of railroad accidents which cars .
of the train am most often demolished.
The result of my experiment?for I
have been in a dozen smashups?and
observation is that the middle cars arc
I the safest. I never, under any circum
stances, ride in the rear ear. I avoid
the car next to the baggage ear, though
this is selected by many as the safest.
The greatest danger at present in railroad
traveling is telescoping. When a
man has been in a wreck and afterward
seen the engine of the colliding
train half way inside of the rear car,
or rather what's left of it, it impresses
him forcibly. The baggage car is usually
heavily loaded, and in the collision
its weight, together with the ponderous
engine, generally smashes the
next car to splinters, while the center
1 1
cars are comparatively unuijureu.
When the train is derailed the baggage
car and next coach, as a rule, go over.
The roadbeds of our great transcontinental
lines are so solid, each section is
so carefully examined, the rolling stock
is so much improved, that a broken
rail, broken wheel or axle and like
mishaps are reduced to a minimum.
But when trains follow one another on
a minute or two leeway and the block
or automatic signals don't work?well,
look in The Star the next day for further
particulars and see if my judgment
is not correct."
GREAT PL'GlLISTS DIE POOR.
The recent purchase of about $'">0,000
worth of real estate by Champion
Jim Corbett and the statement that he
aspires to he the richest pugilist in the
world, reminds us that many of the
best fighters have come at last to poverty
and violent deaths. Few pugilists,
no matter what wealth they may
have accumulated in the golden days
of youth and fistic supremacy, ever
have enough of this world's goods to
render comfortable their declining
years. John Morrissey, of America,
and John Gully, of England, were
probably the most famous pugilists of
their time, and in after years acquired
wealth and legislative honors. Gully
became a member of the English parliament
and won a fortune on the turf
and in speculative enterprises. He
lost the greater part of his gains, however,
in the latter part of his life, and
was constantly haunted by the fear
that he would ''die in the workhouse."
He was saved that untoward fate, and
patrons of sport were highly gratified
in consequence. John Morrissey "picked
up," to use a sporting phrase, more
money than any gladiator who ever
lived, not excepting the renowned
John L. Sullivan, of Boston. Yet he
died without a solitary silver dollar to
glisten before the expiring light of his
eyes. At one time Morrissey was
worth $2,000,000 and conducted the
greatest gambling houses in America?
one at No. 818 Broadway, and one at
Saratoga Spa. The latter was world ,
famous as the "Saratoga Club House."
His wife, who once wore $800,000
worth of diamonds, is now working in
a Troy collar factory and earns about
a dollar a day.
John C. Heenan,the conqueror of
Tom Sayers, the champion of England,
for a time rose to the crest of the
wave, but he ultimately sank beneath
the billows of poverty and despair.
Sickness followed in the trail of pov
ertv, and forgotten, forsaken, and in
need, died of consumption in Colorado.
By a strange coincidence his wife,
the gifted but erratic Adah Isaacs
Menken, the most beautiful actress of
her day, died shortly before her husband
in the most abject poverty, at.
Paris, France. She was buried in
Potter's Field.
Tom Hyer, Mike McCool, Joe Coburn,
all champions of America, died
without as much us a shroud to cover
their bodies. Subscriptions were taken
by friends to bury them. Of tlusj
three Coburn had at one time the most
money. Millionare George Law was
his friend and backer and gave him
many a thousand dollar note, besides
"placing" him in advantageous business
spots.
The history of the English ring is
replete with even more heartbreaking
incidents. Bill Perry, the "Tipton
Slasher," for many years champion of
England, died in the poor house at
West Bromwich, Staffordshire.
Tom Sayers, Perry's conqueror, and
John C. Heenan's subsequent opponent,
died in great poverty at Camden
town, near London. In liis life time
he squandered $60,000. The last $15000
he possessed, a purse given him by
his admirers afters his battle with Heenan,
he lost by investing in a country
circus.
Billy Edwards, once light weight
champion of the world, had at one
time $70,000. He made it in "lucky
turns" in Wall street. The bulk of it
has gone back there. Arthur Chambers,
Edwards's great rival, at one time
could proudly point to an $85,000 bank
account. Now he is "broke." The
horses got it.
Of all the active pugilist before the
public?Corhett, Sullivan, Jackson,
Goddard, Choynski, Maher, Mitchell,
Slavin, McAuliffe, Grillin, Dixon, Fitzsimmon's
and Hall?hut three have
money. These tire C'orbett, Mitchell,
and Fitzsimmons. This is a thrifty
trio. They "hold the coin." They let
their admirers spend. Every dollar
these cute gentlemen capture remains
u prisoner.
How Rt.ssians Kkkp Warm.?The
Russians have a great knack of making
their winters pleasant. Von feel nothing
of the cold in those tightly built
houses where all the windows are
double, and where the rooms are kept
warm bv big stoves hidden in the walls.
There is no damp in a Russian house,
and the inmates may dress indoors in
the lightest garbs, which contrast oddly
with the mass of furs which they don
when going out.
A Russian can allord to run no risk
of exposure when he leaves the house
for a walk or drive. He covers his
head and ears with a fur bonnet, his
feet and legs with felt boots lined with
wool or fur, which are drawn over the
ordinary boots and trousers, and reach
up to the knees: he next cloaks himself
in a coat with a fur collar, lining
and cutis; he buries his hands in a
pair of lingerless gloves of seal or
bear skin. Thus equipped, and with
the collar of his coat raised all
around so that it muffles him up to
to the eyes, the Russian exposes only
his nose to the cold air; and he takes
care frequently to give that organ a
little rub to keep the circulation going.
A stranger who is apt to forget the precaution
would often get his nose bit if
it were not for the courtesy of the
Russians, who will always warn him if
they see his nose "whitening," and
will, unbidden, help him to chafe it
vigorously with snow.
Only Imagination.?People who
are trembling at the possibility of a
cholera epidemic may read a lesson in
the following: A Scotch professor commenced
a course of lectures on the
heart. After his second lecture he had
just sat down to dinner, when a servant
came in and said Mr. Jones, one
of his students, wished to see him.
Hurrying into the next room he found
Mr. Jones wearing a most anxious
look. "Oh, sir, I was obliged to call;
I am suffering from an acute attack of
heart disease." The professor sounded
him forthwith, hut could find no trace
of the alleged mischief. He had scarcely
dismissed Jones with this comforting
assurance when Mr. Smith, another
student, was ushered in. It was the
same story, with the same result. In
fact, every member of the professors'
' * ' - 1
class, witn iwo cxcepnons, linagincu
himself to have heart disease ; and it
was not as might be imagined, a preconcerted
plot to play a joke on the
professor: it was simply imagination,
which has as many victims as disease
itself.