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&i-, & s» A his sleeve. "Pardon me, sir," said a somewhat agitated voice, "are you a medical man?" Mr. Caulfield turned, and confronted a man of slight figure and middle height, some years younger than him self—a man with a pale face, delicate features, and soft black eyes a very Interesting countenance, thought the curate. The stranger looked anxious and hurried. "No," answered Mr. Caulfield, "I am a clergyman." 1 "That is almost as good. My dear sir, will you do me a great favor? My sister, an invalid, is traveling by this train, alone, but she will be met by friends at Milldale Junction. She is very ill—nothing infectious chest com plaint, poor girl. If you will afford her the privilege of your protection, only as far as Milldale, you will oblige me enormously." There was no time for hesitation, the bell was ringing clamorously, people were hurrying to their seats. "With pleasure," said the good-na tured curate, sorry to lose the delight tif loneliness, embarrassed at the idea nf an unknown invalid, but far too kind to shrink from doing an act of mercy. The young man ran to the second class waiting room, the door of which was just opposite, and returned almost immediately carrying a muffled figure *n his arms—a small, fragile form, which he carried as easily as if it had been that of a child. This slender fig ure, half buried in a large Rob Roy sliawl, he placed with infinite care in one of the seats farthest from the door i.hen he ran back to the waiting-room for more wraps, a pillow, and a foot warmer. He administered with wom anly tenderness to the comfort of the Invalid, who reclined motionless and silent in her corner, and then, hurried and agitated in the imminent departure of the mail, he stood at the door of the carriage talking to Mr. Caulfield, who had taken his seat in the opposite corner to that occupied by the invalid. "You are more than good," said the stranger. "Don't talk to her she is low and nervous, and you will agitate her painfully if you force her to talk. I dare say she will doze all the way. It is only an hour from here to Mill dale, and no stoppage till you get there. Oh, by the way, kindly take this bottle, and if she should turn faint or giddy on the way, give her a few drops of the contents. There goes the flag. Will you allow me to offer you my card? I am deeply indebted. Good night." All this had been said hurriedly. George Caulfield had hardly time to take the proffered card when the en gine puffed itself laboriously out of the great, ghastly terminus, a wilder ness of iron work, a labyrinth of tun nels and sidings and incomprehensible platforms, very gloomy on this cold winter night. For the first few minutes Mr. Caul field felt so confused and disturbed by the suddenness of the charge that had been forced upon him that he hardly knew what he was doing. Then he glanced at the lady, and saw with a feeling of relief that her head was re posing comfortablyf against the padded division of the carriage, and that her face was hidden by a blue gauze veil, which she wore over a small brown straw hat. She was breathing some what heavily, he thought, but that was to be expected in a sufferer from chest complaint. "I hope her heart is all right," thought George, with a sudden sense of the awfulness of his position were his invalid charge to expire while in his care. He looked at the stranger's card: MR. ELSDEN, Briargate. The address looked well. Briargate .ijwaa one of the most respectable busi ness streets in Grandchester. Doubt less it had once been a rustic lane, vwhere briars and roses grew abund antly, and the bees and butterflies, and village lads and lassies, made merry .amidst odors of new-mown hay. Now adays Briargate was a narrow street George Caulfield's Journey i'sBk. By rtlss ft. B. Braddon. iZ CHAPTER I. HERE were but five minutes left before the time for starting of the night mail from the great central ter m. us in the busy commercial city of Grandchester, and the Uev. George Caulfield, with a I traveling bag in his hand, and a comfortable railway rug Over his arm, was walking slowly along the platform, peering into the first-class carriages as he went by, in quest of ease and solitude. He was a man of reserved temper, bookish be yond his years, and he had a horror of finding himself imprisoned among five inoisy spirits, cottony, horsey, anil of that boisterous and coarsely-spoken temperament, which the refined aid gentle parson would have characterized as rowdy.. The Reverend George was a Christian gentleman, but so far as it was possible for his mild nature to hate any one, he hated fast young men. He was not fond of strangers in a gen eral way. He endured them, but he did not love tliem. He had lingered on the platform till the train was with in three minutes of starting, in the hope of securing for himself the luxury of privacy, but as the long hand of the station clock marked the third min ute before 11, lie espied an empty car riage, and was in the act of entering it, When a hand was laid very gently on of lofty warehouses, tall enough to shut out the sun, a street that smelled of machine oil. The express had cleared Grandches ter by this time, tearing along a via duct above a forest of tall chimneys, and then, with a sweeping curve, away to the windy open country, a land as wild and fresh and free as if there were no such things as factories and smoky chimneys in the world. Mr. Caulfield had, for the first ten minutes or so, felt revived by his inability to see his companion's face. It had been a colhfort to him to behold her placidly asleep yonder, requiring no attention, leaving him free to dip in Tennyson's latest idyl, which he carried uncut in his traveling bag. But so variable is the human mind, so fanciful and alto gether irrational at times, that now Mr. Caulfield began to feel vaguely cu rious about the face hidden lender the blue gauze veil. He began to wonder about it. Was it so very pale, so dead ly white, as it seemed to him under that gauze veil, in the dim light of the oil lamp? No, it was the blue gauze, no doubt, which gave that ghast ly pallor to the sharply-cut features, the sunken cheeks. The young lady's eyes were alto gether hidden by the shadow of her hat, but Mr. Caulfield felt sure that she was asleep. She was breathing so quietly that he could scarcely see any indication of the faint breath that must be stirring her breast in gentle undu lations. Sometimes he fancied he saw the folds of the Rob Roy sliawl rise and fall in regular pulsations. Some times it seemed to him that nothing stirred save the shadows moved by the flickering flame of the wind-blown flame. He sat and watched that quiet figure in the corner, only taking his eyes away now and then to look out at the dark land through which they were speeding, to see a cosy village, lit by half a dozen farthing rush-lights flit by like a phantom, or a town that made a patch of angry glare on the edge of the horizon. Useless to think of en joying Tennyson by the sickly gleam of that wretched lamp! He stretched himself up in his warm rug he closed his eyes, and tried to sleep. In vain. He was thinking of the face under the blue veil. He was broad awake— hopelessly awake. He could do noth ing but sit and contemplate the figure reposing so quietly in the opposite cor ner. How he longed for Milldale Junc tion! He looked at his watch. The inexorable dial told him that it was only half an hour since he left Grand chester. His own sensations told him that it was a long night of agony. Naturally a nervous man, to-night his nerves were getting the mastery ov er him. "I never took such a miserable jour ney." he said to himself. "If she would only throw back that veil—if she would only speak to me—if she would only stir, or make some little sign of life! It is like traveling with Death personified. Were she to lift that veil this instant, I should expect to see a grinning skull underneath." He had been told not to speak to her, but the inclination to disobey that in junction was every moment intensify ing. Yet, if she were sleeping as pla cidly as she seemed to sleep, it would be cruel to disturb her and he was a man overflowing with the milk of hu man kindness. He took out his Tennyson, cut the leaves, puzzling out a few lines here and there by the uncertain lamp-light. This helped him to while away a quar ter of an hour. He looked at his watch. God be praised! fifteen min utes more and the train was due at Milldale. What bliss to deliver that poor creature into the keeping of her friends—to have done with that muf fled figure and that unseen face for ever! The train Was fast approaching the junction seven minutes more alone re mained of the hour, and this night mail was famed for its punctuality. Just at the last that feeling of mor bid curiosity, which had been torment ing the curate for the greater part of the journey became an irresistible im pulse. He changed his seat to that di rectly opposite his silent companion. Here he could see the form of the deli cate features under the blue veil! How cruelly illness had sharpened the out line. The girl's ungloved hand hung listlessly over the morocco-covered arm, which divided her seat from the next. Such a pallid hand, so nerveless in its attitude! Something, he knew not what, prompted Mr. Caulfield to touch those pale fingers. He bent over and laid his hand lightly upon them. Great God, what an icy hand! He had felt the touch of death on many a sad occasion in the path of duty, but this was colder than death itself. A cry of horror burst from his lips. He snatched aside the gauze veil, and saw a face purpled by the awful shadow of death. "Milldale Junction! Change here for Broughborough, Mudford, Middle bridge, Sloughcombe—" and a string of names that dwindled into silence far away along the platform. George Caulfield sprang out of the railway carnage like a man dis traught. He seized upon the nearest guard. "For God's sake, tell me what to do!" he cried. "There is a lady in that carriage dead or dying. Indeed, I fear she is actually dead. She was placed in my charge by a stranger at Grand chester. She is to be met by friends here. It will be an awfut shock to I them—near relatives, perhaps. How am ft? & J, i. it 0 *Z I to find them? How atn Ito the sad news to them?" _____ ff He was pale to the lips, cold drops of sweat were on his brow. All the pent up excitement of the last hour burst from him now with uffcohtrollablo force. The guard was as calm as a man of Iron. "Fetch the station-master here, will you?" he said to a passing porter. "Sad thing, sir," he said, to the agitated cur ate "but you'd better keep yourself quiet. Such misfortunes will happen. We'll get a medical man here presently. I dare say there's one in the train. Perhaps the lady has only tainted. Hadn't you better step inside and sit with her?" They were standing at the door of the carriage. George Caulfield glanced with a shudder at that muffled figure in that farthest corner. "No," he answered, profoundly agi tated, "I could do no good. I fear there is no hope. I fear she is dead." "No relation of yours, sir, the lady?" asked the guard, scrutinizing the cur ate rather curiously. "I never saw her till to-night and then, in flurried accents, Mr. Caulfield related the circumstances of his de parture from Grandchester. "Here comes the station-master," said the guard, without vouchsafing any comment on the curate's story. The station-master was a business like man, of commanding presence, and Mr. Caulfield turned to him as for pro tection. "What am I to do?" he asked, when the guard had briefly stated the case. "Nothing, I should think," answered the station-master, shortly "but you'd better stay to see the upshot of the business. Where are the lady's friends, I wonder? They ought to have turned up by this time. Johnson, just you go along the platform to inquire for any body waiting to meet a lady from Grandchester, and send some one else along the line to inquire for a doctor." The guard departed on his errand the station-master staid. In three min utes the porter came, followed by an elderly man, bearded and spectacled. "Medical gentleman, sir," said the por ter. The doctor got into the carriage and looked at the lady. "Bring me a better light," he asked, and a lamp was brought. A crowd was collecting by this time, travelers who scented some excitement, and thought they could not make a bet ter use of their remaining five minutes than in finding out all about it. "You'd better send for the police," exclaimed the doctor, reappearing at the door of the carriage. "This is a bad case." "How do you mean?" inquired the station-master. "I mean that this poor creature has died from the effects of narcotic poi son." "Great Heaven!" cried the curate "I had a presentiment that there was something wrong." The doctor and a porter lifted the muffled figure out of the carriage, and conveyed it to the nearest waiting room. Three minutes more and the train would be moving. A police-constable appeared as if by magic, and planted himself at the cur ate's side. The guard came back. "Nobody here to meet the lady," he said. "There must be a mistake some where." "What am I to do?" demanded George Caulfield looking helplessly from the station-master to the doctor. "Keep yourself as quiet as you can, I should say," answered the station master. "But, good heavens! I may be sus pected of being concerned in this poor creature's death, unless her friends ap pear to verify my statement. Ah, by the-bye, her brother gave me his card. I can tell you her name at any rate." (TO BE CONTINUED.) Stopping and Starting Electric Cars. It takes just as much electric power to start a car as it would animal power, and it requires less current to keep the car moving than to start it, so that a great number of starts and stops means a large consumption of energy. In the American Electrician there ap pears an article in which the actual figures for these two cases are given. It is shown that the cost of one stop on each trip of a car during a year on a fifteen-car line may amount to 570, or to $467 for a 100-car road so that if these figures are multiplied by two stops at each crossing on a road oper ating long lines the large cost is evi dent. Careful handling of the con troller will save over $1,000 a year on a 15-car road and $7,000 per year on a 100-par road. The difference be tween* a careful motorman who has been well instructed and a careless one may amount to from 3 to 8 per cent of the total energy consumed. It is perfectly safe, according to this au thority, to say that 10 per cent of the energy can be saved by. more care ful handling of the controller, while on most roads at least 15 per cent could be saved without doubt. The maxim of every motorman should be: "Use the brake as little as possible and drift as much as possible." The employment of skilled motormen ca pable of understanding the mechanism they handle would result in a saving to the trolley companies, even though a higher salary were paid thei men, and at the same time add much comfort to the passengers. Batmarkable Clock. In the shop of a St. Petersburg watchmaker a human-faced clock is on view—the only one of its kind. The hands are pivoted on Its nose and any messages that may be spoken Into its ear an repeated byjphonograph through its mouth. •4* break HOLDING UP A BOAT* MAN WHO USED TO TRAVEL TELLS THE STORY. Bareback Rider's Bravery—Little Old Jim Flatter Wan ai Good HI* Word—Not Afraid of Aujr Number of Kobbera. "Now, I don't suppose any of you ever heard of a steamboat being held up, hey?" said an Anacostia man who used to travel out west with a one night stand circus, according to the Washington Star. "You've heard of trains, any number of 'em, being held up, and stages, slews of 'em, being held up, and burro pack trains, loaded to the guards with virgin silver, being held up, and men, individually and collectively, being held up in such places as Chicago, Hyena Gulch, Cem etery Station and such places but I'll bet money that none of you ever heard before of a steamboat being held up. Well, I did. Not only did I hear of it, but I have told it. Not only have I told it, but I was in the holdup, as a bullet scar ou the outside of my left ankle would show if I had time to take off my shoes. But it was a good, old time, regular steamboat hold-up, all the same, and the first and original one." "Well, here's how it happened: "I was boss tentman with Bobin son's circus back in '77. We played the middle western circuit all during the summer and along toward the wind-up of August we struck cross country from middle Nebraska for the Black hills. That was during the Black hills excitement and we calcu lated to show up there in that region for a month or so charging 'em all the way from $2 to ?5 a head to see the show and then to sail down the Mis souri and Mississippi on two or three chartered stern wheelers for winter quarters in Memphis. The program went through all right. We did up the Black hills for about six weeks, playing to capacity and just coining money. "Then it commenced to chill up some,and some of the animals that had been born and reared down around the equator began to sneeze and cough I a good lot, and so it was decided to pack up and trek out of the Black hills for winter quarters. Old man Bobin son was willing to leave after the six weeks, for he hadn't done a thing but just make about a hundred thousand dollars out of his one-ringer during that season, and he had been especial ly prosperous at from $2 to $5 a head, in the Black hills country. So we moved down to Yankton, where old man Bobinson had a couple of the old stern-wheelers—the two biggest that ever navigated the Big Muddy—wait ing to take on the show. "The stern-wheelers were the Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman and the Gen. Phil H. Sheridan. Big as they were we had some trouble in loading all of our monster, mammoth, masto donic, miraculous show aboard of 'em, but we finally did do it, and away we started down the Big Muddy. We got along all right, except that we poked our noses occasionally into a sand bar and when we got down as far as Omaha we figured on beginning to unload in Memphis about three weeks later on, which would be mak ing corking good time, as time was made in those days. "Now, let me digress just a bit right here. I was on the Gen. William Te cumseh Sherman, and our boat, be cause we had the better pilot, kept about a quarter of a mile ahead of the Gen. Phil H. Sheridan right along. One Of all the Hungarian dances, the most difficult is the "Kallai Kettos," or "double Csardas." It requires much strength, agility and skill, and few succeed in mastering its strange steps. The music for this and for the court dances, the "Magyar Kor" (Hungarian circle) and the stately "Palatos" is the same at first. For a short time the "Csardas" seems simple. It is when the music begins to brighten up that the agility and strength of the man is called into play. He must twirl the women separately and to gether at intervals and also swing them from one arm to the other in op posite directions so quickly that he will net lose his step ov cause the women tp lose theirs. Unless ,Ws act is performed precisely at the ex act moment the dance is spoiled, and unless he per forms the swing correctly and ex changes the wom en with proper im petus and direction by force of. his arms he will bring about a collision be tween them, which would end dis astrously for all concerned. The wom en never know when they are to be twirled or swung in this manner and consequently all the credit for a per fect performance and a graceful exe cution of this weird dance belongs en tirely to the mati. cefj 71 This dance had Its origin in the county of Kallo, where an army offl- attending a ball during the revo J? & 1 'Vvj'**- -V? 4W. I if" ¥*£. & fi fa of the men with the show wap a cross, peevish little old bareback, rider nam ed Fisher, who had been in the busi ness about a hundred years or so, and whose temper was a, heap soured for that reason. :.t.' "We all had talked a good deal about the possibility of being held up when we were up in the Black hills country, and one night this little barebacked rider man, Fisher, got up on his hind legs and declared himself on tjiehold ing up question. "'I want to tell you all one thing,' said he, 'and that is, that the nine-foot high plug doesn't live in this world that's got the weight and the heftiness to hold me up at the point, of a gun. It can't be done. I can't be held up. I want to go on record right here and now, in the middle of a wild neck of country, by saying that Jim Fisher can not be held up and never will be held up.' "Oh, well, we had all heard that kind of bluff talk often before, and so we all gives little Fisher more or less of the laugh. "All right. We left Omaha—our two stern-wheelers—about 3 o'clock in the afternoon of an October day, and we more than tossed up the water behind us. Must have made fully four knots an hour, I reckon. Anyhow, about the middle of the night the Gen. Sherman shoved her nose alongside an elevated sort of sandbar by Easton, Mo., to take on wood. We hadn't any more than come to a full stop than all of us down on the deck heard a commotion in the pilot house and some short, loud talk. 'Up with your hands and git away from that wheel in a hurry,' said a voice that none of us was familiar with, and in a second or two we heard some of the same kind of talk, direct ed by another unfamiliar voice to the engineer of the boat, who had been snoozing in an armchair. Oh, we knew all right what had happened. We knew better, though, when we looked up to the bridge and saw six ducks with Winchesters pointed right our way. They had just sneaked over the rail when we drew alongside for that wood, and they just about had us, armed and ammunitioned as all hands of us were. In about a minute the Gen. Sheridan moves alongside us and we could see that she, too, was pretty fair in the hands of the enemy, for there were about a dozen of 'em, also with Winchesters, taking it nice and easy—looking almighty alert, just the same—on the bridge. "Old man Bobinson was on our boat and he hustled out of his cabin with a roar and got to the foot of the bridge ladder, where he was gently told by one of the quiet looking ducks on the bridge to stay just where he was. 'What's this here game, anyhow?' asked old man Bobinson. 'What you after? My summer's pickings?' 'That's about it, I reckon,' said the man on the bridge, who seemed to be the leader. 'You can just stand where you are and tell this boy alongside of me where your dust is. He'll take care of it. You needn't bother about mov ing yourself.' "Well, old man Bobinson just stood there frothing at the mouth. He was speechless. We were all more or less speechless. Then it happened. It happened. It happened so blooming suddenly that it nearly gave us all heart disease. Little Jim Fisher, the bareback rider, who didn't intend to be held up by any man, he said, stood right behind me when all this was going on. When the robber on the bridge sprung that spiel about holding old man Bobinson—who had been Fisher's employer and friend for atyout twenty years—up for his summer's rake-off, I could hear Fisher breathing hard. I figured that he was skfteart MOST DIFFICULT HUNGARIAN DANCE. lution, motioned to a young woman to come to him and participate in the "Csardas." As she stepped forward another young woman standing near her also approached, thinking the in vitation was meant for her. Not wish ing to slight either of the girls, the solder declared he would dance with both of them. He threw himself into his task with such enthusiasm and skill that it created immediate atten tion, and the "double Csardas" has been famous since that day. These famous old-time Magyar dances will be reproduced for the first time in America at the Hungarian peasant ball, at the Grand Central Palace, New Year's eve. The two court dances will be performed by for ty young men and women. L^dislaw Klein will give the "double Csardas" with Miss Annie Zsoltvai and Miss Don Rosenfeld. ft 7 t. fa -XV* to death But he stepped rlght ont In to the light, and he had a gleaming 48 In eaeh hand, 'Why, curse your Impudent eyes!' said little Jim Fisher, and before you could'sneeze he had hanged away at the leader of the robbers on the bridge. We all jumped to cover but.. Fisher's move gave us nerve. It gave them nerve on the (Jen. Sheridan, too, and you never heard such a fusilade in your life. But In four minutes there were not any robbers in sight but dead robbers—six of those—and after we had chased the others, thrown the dead bodies over the side and taken on our wood we went ahead down to win ter quarters. And so, for a wonder, Jim Fisher's thundering in the index about nobody being able to hold him up wasn't a bluff, after all." CHEYENNE'S REFUSE RATIONS. Contend That the Iscae Shall Be the Hoof. Some of the Cheyenne Indians living in and near Kansas have branched out in the show business for a livelihood. Some time ago the. commissioner of In dian affairs made a ruling that the In dians were no longer to be issued beef in the carcass, but that it must be dressed by competent butchers and is sued on the block. The Indians ob jected strenuously to this arrangement, as they regard the parts rated as offal by the slaughter houses and packing houses as the best part of the beef. White Shields of the Cheyennes insti gated a revolt among the Indians in the vicinity of Red Moon's camp, in the western part of Indian territory, and the Indians refused to take their beef off the block. Major Woodson, the agent, then suspended all rations and the Indians still maintain their in dependence. A large part of the In dians a few weeks ago, at the instiga tion of White Shields, refused to send their children to school. Their rations were cut off, but a short time ago they yielded. About a third of the Chey ennes and Arapahoe Indians are no longer receiving rations on account of their refusal to take their beef off the block. White Shields, with two other chiefs—Red Leg and White Horse—is traveling about over Southern Kansas giving dances and in this way are maintaining their independence of the government. Major Woodson, speak ing of the Indians in an interview, says: "There are always some of the Indians who have an insatiable desire to impress the other Indians with their importance. Wnite Shields is one of these. I see that a band of Cheyennes was here a short time ago giving dances. These Indians are absent from the agency without my consent. In dians are very much like children and I have to treat them as such. If they get too unruly I can have the stray band brought back to the agency by the soldiers. They are doing this to keep from working. They were born lazy and I have failed to get it worked out of them. Old White Shields has been the cause of some of the school trouble, too. He got mad about the change in the issue of beef and re volted. The other Indians wanted new school houses built, and accordingly I ordered them erected. White Shields then got in his work with Red Moon's band and they refused to send their children to school. The commissioner of Indian affairs wrote me to enforce the treaty rules and after doing with out rations for a few weeks they con sented to send their children back to school." Peppery Knough, Perhaps. "Our hired girl doesn't earn her salt." "Then she's like a good many of them, I presume—too fresh."—New York Press. An Explanation. "Why is the villain in the play al ways a dark man?" "I guess it's be cause villains are naturally opposed to the light." CLEVER LITTLE STORIES. A professional talker arose one day to address a Sunday school. "My dear little ones," he began, "what shall I say?" and a little girl in the front row, who had spoken pieces herself in school, replied, "Please, sir, what do you know?" The story is that a German judge was perplexed by the evidence. "No two of your witnesses tell the same story," declared the man on the bench to the plaintiff. "That's true, your honor," answered the plaintiff. "You see, I didn't want to make the trial too monotonous for you." Miss Jinks was out walking with an admirer on each side. A storm came on, accompanied by lightning. Jones said he was frightened. Brown thought it a capital opportunity to show off his superior courage before the adored one. "What are you fright ened at? I am as cool as a cucum ber." "Yes, I should not fear," re plied Jones, "if you and I were alone, but I am afraid of Miss Jinks in this lightning she is so attractive." Brown is still a bachelor, but Jones is not. VS«" JV 4 A soldier who served in Cuba re lates that one night, after a march, a few of the boys pitched their tents close to the tent of an officer of an other company. The boys were talk ing quite loudly, as taps had not been sounded. "Hush up out there!" shout ed the officer, angrily. "Who are you?" asked one of the boys. "I'll show you who I am if I come out there!" was the answer. The talking con tinued, and soon out came the officer. His anger was great, and he threat ened to report the men to their col onel, winding up with: "Don't you know enough to obey .an officer?" "Yes," replied one of the boys, "and we should have obeyed you if you had had shoulder straps on your* volce/V Jl Prt A. f/rt A fcl. M/h'