porters 'll know who they've got, and you're runnin' awful light. Have a good cigar?" The conductor took the weed so designated and swore loudly. It was the biggest piece of gall on record. Well, hang it, he didn't want to take McGinnis all the way to Boston and, even if he did, there would be the same confounded mix-up at the other end. He admitted finally that it was a fine night. Did McGinnis want a nip? He had a bottle in the porter's closet. Yes, call out those niggers and make 'em tell what they knew. The conductor was now just as insistent that the burglar should be arrested then and there as he had been before that the train should not be held up. He rushed through the cars telling the various porters to go outside. Eight or ten presently assembled upon the platform. They filled McGinnis with unspeakable repulsion.

The conductor began with car No. 2204. "Now, Deacon, who have you got?" The Deacon, an enormously fat darky, rolled his eyes and replied that he had "Two ole women an' er gen'elman gwine ortermobublin with his cheffonier."

The conductor opined that these would prove unfertile candidates for McGinnis. He therefore turned to Moses, of car No. 2201. Moses, however, had only half a load. There was a fat man, a Mr. Huber, who travelled regularly; two ladies on passes; and a very thin man, with his wife, her sister, a maid, two nurses, and three children.

"Nothin' doin'!" remarked the captain. "Now, Colonel, what have you got?"

But the Colonel, a middle-aged colored man of aristocratic appearance, had an easy answer. His entire car was full, as he expressed it, "er frogs."

"Frenchmen!" grunted McGinnis.

The conductor remembered. Yes, they were Sanko's Orchestra going on to give a matinée concert in Providence.

The next car had only five drummers; every one of whom was known to the conductor, as taking the trip twice a week. They were, therefore, counted out. That left only one car, No. 2205.

"Well, William, what have you got?" William grinned. Though sleepy, he realized the importance of the disclosure he was about to make and was correspondingly dignified and ponderous. There was two trabblin' gen'elmen, Mr. Smith and Mr. Higgins. He'd handled dose gen'elmen fo'

"Huh! Two of 'em!" commented McGinnis.

"That's easy!" remarked the mollified conductor.

The telegraph operator, who read Laura Jean Libbey, now approached with his revolver.

McGinnis, another detective, and the conductor moved toward the car. William preferred the safety of the platform and the temporary distinction of being the discoverer of the fugitive. No light was visible in the drawing-room, and the sounds of heavy slumber were plainly audible. The conductor rapped loudly; there was no response. He rattled the door and turned the handle vigorously, but elicited no sign of recognition. Then McGinnis rapped with his knife on the glass of the door. He happened to hit three times. Immediately there were sounds within. Something very much like "All right, sir," and the door was opened. The conductor and McGinnis saw a fat man, in blue silk pajamas, his face flushed and his eyes heavy with sleep, who looked at them in dazed bewilderment.

"Wot do you want?" drawled the fat man, blinking at the lantern.

"Sorry to disturb you," broke in McGinnis briskly, "but is there any wan else, beside ye, to kape ye company?"

Wilkins shook his head with annoyance and made as if to close the door, but the detective thrust his foot across the threshold. "Aisy there!" he remarked. "Conductor, just turn on that light, will ye?"

Wilkins scrambled heavily into his berth. and the conductor struck a match and turned on the Pintsch light. Only one bed was occupied, and that by the fat man in the pajamas. On the sofa was an elegant alligator-skin bag, disclosing a row of massive silver-topped bottles. A tall silk hat and Inverness coat hung from a hook, and a suit of evening clothes, as well as a business suit of fustian, were neatly folded and lying on the upper berth.

Then he turned up his coat-collar, stepped out upon the platform, and lit a cigar. By the light of the match he looked at his watch and saw that it was four o'clock. Overhead the sky glowed with thousands of twinkling stars, and the moon, just touching the sea, made a limpid path of light across the water. At the docks silent ships lay fast asleep. A mile away a clock struck four, intensifying the stillness. It was very beautiful, but very cold, and McAllister shivered as he thought of Wilkins, and Freddy Cabot, and the wedding at twelve o'clock. So far as he knew he might be just outside of Boston-Quincy or somewhere, yet, somehow, the moon didn't look as if it were at Quincy.

He jumped down and started along the track. His feet stung as they struck the cinder. His whole body was asleep. It was easy enough to walk in the direction in which the clock had sounded, and this he did. The rails followed the shore for about a hundred yards and then joined the main line. Presently he came in sight of a depot. Every now and then his sword would get between his legs, and this caused him so much annoyance that he took it off and carried it. It was queer how uncomfortable the old style of shoe was when used for walking on a railroad track! His ruffle, too, proved a confounded nuisance, almost preventing a satisfactory adjustment of coat-collar. Finally he untied it and put it in the pocket of his ulster. The cap was not so bad.

The depot had inspired the clubman with distinct hope, but as he approached, it appeared as dark and tenantless as the car behind him. It was impossible to read the name of the station owing to the fact that the sign was too high up for the light of a match to reach it. It was clear that there was nothing to do but to wait for the dawn, and he settled himself in a corner near the express office and tried to forget his discomfort

He had less time to wait than he had expected. Soon a great clattering of hoofs caused him to climb stiffly to his feet again. Three farmers' wagons, each drawn by a pair of heavy horses, backed in against the platform, and their drivers, throwing down the reins, leaped to the ground. All were smoking pipes and chaffing one another loudly. Then they began to unload huge cans of

milk. This looked encouraging. If they were bringing milk at this hour there must be a train-going somewhere. It didn't matter where to McAllister, if only he could get warm. Presently a faint humming came along the rails, which steadily increased in volume until the approaching train could be distinctly heard.

"Pretty nigh on time," commented the nearest farmer. McAllister stepped forward, sword in hand. The farmer involuntarily drew back.

"Wall, I swan!" he remarked, removing his pipe.

"Do you mind telling me," inquired our friend, "what place this is and where this train goes to?”

"I reckon not," replied the other. "This is Selma Junction and this here train is due in New York at five. Who be you?"

"Well," answered McAllister, "I'm just an humble citizen of New York, forced by circumstances to return to the city as soon as possible."

"Reckon you're one o' them play-actors, bean't ye?"

"You've got it," returned McAllister. "Fact is, I've just been playin' Henry VIII -on the road."

"I've heard tell on't," commented the rustic. "But I ain't never seen it. Shakespeare, ain't it?"

"Yes, Shakespeare," admitted the clubman.

At this moment the milk-train roared in and the teamsters began passing up their cans. There were no passenger coaches— nothing but freight-cars and a caboose. Toward this our friend made his way. There did not seem to be any conductor, and without making inquiries, McAllister climbed upon the platform and pushed open the door. If warmth was what he desired he soon found it. The end of the car was roughly fitted with half a dozen bunks, two chairs and some spittoons. A small cast-iron stove glowed red-hot, but while the place was odoriferous its temperature was grateful to the shivering McAllister. The car was empty save for a gigantic Irishman sitting fast asleep in the farther corner.

Our hero laid down his sword, threw off his ulster, and hung his cap upon an adjacent hook. In a moment or two the train started again. Still no one came into the caboose. Now daylight began to filter in through the

grimy windows. The sun jumped suddenly from behind a ridge and shot a beam into the face of the sleeper at the other end of the car. Slowly he awoke, yawned, rubbed his eyes, and, catching the glint of silver buttons, gazed stupidly in McAllister's direction. The random glance gradually gave place to a stare of intense amazement. He wrinkled his brows, and leaned forward, scrutinizing with care every detail of McAllister's make-up. The train stopped for an instant and a burly brakeman banged open the door and stepped inside. He, too, hung fire, as it were, at the sight of Henry VIII. Then he broke into a loud laugh.

"Who in thunder are you?"

Before McAllister could reply McGinnis, with a comprehensive smile, made answer: "Shure, 'tis only a prisoner I'm after takin' back to the city!"

"Mr. McAllister," remarked Conville, two hours later, as the three of them sat in the visitors' room at the club, "I hope you won't say anything about this. You see, I had no business to put a kid like Ebstein on the job, but I was clean knocked out and had to snatch some sleep. I suppose he thought he was doin' a big thing when he nailed you for a burglar. But, after all, the only thing that saved Welch was your fallin' asleep in the "Benvolio.""

"My dear Baron," sympathetically replied McAllister, who had once more resumed his ordinary attire, "why attribute to chance what is in fact due to intellect?

No, I won't mention our adventure, and if our friend McGinnis—"

"Oh, McGinnis'll keep his head shut, all right, you bet!" interrupted Barney. "But say, Mr. McAllister, on the level, you're too good for us. Why don't you chuck this game and come in out of the rain? You'll be up against it in the end. Help us to land this feller!"

McAllister took a long pull at his cigar and half closed his eyes. There was a quizzical look around his mouth that Conville had never seen there before.

"Perhaps I will," said he softly. "Perhaps I will."

"Good! shouted the Baron; "put it there! Now, if you get anything, tip us off. You can always catch me at 3100 Spring."

"Well," replied the clubman, "don't forget to drop in here, if you happen to be goin' by. Sometime, on a rainy day perhaps, you might want a nip of somethin' warm.'

But to this the Baron did not respond. A plunge in the tank and a comfortable smoke almost restored McAllister's customary equanimity. Weddings were a bore, anyway. Then he called for a telegraph blank and sent the following:

"Was unavoidably delayed. Terribly disappointed. If necessary, use Wilkins.

"MCA." To which, about noon-time, he received the following reply:

"Don't understand. Wilkins arrived, left clothes and departed. You must have mixed your dates. Wedding to-morrow. "F. C."

It is odd enough that a subject that is positively at the very root of national life should be left so long and so entirely as this one has in the domain of sentimentalism. There have been times when we have all of us suspected that the whole feminine question was a good deal in the hands of the sentimentalists in America. But, in any case, it is assuredly so of young women wage-earners. The young women, more and more removed from the domestic training, good or bad, which they might get from living at home, and more and more the creatures of the training of shops and offices, are the mothers of the majority of coming citizens. The notions they in turn bring into their homes, the ideas on which they nurture sons, are transmitted into the legislation of the second generation. We ought to wish, then, that as many sensible and solid ingredients as possible might enter into the character-building they receive. How much is actually done to secure these sensible and solid ingredients? Do we not do a good deal, rather, to encourage the reverse?

The social position of the American working girl is, to begin with, not the same as that of her father and brothers; the chivalry (mistaken or not) of the American employer makes it not the same. She is the "young lady who is doing thus and so"; her male relative is "the man who has come to see to the job." Many things are developed from that little germ of difference. And it would not seem to be of much use to establish educational foundations that will give the truth of things to girls if you do not also give them the truth of life. That a very large and very rapidly increasing portion of the female population should chronically esteem itself as a little finer than its male

consanguinity is not desirable. This, to be sure, is a big subject, and another story. The point directly at issue is whether the aid of the women's clubs would truly further the efficiency of the girls' trade schools?

In order that it should, it would be necessary that the animating spirit of women's clubs in relation to subjects affecting working girls should be practical purely, and not philanthropic. This is rarely the case. The sentimental consideration almost always obtrudes itself, in some form or other. Women's clubs have themselves existed too short a time, relatively, and the whole movement they express is too new, not to be still, so to say, in the metaphysical rather than the scientific stage. That all the practical problems of women's lives must be solved prac. tically, however, if they are to be solved at all, is something that men are more apt to be able to see than the sex itself.

If this is not to be done, it is really a vain confusion to bring up the practical problems in any way. The trade school, if it teaches respect for thoroughness and single-minded devotion to specialized efficiency, must also teach subordination of the personality, of the sex-the setting aside of privilege. Anything else is illogical. Too many forces in American life war against this result-so much so that there is always a danger of any trade school for girls degenerating into essentially a "short-cut" school. In the present day and generation short-cut schools of all kinds may be indispensable; but we should do well frankly to acknowledge, all the same, that as agents of genuine intellectual and moral growth, little can be claimed for them. And there are those of us who can't get away from the notion that the factor of moral rightness in every form of education given to women is even more of the necessary essence than it is in the education given to men; meaning by moral rightness the perception of the just proportions and values of things, human and spiritual. A rather defective sense of their own proportionate personal value is the source of the æsthetic effectiveness of American young women of the ranks, but perhaps also the indirect source of many economic follies and social fallacies that trouble us today.