ike a racer. He knew that if the
burglars got his father into the bank they would try to make him open
the safe in which $70,000 had been deposited that day. His father would
resist, he knew. He remembered what had happened to other bank cashiers
who resisted. The thought choked him. He bent over his handle bar, and
the wheels seemed to fly. The pale, sinking moon, the silent road that
stretched its white length before him, the tall trees, mysterious in
their own dark shadows, the grass shining with dew, all made a picture
that he never forgot. Above all, a scene stood out that he could not
shut from his mind, try as he might--his father in the hands of the two
ruffians, resolutely defying them in face of awful danger.

The sergeant nodding in his chair in the police station at one o'clock
in the morning was startled by the vision of a bareheaded, white-faced
boy.

"Hurry!" the boy exclaimed. "The Traders' Bank! Robbers!" In less than a
minute the sergeant and two of his men were on their way to the bank.
Arthur followed them closely. He hid with them in the dark vestibule of
the bank. It seemed to the boy as if years passed before he at last
heard footsteps in the silent street. Then the minutes were hours long.
At last the two robbers and their victim arrived at the outer door. They
pushed him in and told him to be lively about unlocking that door. At
that instant the policemen jumped forward and presented their pistols at
the heads of the burglars. They made no resistance. They were too
surprised. Arthur and his father walked home side by side, Arthur
pushing his bicycle by the handle bar. For a long time they had nothing
to say to each other, for each was busy with his thoughts.

"Arthur," said his father at length, "I'm glad there is a scorcher in
the family, but I--"

"Yes, sir," interrupted the boy, eagerly; "but I want to tell you I'm
sorry I went into the road race to-day."

"Perhaps I was too hasty," said Mr. Clark. "But the bicycle has done one
good thing. It has shown me that my son is as quick-witted as he is
brave."

GREAT MEN'S SONS.

THE SON OF CHARLEMAGNE.

BY ELBRIDGE S. BROOKS.

[Illustration: Decorative I]

n the summer days of the year 781 an odd sort of a procession marched
through France.

There were fluttering standards and melodious trumpets; there were
gallant knights, and grave men in robes and gowns, and noble ladies, and
a long train of servants; there were spearmen an