a gentleman I met in an American railway car. I was travelling
from Buffalo to New York, and, during the day, it suddenly occurred to me
that I might make the journey more interesting by leaving the cars at
Albany and completing the distance by water. But I did not know how the
boats ran, and I had no guide-book with me. I glanced about for some one
to question. A mild-looking, elderly gentleman sat by the next window
reading a book, the cover of which was familiar to me. I deemed him to
be intelligent, and approached him.

"I beg your pardon for interrupting you," I said, sitting down opposite
to him, "but could you give me any information about the boats between
Albany and New York?"

"Well," he answered, looking up with a pleasant smile, "there are three
lines of boats altogether. There is the Heggarty line, but they only go
as far as Catskill. Then there are the Poughkeepsie boats, which go
every other day. Or there is what we call the canal boat."

"Oh," I said. "Well now, which would you advise me to--"

He jumped to his feet with a cry, and stood glaring down at me with a
gleam in his eyes which was positively murderous.

"You villain!" he hissed in low tones of concentrated fury, "so that's
your game, is it? I'll give you something that you'll want advice
about," and he whipped out a six-chambered revolver.

I felt hurt. I also felt that if the interview were prolonged I might
feel even more hurt. So I left him without a word, and drifted over to
the other end of the car, where I took up a position between a stout lady
and the door.

I was still musing upon the incident, when, looking up, I observed my
elderly friend making towards me. I rose and laid my hand upon the door-
knob. He should not find me unprepared. He smiled, reassuringly,
however, and held out his hand.

"I've been thinking," he said, "that maybe I was a little rude just now.
I should like, if you will let me, to explain. I think, when you have
heard my story, you will understand, and forgive me."

There was that about him which made me trust him. We found a quiet
corner in the smoking-car. I had a "whiskey sour," and he prescribed for
himself a strange thing of his own invention. Then we lighted our
cigars, and he talked.

"Thirty years ago," said he, "I was a young man with a healthy belief in
myself, and a desire to do good to others. I did not imagine myself a
genius. I did not even consider myself exceptional