driver shouted
at Judge Van Vorst. His throat was parched, his voice was hoarse and hot
with anger.

"A gray touring-car," he shouted. "It stopped here. We saw it from that
hill. Then the damn tire burst, and we lost our way. Where did he go?"

"Who?" demanded Van Vorst, stiffly, "Captain McCoy?"

The man exploded with an oath. The driver, with a shove of his elbow,
silenced him.

"Yes, Captain McCoy," assented the driver eagerly. "Which way did he
go?"

"To New York," said Van Vorst.

The driver shrieked at his companion.

"Then, he's doubled back," he cried. "He's gone to New Haven." He
stooped and threw in the clutch. The car lurched forward.

A cold terror swept young Van Vorst.

"What do you want with him?" he called. "Who _are_ you?"

Over one shoulder the masked face glared at him. Above the roar of the
car the words of the driver were flung back.

"We're Secret Service from Washington," he shouted. "He's from their
embassy. He's a German spy!"

Leaping and throbbing at sixty miles an hour, the car vanished in a
curtain of white, whirling dust.

GALLEGHER

A NEWSPAPER STORY

We had had so many office-boys before Gallegher came among us that they
had begun to lose the characteristics of individuals, and became merged
in a composite photograph of small boys, to whom we applied the generic
title of "Here, you"; or "You, boy."

We had had sleepy boys, and lazy boys, and bright, "smart" boys, who
became so familiar on so short an acquaintance that we were forced to
part with them to save our own self-respect.

They generally graduated into district-messenger boys, and occasionally
returned to us in blue coats with nickel-plated buttons, and patronized
us.

But Gallegher was something different from anything we had experienced
before. Gallegher was short and broad in build, with a solid, muscular
broadness, and not a fat and dumpy shortness. He wore perpetually on his
face a happy and knowing smile, as if you and the world in general were
not impressing him as seriously as you thought you were, and his eyes,
which were very black and very bright, snapped intelligently at you like
those of a little black-and-tan terrier.

All Gallegher knew had been learnt on the streets; not a very good
school in itself, but one that turns out very knowing scholars. And
Gallegher had attended both morning and evening sessions. He could not
tell you who the Pilgrim Fathers were, nor could he name the t