s on him.

"Halt!" he cries again, "or I'll fire!"

"Fire! Waste yer powder on yer friends, like the bloody-minded spalpeen
ye are!" says the scavenger, cracking his whip, and moving forward.

It is well he does not look back. If he should, he might be melted to
his own soap-grease. The sentry's musket is levelled; he is about to
fire, but the Commandant roars out,--

"Don't shoot!" and the old man and the old horse trot off into the
twilight.

Not an hour later, two men, in big boots, slouched hats, and brownish
butternuts, come out of the Commandant's quarters. With muffled faces
and hasty strides, they make their way over the dimly lighted road into
the city. Pausing, after a while, before a large mansion, they crouch
down among the shadows. It is the house of the Grand Treasurer of the
Order of American Knights, and into it very soon they see the Texan
enter. The good man knows him well, and there is great rejoicing. He
orders up the fatted calf, and soon it is on the table, steaming hot,
and done brown in the roasting. When the meal is over, they discuss a
bottle of Champagne and the situation. The Texan cannot remain in
Chicago, for there he will surely be detected. He must be off to
Cincinnati by the first train; and he will arrive in the nick of time,
for warm work is daily expected. Has he any money about him? No, he has
left it behind, with his Sunday clothes, in the prison. He must have
funds; but the worthy gentleman can lend him none, for he is a loyal
man; of course he is! was he not the "people's candidate" for Governor?
But no one ever heard of a woman being hanged for treason. With this he
nods to his wife, who opens her purse, and tosses the Texan a roll of
greenbacks. They are honest notes, for an honest face is on them. At the
end of an hour good-night is said, and the Texan goes out to find a hole
to hide in. Down the street he hurries, the long, dark shadows
following.

He enters the private door of a public house, speaks a magic word, and
is shown to a room in the upper story. Three low, prolonged raps on the
wall, and--he is among them. They are seated about a small table, on
which is a plan of the prison. One is about forty-five,--a tall, thin
man, with a wiry frame, a jovial face, and eyes which have the wild,
roving look of the Arab's. He is dressed after the fashion of English
sportsmen, and his dog--a fine gray bloodhound--is stretched on the
hearthrug near him. He looks a reckless, d