b'jiminy, I'm tickled t' death over it."

When Gar squared himself again, he began a wholesale house-cleaning in
the bunk-house. He persuaded the management to make several outlays,
and he gave himself to the work. We installed a book-case and books,
and Gar himself selected some chromos to hang around. Over a dent in
the wall, made by a chair with which he had tried to kill a man, he
hung this motto: "Let Brotherly Love Continue."

For ten years Gar struggled to be master of himself. He spent some
years in a soldiers' home, but it was against his principles to die in
such a tame institution. He wound up where he had spent his strange
career--in Chatham Square.

A bunk-house man--old and half blind--was crossing the street, and
roaring down on him came a Third Avenue car. It was Gar's one
opportunity, and, with a spring, he pushed the old fellow on his face
out of danger, but the wheels pinned Gar to the rails.

"I kin tell ye, boys," he said to the few friends who lingered around
his cot at the close, "I'll do no simperin' around God wid hard-luck
stories; I'll take what's comin' an' vamoose to m' place--whether up
or down."

There was a slight pressure of the big hands, then they became limp
and cold.

The bouncer was dead.

THE KING OF THE BABOONS

BY PERCEVAL GIBBON

ILLUSTRATION BY EUGENE HIGGINS

[Illustration: "THEY SAT ON THEIR RUMPS OUTSIDE THE CIRCLE OF KAFIRS"]

The old yellow-fanged dog-baboon that was chained to a post in the
yard had a dangerous trick of throwing stones. He would seize a piece
of rock in two hands, stand erect and whirl round on his heels till
momentum was obtained, and then let go. The missile would fly like a
bullet, and woe betide any one who stood in its way! The performance
precluded any kind of aim,--the stone was hurled off at any chance
tangent,--and it was bad luck rather than any kind of malice that
guided one three-pound boulder through the window, across the kitchen,
and into a portrait of Judas de Beer which hung on the wall not half a
dozen feet from the slumbering Vrouw Grobelaar.

She bounced from her chair and ballooned to the door with a silent,
swift agility most surprising to see in a lady of her generous build,
and not a sound did she utter. She was of good veldt-bred fighting
stock, which never cried out till it was hurt, and there was even
something of compassion in her face as Frikkie jumped from the stoop
with a twelve-foot thong in his hand