of an
engine dashing into the cut at full speed. Then a dog thrown clear of the
track, a crash like a falling house, and a flat car smashed into kindling
wood.

When the conductor and passengers of the express walked back, Bill Adams
was bending over a man in a blue jumper laid flat on the cinders. He was
bleeding from a wound in his head. Lying beside him was a yellow dog
licking his stiffened hand. A doctor among the passengers opened his red
shirt and pressed his hand on the heart. He said he was breathing, and
might live. Then they brought a stretcher from the office, and Connors and
Bill Adams carried him up the hill, the dog following, limping.

Here they laid him on a bed beside a sobbing, frightened girl; the dog at
her feet.

Adams bent over him, washing his head with a wad of cotton waste.

Just before he died he opened his eyes, rested them on his daughter, half
raised his head as if in search of the dog, and then fell back on his bed,
that same sweet, clear smile about his mouth.

"John Sanders," said Adams, "how in h--- could a sensible man like you
throw his life away for a damned yellow dog?"

"Don't, Billy," he said. "I couldn't help it. He was a cripple."

BAeADER

I was sitting in the shadow of Mme. Poulard's delightful inn at St. Michel
when I first saw Baeader. Dinner had been served, and I had helped to pay
for my portion by tacking a sketch on the wall behind the chair of the
hostess. This high valuation was not intended as a special compliment to
me, the wall being already covered with similar souvenirs from the
sketch-books of half the painters in Europe.

Baeader, he pronounced it Bayder, had at that moment arrived in answer to a
telegram from the governor, who the night before, in a moment of
desperation, had telegraphed the proprietor of his hotel in Paris, "Send
me a courier at once who knows Normandy and speaks English." The
bare-headed man who, hat in hand, was at this moment bowing so
obsequiously to the governor, was the person who had arrived in response.
He was short and thick-set, and perfectly bald on the top of his head in a
small spot, friar-fashion. He glistened with perspiration that collected
near the hat-line, and escaped in two streams, drowning locks of black
hair covering each temple, stranding them like wet grass on his
cheek-bones below. His full face was clean-shaven, smug, and persuasive,
and framed two shoe-button eyes that, while sharp and alert, lack