“Ghe
BLIND MANS
EYES
BY
WILLIAM MACHARGEDWIN BALMER.
[Nlustrations by R.H.Livingstone
COPYRICHT BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
SYNOPSIS
CHAPTER I1.—Gabriel Warden, Seattle
capitalist, tells his butler he is expecting
a caller, to be admitted without question.
He informs his wife of danger that
threatens him if he pursues a course he
considers the only honorable one. War-
den leaves the house in his car and meets
a man whom he takes into the machine.
When the car returns home, Warden is
found dead, murdered, and alone. The
caller, a young man, has been at War-
den’s ‘house, but leaves unobserved
CHAPTER I1.—Bob Connery, conductor,
receives orders to hold train for a party.
Five men and a girl board the train
The father of the girl, Mr. Dorne, is the
3rson for whom the train was held
Splip D Eaton, a young man, also
ed the train. Dorne tells his daugh-
ter and his secretary, Don Avery, to find
out what they can concerning him.
CHAPTER III.—The two make Eaton’s
acquaintance. The train is stopped by
snowdrifts.
CHAPTER IV.—Eaton receives a tele-
gram addressed to Lawrence Hillwara,
which he claims. It warns him he is
being followed.
CHAPTER V.—Passing through the car,
Connery notices Dorne’s hand hanging
outside the berth. He ascertains Dorne’s
has recently rung. Perturbed, he
investigates and finds Dorne with his
skull crushed. He calls a surgeon, Dr.
Sinclair, on the train.
CHAPTER VI.—Sinclair recognizes the
injured man as Basil Santoine, who, al-
gacugh blind, is a peculiar power in the
cial world as adviser to “big inter-
ests.” His recovery is a matter of doubt
(Continued from last week).
As he glanced at the seat where
he had left his locked travellng bag,
he saw that the bag was no longer
there. It stood now between the two
seats on the floor, and picking it up
and looking at it, he found it unfas-
tened and with marks about the loc3
which told plainly that it had bee>
forced.
He set it on the floor between his
knees and checked over its contents.
Nothing had been taken, so far as
he could tell; for the bag had con-
tained only clothing, the Chinese dic-
tionary and the box of cigars, and
these all apparently were still there.
He had laid out the things on the
seat across from him while checking
them up, and now he began to put
them back in the bag. Suddenly he
noticed that one of his socks was
missing; what had been eleven pairs
was now only ten pairs and one odd
sock.
This disappearance of a single sock
was so strange, so bizarre, so per-
plexing that—unless it was acciden-
tal—he could not account for it at all.
No one opens a man’s bag and steals
one sock, and he was quite sure there
had been eleven complete pairs there
earlier in the day. Certainly then, it
had been accidental: the bag had
been opened, its contents taken out
and examined, and in putting them
back, one sock had been dropped un
noticed. The absence. of the sock,
then, meant no more than that the
contents of the bag had been thor-
oughly investigated. By whom? By
the man against whom the telegram
directed to Lawrence Hillward had
warned Eaton?
Ever since his receipt of the tele-
gram, Eaton—as he passed through
the train in going to and from the
diner or for other reasons—had been
trying covertly to determine which,
if anyone, among the passengers, was
the “one” who, the telegram had
warned him, was “following” him.
For at first he had interpreted it to
mean that one of “them” whom he
had to fear must be on the train.
Later he had felt certain that this
could not be the case, for otherwise
any one of “them” who knew him
would have spoken by this time. Now
his suspicions that one of “them” must
be aboard the train returned.
The bag certainly had not been car-
ried out the forward door of the car,
or he would have seen it from the
compartment at that end of the car
where he had sat smoking. The bag,
therefore, had been carried out the
rear door, and the man who had
opened it, if a passenger, must still
be in the rear part of the train,
Eaton, refilling his cigar-case to
give his action a look of casualness,
got up and went toward the rear of
the train. A porter was still posted
at the door of the Santoine car, who
warned him to be quiet in passing
through. The car, he found, was en-
tirely empty; the door to the drawing
room where Santoine lay was closed.
He went on into the observation
car. A few men and women passen-
gers here were reading or talking.
Glancing on past them through the
glass door at the end of the car, he
saw Harriet Santoine standing alone
on the observation platform. The
girl did not see him; her back was
toward the car. As he went out onto
the platform and the sound of the
closing door came to her, she turned
> meet him.
She looked white and tired, and
faint gray shadows underneath her
eyes showed where dark circles were
beginning to form.
“I am supposed to be resting,” she
explained quietly, accepting him as
one who had the right to ask.
“How is your father?”
“Just tha same; there may be no
change, Doctor Sinclair says, for days.
It seems all so sudden and so—ter-
rible, Mr. Eaton.”
Eaton, leaning against the rail be-
side her and glancing at her, saw that
her lashes were wet, and his eyes
dropped as they caught hers.
“They have heen investigating tiie
attack?’
“Yes: Donald— Mr. Avery, you
know—and the conductor have heen
working on it all day. They have
been questioning the porter.”
“The porter?”
“Oh, I don't mean that they think
the porter had anything to do with
it; but the bell rang. you know.”
“The bell?”
“The bell from Father's berth. I
thought you knew. It rang some time
before Father was found—some faw
minutes before: the porter did nor
hear it, but the pointer was turned
down. They have tested it. and {’
cannot be jarred down or turned ir
any way except by means of the
hell.”
Eaton looked away from her, then
back again rather strangely.
*Is that all they have learned?”
“No; they have found the weapon.”
“The weapon with which your fu-
tier was struck?”
“Yes; the man who did it seems not
70 have realized that the train was
stopped—or at least that it would
ne stopped for so long—and he threw
it off the train, thinking, I suppose,
we should be miles away from there
by morning. But the train didn’t
move, and the snow didn’t cover it
up, and it was found lying against
the snow bank this afternoon. It cor-
responds, Doctor Sinclair says, with
Father's injuries.”
“What was it?”
“It seems to have been a bar of :
metal—of steel, they said,
Mr. Eaton—wrapped in a man’s black
sock.”
“A sock!” Eaton's voice sounded
strange oy ‘himself; he felt that the
brood Had, feft his cheeks, leaving him
pale, and that the girl must notice it.
“A man's sock!”
Then he saw that she had not no-
ticed, for she had not been looking
at him,
“It could be carried in that. way
through the sleepers, you know, with-
out attracting attention,” she ob-
served.
Eaton controlled himself.
sock!” he said again, reflectively.
He felt suddenly a rough tap upon
his shoulder, and turning, saw that
Donald Avery had come out upon the
platform and was standing beside
him; and behind Avery he saw Con-
ductor Connery. There was no one
else on the platform.
“Will you tell me, Mr. Eaton—or
whatever else your name may be—
what it is that you have been asking
Miss Santoine?” Avery demanded
harshly. “Harry, vhat has this man
been saying to you?”
“Mr. Eaton?’ Her gaze went won-
deringly from Avery to Eaton and
back again. “Why—why, Don! He
has only been asking me what we had
found out about the attack on Fa-
ther!”
“And you told him?” Avery swung
toward Eaton. “You dog!” he mouth-
ed. “Harriet, he asked you that be-
cause he needed to know—he had to
know! Harry, this is the man that
did it!”
Eaton’s fists clenched; but sudden-
ly, recollecting, he checked himself.
Harriet, not yet comprehending, stood
staring at the two; then Eaten saw
the blood rush to her face and dye
forehead and cheek and neck as she
understood.
“Not here, Mr. Avery; not here!”
Conductor Connery put his hand on
Eaton's arm. “Come with me, sir,”
he commanded.
Eaton thought anxiously for a mo-
ment. He looked to Harriet Santoine
as though about to say something to
her, but he did not speak; instead, he
quietly followed the conductor. As
they passed through the observation
car into the car ahead, he heard the
footsteps of Harriet Santoine and
Avery close behind him.
CHAPTER Vill
Questions,
Connery pulled aside the curtain
of the washroom at the end of the
Santoine car—the end farthest from
the drawing room wéere Santoine lay.
“Step in here, sir,” he directed. “Sit
d@own, if you want. We're far enough
from the drawing room not to dis-
¢urb Mr. Santoine.”
Eaton, seating himself in the corner
of the leather seat built against two
walls of the room, and looking up,
saw that Avery had come into the
room with them. The girl followed.
With her entrance into the room came
ro him a strange sensation which ex-
nausted his breath and stopped his
pulse for a beat. To be accused—
“A
even to be suspected—of the crime
against Santoine was to have atten-
tion brought to him which—with his
unsatisfactory acceunt of himself—
threatened ugly complications. Yet,
‘at this moment of realization, that di~
not fill his mind. Whether his long
dwelling close to death had numbed
him to his own dan~er, however much
more immediate it had become. he
could not know ; probably he had pre-
pared himself so thoroughly, had in-
nred himself so to expect arrest and
imminent destruction, that now his
finding himself confronted with ac-
cusers in itself failed to stir new sen-
sation; but till this day, he had never
{raagined or been able to prepare him-
self for accusation before one Hike
Harriet Santoine; so, for a moment.
toought solely of himself was 8 sap-
“Step In Here, 8 ,” He Directed.
current. Of his conselous feelln~s
the terror that she would be brouxzh
to believe with the others that he ha
struck the blow against her fathe
was the most poignant.
Avery pulled forward one of the
leather chairs for her to seat hersel
and took another for himself facin.
Eaton,
“Why did you ring the bell in Mr
Santoine's berth?” Avery directed the
| attack upon him suddenly.
I think,
“To call help,” Eaton answered.
“You had known, then, that he
needed help?”
“I knew it—saw it then, of course.”
“When?”
“When I found him. When I wen!
forward to look for the conductor t
ask him about taking a walk on the
roof of the cars.”
“You found him
the way he was?”
“That way? Yes.”
“How?” : .
“How?” Eaton ftavnted
“Yes; how, Mr. Eaton, or Hillward
or whatever your name is? How did
you find him? The curtains were
open, perhaps; you saw him as you
went by, eh?”
then—that way
he
Eaton shook his head. “No; the
curtains weren't open; they were
closed.”
“Then why did you look in?”
“I saw his hand in the aisle.”
“Go on.”
“When I came back it didn’t look
right to me; its position had not been
changed at all, and it hadn't looked
right to me before. So I stopped and
touched it, and I found that it was
cold.”
“Then you looked into the berth?”
“Yes.”
“And having looked in and seen
Mr. Santoine injured and lying as he
was, you did not call anyone, you did
not bring help—you merely leaned
across him and pushed the bell and
went on quickly out of the car before
anyone could see you?”
“Yes; but I waited on the platform
of the next car to see that help did
come; and the conductor passed me,
and I knew that he and the porter
must find Mr. Santoine, as they did.”
“Do you expect us to believe that
very peculiar action of yours was the
act of an innocent man?”
“If I had been guilty of the attack
on Mr. Santoine, I'd not have stopped
or looked into the berth at all.”
“If you are innocent, you had, of
course, some reason for acting as you
did. Will you explain what it was?”
“No—I cannot explain.”
With a look of triumph Avery
turned to Harriet Santoine, and Ea-
ton felt his flesh grow warm with
gratitude as he saw her meet Avery's
look with no appearance of being con-
vinced.
Avery made a vexed gesture, and
turned to Connery. “Tell her the rest
of it,” he directed.
Connery, who had remained stand.
ing back of the two chairs, moved
slightly forward. “Where shall I be-
gin?” he asked of Avery; he was look-
ing not at the girl but at Eaton.
“At the beginning,” Avery directed.
“Mr. Eaton, when you came to this
train, the gateman at Seattle called
my attention to you,” Connery began.
“Old Sammy has recognized men with
criminal records time and again. He's
got seven rewards out of it.”
Eaton felt his pulses close with a
shock. “He recognized me?’ he
asked quietly.
“No, he didn’t; he couldn't place
you,” Connery granted. “He couldn't
tell whether you were somebody that
was ‘wanted’ or someone well known
~—gomeone famous, maybe; but I
wupht to have kept my eye on you
because of that, from the very start.
Now, this morning you claim a tele-
gram meant for another man—a man
named Hillward, on this train, who
seems to be all right—that is, by his
answers and his account of himself he
© tant
‘seems to be exactly what he claims
to be.”
“Did he read the telegram to you?”
Eaton asked. “It was in code. If it
was meant for him, he ought to be
able to read it.”
“No, he didn’t, Will you?”
Eaton halted while he recalled the
exact wording of the message. “No.”
Connery paused and looked to
Avery and the ghil. “You'll wait a
minute, Mr. Avery; and you, Miss
Santoine. I won’t be long.”
He left the washroom, and the
sound of the closing of a door which
came to Eaton a half-minute later
told that he had gone out the front
end of the car.
As the three sat waiting in the
washroom, no one spoke. Eaton un-
derstood fully that the manner in
which the evidence against him was
being presented to him was not with
any expectation that he could defend
himself; Avery and Connery were ob-
viously too certain of their conclusion
for that; rather, as it was being
given {hus under Avery’s direction, it
was for the effect upon Ha: .:t San-
toine and to convince her fully. But
Eaton had understood this from the :
this reason he had
deny
first. It was for
not attempted to
Santoine’s hell. realizing that if he
denied it and it afterward was |
proved. he would appear in a worse |
light than by his inability to account
for or assien a reason for his act. |
And he had proved right in this; for !
the girl hud not been convinced. So
now he comprohended that something
far more convincing and more impor-
was fo come; but what that
could be, he could not guess.
The conductor appeared in the door |
of the washroom folleawed Ly the Eng-
lishman from Eaton’s car, Henry Stan-
dish. Connery carried the sheet won
which he had written tse questiuns
he had asked Eaton, and Eaton's an-
swers.
“What name were you using, Mr
Eaton. when you came from Asia to
the United States?” the conductor de
manded.
Eaton reflected. “My own,” he
said. “Philip D. Eaton.”
“Mr. Standish”—Connery faced the
Englishnian—*you came from Yoko-
hama to Seattle on the Tamba Maru,
didn't you? Do you remember this
Mr. Eaton among the passengers?’
“No.”
“Do you know he was not among
the passengers?”
“Yes, 1.do.”
“How do you know?”
The Englishman took a folded pa-
ver from his Poel _opened it. and |
The Englishman Took a Folded Paper
From His Pock:t, Opened It and
Handed It to the Conductor.
handed it to the conductor. Connery,
taking it, held it cut to Eaton,
“Here, Mr. Eaton,” he said, “is the
printed passenger list of the people
aboard the Tamba Maru prepared
after leaving Yokohama for distribu-
tion among the passengers. It's un-
questionably correct. Will you point
out your name on it?”
Eaton made no move to take the
paper; and after holding it long
enough to give him full opportunity,
Connery handed it back to the Eng-
lishman.
“That's all, Mr, Standish,” he said.
Eaton sat silent as the Englishman,
after staring curiously around at them
with his bulging, interested eyes, left
the washroom.
“Now, Mr. Eaton,” Connery said, as
the sound of Standish’s steps became
inaudible, “either you were not on the
Tamba Maru or you were on it under!
some other name than Eaton. Which
was it?”
“I never said I was on the Tamba
Maru,” Eaton returned steadily. “I
said I came from Asia by steamer.
You yourself supplied the name Tam-
ba Maru.”
“In case of questioning like that,
Mr. Eaton, it makes no difference
whether you said it or I supplied it
in your hearing. If you didn't correct
me, it was because you wanted me to
get a wrong impression about you.
You weren't on the Tamba Maru,
were you?”
“No, I was not.”
“You did come from Asia, though,
as your railroad ticket seemed to
show?”
“Yes.”
“From Yokohama?”
“The last port we stopped at before
sailing for Seattle was Yokohama—
yes.”
Connery reflected. “You had been
m Seattle, then, at least five days;
for the last steamer you could have
come on docked five days before the
Tamba Maru. In fact, Mr. Eaton, you
had been on this side of the water for
as many as eleven days, had you
not?”
having rung |
_-——
“Eleven days?’ Iaton repeated.
“Yes; for it was just eleven days
before this train left Seattle that you
came to the house of Mr. Gabriel War-
was brought home dead!”
Eaton, sitting forward a
looked up at the conductor:
glance caught Avery's an instant;
gazed then to Harriet Santoine.
the charge, she had started;
Avery had not. The
therefore, was Connery’s, or had been
agreed upon by Connery and Avery
between them; suggestion of it had
not come from the Santoines. And
rect.
“Or do you want to deny that too and
have it proved on you later?”
den and waited there for him till he |!
|
tittle |
his |
he |
At:
but
identification, '
ing the effect, Eaton now realized, to |
see if what he had accused was cor!
Connery had made the charge with- |
out being certain of it; he was watech- |
|
“Isn't that so?” Connery demanded, |
Again for a moment Eaton sat 8i- |
lent. “No,” he decided, “I do not deny '
1 that.”
“Then you are tl:e man who was at
Warden's the night he was
Gered?”
“Yes,” said Eaton, “I was there that
evening. I was the one who came
there by appointment and waited till
| after Mr. Warden -vas brought home
dead.”
“So you admit that?” Connery gloat.
ed; but he could not keep from Eaton
mure-
{ blue eyes were very
a sense that, hy Eaten’s admission of
the fact, Connery had been disap-:
| pointed.
| “All rigtr, Mr. Eaton!” Connery
| returned to his charge.
man. Su besides
means, vou’d heen
| to get aboard this train, which left a
full hour after its usual starting time.
Who were you waiting to see get on
the train before you yourself took it?"
Eaten wet his lips. To what was
Connery working up? The probabil-
ity, now rapidly becoming certainty.
that in addition to the recognition of
him as the man who had waited at
Warden’'s—which fact anyone at any
time might have charged—Connery
knew something else which the con-
ductor could not have been expected
to know—this dismayed Eaton the
more by its indefiniteness. And he
saw, as his gaze shifted to Avery, that
Avery knew this thing also.
“What do you mean by that ques-
tion?” he asked,
“I mean that—however innocent or
guilty may be the chance of your be-
ing at Mr. Warden's the night he was
killed—you’ll have a hard time prov-
ing that you did not wait and watch
and take this train because Basil San-
toine had taken it; and that you were
not following him. Do you deny it?”
Eaton was silent.
Connery, bringing the paper in his
hand nearer to the window again,
glanced down once more at the state-
ment Eaton had made. “I asked you
who you knew: in @hicage,” he said.
“and you answered ‘No one.’ That
was your reply, was it not?”
“Yes.”
“You know no one in Chicago?”
“No one,” Eaton repeated.
“And certainly no one there knows
you well enough to follow your
movements in relation to Mr. San-
toine. That's a necessary assumption
from the fact that you know no one
at all there.”
The conductor pulled a telegram
from his pocket and handed it to
Avery, who, evidently having already
seen it, passed it on to Harriet San-
toine. She tock it, staring at it me-
chanically and vacantly; then sudden-
ly she shivered, and the yellow paper
which she had read slipped from her
hand and fluttered to the floor. Con-
nery stooped and picked it up and
handed it toward Eaton.
“This is yours,” he said.
Eaton had sensed already what the
nature of the message must be,
though as the conductor held it out
to him he could read only his name
at the top of the sheet and did not
know yet what the actual wording
was below. Acceptance of it must
mean arrest, indictment for the
crime against Basil Santoine; and
that, whether or not he later was ac-
quitted, must destroy him; but denial
of the message now would be hope-
less.
“It is yours, isn’t it?’ Connery
urged.
“Yes; it’s mine,” Eaton admitted;
and to make his acceptance definite,
he took the paper from Connery. As
he looked dully down at it, he read:
i “He is on your train under the
name of Dorne,”
| The message was not signed.
{| Connery touched him on the shoul-
der. “Come with me, Mr. Eaton.”
| Eaton got up slowly and mechan-
ically and followed the conductor. At
the door he halted and looked back;
Harriet Santoine was not looking;
her face was covered with her hands;
Eaton hesitated; then he went on.
Connery threw open the door of the
compartment next to the washroom
and corresponding to the drawing
rocm at the other end of the car, but
smaller.
“You'll do well enough in here.”
He closed the door upon Eaton and
locked it.
the floor, he could hear through the
‘metal partition of the washroom the
nervous, almost hysterical weeping of
an overstrained girl. The thing was
done; in so far as the authorities on
the traln were concerned, it was
"known that he was the man who had
had the appointment with Gabriel
‘Warden and had disappeared; and in
wo far as the train officials could act,
ne was accused and confined for the
attack upon Basil Santoine. But be-
'sides being overwhelmed with the hor-
ror of this position, the manner in
(which he had been accused had
roused him to helpless anger, to rage
‘at his accusers which still increased
“You are that .
wvlaatever else that |
in Seattle eleven
days and yet you were the lust person |
|
!
As Eaton stood staring at’
as he heard the sounds on the other
side of the partition, where Avery was
now trying to silence Harriet San-
toine and lead her away.
CHAPTER IX
The Blind Man’s Eyes.
At noon Connery came to his door,
and behind Connery, Eaton saw Har-
riet Santoine and Avery. Eaton
jumped up, and as he saw the girl's
pale face, the color left his own.
“Miss Santoine has asked to speak
to you,” Connery announced; and he
admitted Harriet Santoine and Avery,
and himself remaining outside in the
aisle, closed the door upon them.
“How is your father?” Eaton asked
the girl.
“He seems just the same; at least,
1 can’t see any change, Mr. Eaton.”
“Can Doctor Sinclair see any differ-
ence?’ Eaton asked.
“Doctor Sinclair will not commit
himself except to say that so far as
he can tell, the indications are favor-
alle, He seems to think—" The girl
choked; but when she went on, her
bright and her
lips did not tremble. “Doctor Sinclair
seems to think, Mr. Eaton, that Fa-
ther was found just in time, and that
whatever chance he has for recovery
came from you. Sometimes Father
had insomnia and wouldn't get to
sleep till late in the morning; so I—
and Mr. Avery too—would have left
him undisturbed until noon. Doctor
Sinclair says that if ne had been left
as long as that, he would have had no
chance at all for life.”
“He has a chance, then, now?”
“Yes; but we don’t know how much.
I—I wanted you to know, Mr. Eaton.
{ that I recognize—thsat the chance Fa-
ther may have came through you, and
that I am trying to think of you as
the one who gave him the chance.”
The warm blood flooded Eaton's
face, and he bowed his head. She,
then, was not wholly hostile tc hime
¢he had not been completely con-
vinced by Avery.
Her eyes rested upon Eaton stead-
ily; and while he had been appealing
to her, a flush had come to her cheeks
and faded away and eome again and
again with her impulses as he spoke.
“If you didn’t do it, why don't you
help us?’ she cried.
“Help you?”
“Yes; tell us who you are and what
you are doing? Why did you take the
train because Father was on it, if you
didn’t mean any harm to him? Why
don’t you tell us where you are going
or where you have been or what you
have been doing? Why can’t you give
the name of anybody you know or tell
us of anyone who knows about you?"
“I might ask you in return,” Eaton
said, “why you thought it worth while,
Miss Santoine, to ask so much about
myself when you first met me and
before any of this had happened?
Why were you curious about me?”
“My father asked me to find out
about you.”
“Why ?”
Harriet had reddened under Eaton's
gaze. “You understand, Mr. Eaton, it"
was—was entirely impersonal with
me, My father, being blind, is obliged
to use the eyes of others—mine, for
one; and he has Mr. Avery. He calls
us his eyes, sometimes; and it was
only—only because I had been com-
missioned to find out about you that
I was obliged to show so much
curiosity.” ,
Harriet arose, and Eaton got up as
she did and stood as she went toward
the door.
Avery had reached the door, hold-
ing it open for her to go out. Sudden-
ly Eaton tore the handle from Avery’s
grasp, slammed the door shut upon
him and braced his foot against it.
“Miss Santoine,” he pleaded, his
voice hoarse with his emotion, “for
God's sake, make them think what
they are doing before they make a
public accusation against me—before
they charge me with this to others
not on this train! It will not be
merely accusation they make against
me—it will be my sentence! I shall
be sentenced before I am tried—con-
demned without a chance to defend
myself! That is the reason I could
not come forward after the murder
of Mr. Warden. I could not have
helped him—or aided in the pursuit
of his enemies—if I had appeared; I
merely would have been destroyed
myself! The only thing I could hope
to accomplish has been in following
my present course—which, I swear
to you, has no connection with the
attack upon your father. What Mr.
Avery and Connery are planning to
Ao to me, they cannot undo. They
wil merely complete the outrage and
injustice already done me—of which
Mr. Warden spoke to his wife—and
they will not help your father. For
God's sake, keep them from going
further!”
(To be Continued.)
Italian Mothers want to Cook “Amer-
ican Way.”
The home economics extension work
of The Pennsylvania State College is
carried to every corner of the State
by a corps of trained workers. One
of the workers, Miss Helen K. Rog-
ers, recently reported to college offi-
cials that a group of Italian mothers
at Conshohocken are receiving in-
struction, at their own request, in how
to cook in the “American way.” The
class there is considered to be a great
success and every session is well at-
tended.
How it Happened.
said the pris-
“what
“Now my good man,”
on visitor, sympathetically,
brought you here?”
“It was mistaken confidence ma’am,”
responded the convict.
“Really,” returned the visitor, “and
in whom were you deceived ?”
“In myself, ma’am,” said the con-
viet. “I thought I could run faster.”