and new faces—a desire which, as yet, I had not had the op portunity to gratify. Little wonder, then, that to be settled down in a city with the humdrum job of collecting locals was fast be coming unbearable to me. I felt that something must happen and happen soon. It did, but in a way totally unexpected. Phil had rolled over on the couch, and turned his face to the wall. Seeing that further conversation in that direction would be useless, I buried myself in dreamy contemplation of the clouds of fragrant smoke arising from my cigar, A few minutes later, I threw the short squib out the window, and was just about to pro pose a stroll to Phil when a knock sounded at the door. I hastily rose and answered the summons. “A message for Mr. Rothwell,” said the blue-coated urchin who had rapped, and as that was my name I paid the charges and signed the receipt. As soon as the door closed on the retreat ing form of the messenger boy, I tore open the envelope and drew out the enclosed sheet. It read: “Mr. Donated Rotiiweix, “ Barton down with fever. You will take his place. Sail to morrow at 10:30 on the Antilla. Report for orders at 8:00 this evening. I confess that I was actually dumfounded by this news, and to make sure that I wasn’t dreaming I read it over. No; there it was, plain as day. Barton, a correspondent on the Cuban staff, was down with the yellow fever, and I had been chosen to take his place. I had longed for something new to occur, and now it had, with a vengeance. A grunt from the couch caused me to glance in that direction. Chartley was regarding me with a look which indicated a mixture of surprise and curiosity. “ What’s the matter now?” he asked, with more animation than I dreamed he could possess. Matter? I cried. Read that, and you’ll know what it is.” And I thrust the yellow sheet into his hands. With exasperating slowness he raised himself to a sitting posture, felt for his eye-glasses, and, having found them, proceeded to clean and adjust them. Then, with the same cool deliberation, he crossed over to the window and read the message. “ Something did turn up, after all, didn’t it ?” he said, as he The Free Lance. “632 V St., New York City. “ Jas. L. Carter, Man. Ed.” [March,
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers