"The zebra looked thoughtful" Planned like a major. Never soiled his own hands,-0, no, not Jerry! Just laid back and his plans at the same time and sent his pals to execoote 'em. Never stole a thing himself in his life. No, sir, not him. Too big a coward-was Jerry. No more nerve than a horned toad. A lovely crook, but no nerve,-too bad. enough to steal a bucket of water out of the Missouri; no, sir, not Jerry,-too bad! But he got rich and lived like a man. Bet yer life!"

Not

Socrates pulled off his crownless hat. "Hate to pester, but mighty pleased for a new hat," he whimpered. "Sun don't stop for this; ain't got much hair, anyhow."

The zebra reflected. Then he got down and took from a nail a wide-brimmed rough hat suggestive of cowboys, outlaws, and guerrillas. He smacked his lips and held it up admiringly.

"Hate to see such a finish for this, but reckon perhaps you need it," he said. "Ah the fellow what wore that was the lad for you! Bet yer life! See them holes? Bullets! Bet yer life! Yes, sir; put in there by men what Bill laughed at. Here, it's yourn. Was Bill Crow's. Talk about

nerve! That lad rode into Liberty once and stuck up the bank all alone,-just him and his hoss, with the whole blamed town trying to get a crack at him. Used to be a cowboy down in Texas; then he was Bill Cook's right bower down in the Territory. Talk about nerve. Bet yer life! Sooner fight than eat." Socrates made his exit, his eyes blinking and his face beaming.

The last words of the zebra were: "Hellfired combination! Pair kicks from the biggest coward on the face of the earth and a skypiece from the gamest man what ever lived. Don't tell nobody."

Our friend made his way down the hill, and carefully hanging the perforated relic of Bill Crow's raid on the limb of a tree, stretched himself on the ground beneath its branches and gazed pensively at the whirling waters of the river.

Socrates possessed many shortcomings, but he gloried in one virtue, he thoroughly and sincerely detested a thief. He was content to drift idly and lazily down life's current, to grapple with hunger, and to associate with ambitionless vagabonds; but notwithstanding the many opportunities for dishonor that had beckoned to him during his varied career, he had moved them indignantly away and always come out victoriously, still a tramp, but retaining a clear conscience and his liberty.

Consequently, when he became conscious of a strange feeling gradually stealing over him, he grew reflective. It was nothing more or less than an overpowering desire to become possessed of other people's property.

Socrates possessed a mercurial sensibility. His associates and environment had blighted what might have been a useful career. So sensitive was he that a slight and almost imperceptible influence had often swerved him swiftly and completely from some direct intention. But once that influence departed, he was wont to curse himself profusely for his "lack of stability."

He became reminiscent and watched the phantasmagoria of his useless life unroll itself; and then he got to thinking it over. The more he thought, the stronger became his convictions that everything

was run wrong. The rich trod upon the poor, and the poor tramped upon the helpless. There was no justice, and no reward for right-doing. For years he had led an honest life; to-day he was a tramp-ragged, hungry, penniless, and tired of the whole blamed business.

He tossed a stone into the river and spoke vividly under his breath. He gazed into the water, took another long telescopic view of his life, then eyed the ex-appendages of the King of Burglars. Somehow the disgust and contempt he had at first felt for their unfortunate former owner narrowed down to a minute point and then vanished, and he whispered to himself that, after all, King Jerry was more of a man than he. Jerry had lived, had wined and dined luxuriously, had driven fast horses, led a fast life, and had accomplished something. Of course, he was a back-number now, but better that than a mile-stone without figures-a tramp, whom even a stray terrier would not respect.

Well, all that was over for him now. Life was short at best, and there was barrels of money to be acquired by judicious manipulation. The world would continue to wag on, men would come and go, and no one would be the wiser; but Socrates Byron Pillsbury, the tramp, would cease to be a tramp and become a Man of Resources. He would not stop at the halfway notch either; he would imitate the King and become his successor.

He stretched himself out lazily and for the next three hours employed himself erecting great architectural edifices of fame, wealth, and, better than all, a leap from the thorny paths of vagabondage to the gilded roads of pleasure. Then suddenly he remembered something, and sat up. Before these ambitions could be realized he must necessarily get a start. After that he could do as Jerry had done, wine, drive, or idle away his time as he desired while his pals executed his plans. But the start? That meant a personal risk. He glanced over his shoulder at the pile of masonry behind him, and down tumbled his air-castles with a crash. It was easy enough to plan roguery, but to put it into execution was another thing. Suppose, at the very first step, he were

caught? The idea was startling. It meant years of servitude and—

The fires of resolution smoldered and then suddenly went out, leaving but the charred ashes of desire. No use! He meant well; he should very much like to become a successor of King Jerry. But the risk was too great. He would remain a tramp.

He sighed heavily, arose, plucked Bill Crow's hat from the branch and put it on his head. Then a new feeling suddenly manifested itself, and he drew himself up quickly and scowled. He felt very reckless, and when he thought of. fear he laughed. The gallant exploits of Claude Duval and his ilk presented themselves to his mind, and he threw back his head and surveyed the prison scornfully. He grew very desperate.

The

He was a poor hungry outcast; the world owed him much back salary, and he proposed to collect it. Morality, conscience, honor,-what were they? whole world was unscrupulous, and honesty in the nineteenth century was the path to starvation. And to think, a moment ago he had imagined he was afraid! He afraid? He was not afraid of man or devil! nor did he propose to saw wood for breakfast either. He would have money before morning; and then for a life of ease. Still, he reflected, he did n't think he could content himself to drift in idleness; he must have excitement! A bank robbery would not be impracticable; but no,--he would remain the King of Burglars; it was easier.

The heat passed, and the shadows fell. The sun set in a sea of crimson and gold, and he promised himself that when next it arose he would possess some of his back salary. He beheld the shafts of gold in the west and removed his hat in silent admiration.

Immediately a peculiar sensation crept over him, and he glanced apprehensively to right and left, as a great wave of indecision ingulfed him. The next moment his stock of courage vanished entirely, and left him standing trembling, gazing blankly at the ominous prison walls.

He drew a long breath, screwed up his face, and mechanically replaced Bill Crow's tile.

Like a whirlwind, his stock of bravado returned, bringing with it a regiment of re-enforcements, and he scowled and won dered why he had been a tramp when there was so much booty lying around unprotected.

He turned and made his way to the city, firmer than ever in his resolution that the tramp should become a Man of Resources. He entered the main thoroughfare. He was no longer a vagabond, and did not shuffle; but walked with firm tread, threw back his head, and smiled derisively when he passed a ragged type of his late profes

sion.

He passed a policeman and looked him squarely in the face; then he paused a moment to realize this new phase of himself. Hitherto all policemen had been the means of transferring him to the county jail, chain-gang, or rock-pile. Again he scowled and swore deeply that it would effect a vacancy in the department before he would again submit to such indignities. He passed many residences; these he inspected critically and deliberately. Away on the extreme outskirts he entered a lane and presently paused before a large two-story house, reached by a long shady drive-way and surrounded by well-kept grounds.

In the

The place looked prosperous. rear he saw a large orchard, and close at hand a commodious stable. The windows were low, the house modern, and there was certainly much booty there.

He

He instantly selected this as the scene of his initial plunge; and that he might familiarize himself with the place, strolled repeatedly up and down the lane. noticed with satisfaction a rear secondstory window open, and leaning against the barn was a pruning-ladder.

The shades of night fell and he returned. to the river, to await the proper hour for his burglarious success.

Again he hung Bill's hat upon a convenient limb and removed Jerry's shoes. He stretched himself out on the river bank and closed his eyes. Something-it may have been the chirp of the crickets, the lap and gurgle of the flowing river, or the drone of insects-soothed his turbulent feelings and invoked freedom from thought. He relapsed into deep slumber.

His rest seemed broken. Once or twice he sighed deeply, and once he stretched out his arms much as a man who was not a tramp might have done.

When at length he awoke, something like a sob manifested itself, and he sat up suddenly and stared long and earnestly into the darkness.

He had dreamed of years ago; of the old tenement-house existence; of the time when he had sold papers and blacked boots; of the time when he and Nell had stood, hand in hand, beside the grave in the potter's field, and again he had heard Nell's voice falter, "Mother said you would be good to me, brother."

Socrates fumbled nervously for a match and lighted his pipe. He did not know why, at this unhappy period of his career, he should be reminded of those old wearisome days. Even if it was only a dream, it was about as quieting as a specter.

Then he remembered how an uncle had adopted Nell and educated her, while he had been left to shift for himself,—and he had shifted. He wondered if Nell ever thought of her brother since her uncle died and she had married that fellow who wrote books and smoked cigarettes. He read once that he had become famous, and he supposed he must be rich too, as a natural deduction.

Well, that was years ago; so what was the use of thinking of it now? He blinked very rapidly and puffed his pipe fiercely.

He forgot all about the tenement-house, the grave in the potter's field, and Nell, he forgot about the fellow who wrote books, smoked cigarettes, and married his sister. He held his pipe in his hand and stared stolidly at the dark pile of masonry that represented the tomb of many a man who had also endeavored to become a Man of Resources.

"Must have been a token," he soliloquized. "That dream did n't come for nothing."

Then he gasped as he thought of his intentions of an hour ago. He steal? He had never stolen a thing in his life! And to think that he had calmly meditated a burglary, and even chosen the house! He must have been laboring under a temporary aberration. Socrates Byron Pillsbury might be a tramp, but not a thief! He

spat forcibly at the tree-trunk and arose to his feet.

He felt sore and lame from his long tramp, and was also very hungry; but better that than to occupy a cell in yonder tomb. He pulled on Jerry's shoes and overshadowed his thin face with Bill Crow's hat.

Yes, he was certainly tired and hungry; his feet were bruised and swollen and his clothes ragged. Miserable, friendless, and an outcast, he stood alone in the night.

His thoughts found their way back to the two-story house, the isolated locality, the open window, and then he thought of the jewels and money he knew must be there, and again told himself that of all men in the world he was the most needy. His resolutions of a few hours previous manifested themselves more keenly than ever, and he knocked the ashes from his pipe resolutely against the tree and bade adieu forever to the old life of shifting. "Eleven o'clock! And all's well! It was the cry of the guard on the prison-wall. The cry was repeated all along the line until it seemed to be lost in the depths of the night. A hoot-owl somewhere took it up mournfully; then he heard the weird howling of a dog, and shivered.

وو

He turned and made his way rapidly to the lane and paused before the gate leading to the two-story house. Then he tiptoed silently in King Jerry's patent-leathers up the graveled roadway and wondered where he would find the jewels.

He circled around the house. All was clear. No lights, no dogs, and no one astir.

The lower windows were all closed and the shades drawn; the rear upper window was still open, and the pruningladder still leaned against the barn. He carried it to the house and leaned it against the sill of the open window.

He looked carefully around, then ascended the ladder with a reckless determination that would have thrown Bill Crow into a stupor of admiration. He reached the level of the sill and peered sharply inside.

Through the half-curtained window the moon shone brightly, illuminating the interior. A glance told him that it was a bedroom and unoccupied. It was luxur

He

iously and exquisitely furnished. drew a long breath and told himself that probably it was a spare room. So far, so good. He climbed noiselessly in and stood meditating. In all probability the occupants of the house slept upstairs. He would descend to the lower floor and go on a still hunt. If unsuccessful, he would return and be guided by circumstances.

The bedroom door was open. He passed into a wide hall and stood motionless, listening. Not a suggestion of a sound could he hear. He crept on tiptoe down the hail, past several doors, till he reached the head of the stairs. Then he paused again. The moon cast a faint light through the hall window, and guided by the rays, he descended the stairs. His coolness was phenomenal, and like Bill Crow, he was on the qui vive for the least suggestion of danger. He deplored the absence of a dark lantern,

also a revolver. He was sure Bill would not have undertaken this errand without his trusty gun. But after he had become a successful Man of Resources, he would have all those things.

At the foot of the stairs he paused. It was much darker there. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he made out the outlines of an open door a few feet away. He groped his way thither and entered. He reflected that to strike a match would be attended with safety, since in all probability he was the sole tenant of the lower floor.

He did n't like the way Jerry's shoes squeaked, and decided to remove them till he should have completed his mission. He seated himself in the darkness on the carpet, pulled them off, stood up, and felt for a match. He found one, then paused,. and gazed in a crescendo of bewilderment into the darkness.

His mind became the rendezvous of interrogation points; wild and desperate impulses chased each other through his brain; his cool deliberation melted away; he grew feverish, and with each succeeding instant his stock of recklessness increased and valiant thoughts of a midnight hold-up presented themselves. The thoughts of burglary were disgusting! only a coward would sneak into a man's house in the dead of the night. He was sure there must be valuable booty here and

he-ah, well, he was unarmed and could not be expected to appropriate by the Bill Crow method.

He discerned a chandelier, struck a match, turned the gas half on and lighted it.

The light revealed to the astonished gaze of this pilgrim of vagabondage a scene never even dreamed of before.

The room was spacious and elegant. Its ceilings were frescoed, and the walls decorated with rich tapestries. Gorgeous upholsteries and luxurious furniture, magnificent piano and costly bric-a-brac, made up that whole which is evidence of a home of wealth and refinement.

a

He caught a gleam of silver sconces, a carved onyx fireplace, an inlaid floor, polished like a mirror and strewn with soft rugs and skins. An indefinable sense of peace was in the air, the room was stili warm and the reflecting mirrors dupiicated all the delights of a magnificent home. He saw upon an alabaster pedestal the fairy figure of a bisque dancing-girl. There was a worldly smile on her face and in her attitude a suggestion of the life he had dreamed of.

He caught his breath and reverently removed Bill Crow's hat in the presence of such elegance.

Then something happened.

Hatless and shoeless he stood, his knees shaking and the perspiration breaking out at every pore. Bravado, recklessness, coolness, fortitude, all abruptly vanished, and Socrates Byron Pillsbury, tramp and harmless wanderer, realized that at the dead of the night he was in the drawingroom of somebody's mansion, with the gas lighted. This realization was attended with a half sob, half wail of terror, and he seemed rooted to the polished floor. He wanted only one thing to make his exit as speedily as it is within the power of man to do.

Jewels, money, and the ambitions of a Man of Resources, were nothing to him, if he were only out in the open air and free again.

He grasped his shoes in one hand, his hat in the other, and turned hastily to quit the place. His cheek came in contact with something cold and hard. He gasped, started back, looked up, and con

fronted a man in dressing-gown and slippers holding a pistol at his temple.

Socrates stood immovable, and glared speechlessly at the enemy, who calmly cocked the revolver and looked sternly at

him.

"If you attempt to struggle, you are a dead man," he said quietly.

Socrates hastily acknowledged the situation. His captor looked him over from head to foot, noted the white, terrorstricken face and protruding eyes, and lowered the weapon.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

Socrates attempted to reply, stammered, and then gazed dumbly at the questioner.

The man with the revolver turned up the gas. The elegance of the apartment shone in varied colors; the crystal chandelier shot forth its scintillating rays, the dancing-girl leered down upon them with apparent humorous silence, while Socrates buried his shoeless toes in a rug and hung his head.

You

"Hitherto," said the gentleman of the dressing-gown, after a long silence, "it has been my impression that representatives of your profession were endowed with a reasonable amount of intelligence. appear to be sadly deficient in that respect. Not only that, but you are a rank coward as well. I don't wonder,"-looking at his garments,-" that you have not made a startling success of your vocation.” Socrates said, Yes, sir," and looked toward the windows.

The intruder calmly searched him for weapons.

66

Now, sir," he said, waving his revolver in the air, you will soon be in a position to reflect and study your vocation. You have not completed your course, and need more instruction. Do you know that the penitentiary is awaiting you?"

"I was there to-day," said Socrates faintly.

"Well, you are caught now, my bird,caught red-handed! Red-handed, I say, sir,-red-handed!"

Socrates gazed at his digits."It's the sun," he whined. "I drilled from Solitaryville to here yesterday. It's more 'n fourteen miles and-"

"So you came fourteen miles for the