badly-smashed truck has vanished and the gap closed up; axles look look dark with oil, wounded trucks have been bandaged with wood and wire; in fact, the once helpless, hopeless string of wreckage has changed mysteriously into a whole complete train-damaged, limping, and perilously weak-but a complete train nevertheless. And, above all, there is an air of hopefulness-ears prioked up, expectancy about it, which is almost human. Away down the track an electric torch winked in the darkness, and the locomotive, which had been steaming slowly, drew to a halt, panting gently. Not a light glimmered anywhere the open cab, draped heavily in sacking and tarpaulins, had the appearance of a small tent. Inside, the dim glow from the fire-door, reflected from the roof and sides, revealed the dingy brass-work -gauges and fittings of the old goods engine. The fire man palpably in uniform under his filthy overalls-was studying the steam-pressure gauge, while the driver was peering cautiously out through a fold in the tarpaulin. Suddenly he saw the pitchy darkness illumined by a wavering white glare as a trench-rocket, seemingly perilously close, shot up,-instinctively he crouched back into the shadow. But the light faded, flickered, and died down, plunging everything in redoubled darkness-and all was quiet again. But the driver swore softly to himself in impatience. Everything had been carefully planned, and was being carried out under the leadership of the lieutenant of sap VI. And now the time was actually here. The engine, shrouded so that no trickle of light should betray its presence, was waiting-full in the open-for the signal to steam up cautiously, couple on to the train, and make a dash for safety. The officer commanding the English guns, so cleverly concealed in the ruins near the station, had agreed to open rapid fire at a certain time, and the success of the scheme largely depended on the noise of the guns covering the noise of the moving train. Even more, success depended upon the ability of the poor maimed trucks to hold together during that last furious rush through the darkness. The time was one o'clock in the morning - the sky completely overcast, and fine misty rain falling. In the battery position all was darkness except for a glimmer of light coming up the steps of a cellar, from under a sandbag hanging in the doorway of the battery office. The room or rather dug-out-whence the light emanated was a typical pioture. A plank table mounted on old ammunition boxes and covered with a rough blanket, another box acting as chair occupied by a young gunner officer, smoking a pipe, and studying an old copy of 'La Vie Parisienne' by the aid of a flickering, sizzling acetylene lamp. A few maps, the telephone, and a Kirchener' completed the scene. Glancing at his watch, the young officer reached to the telephone. . . . "Turn out numbers two and four load and stand by." Then resuming his pipe he became once more immersed in 'La Vie.' He was to wait for a sign from the lieutenant of sappers. In the station, the lieutenant, having signalled the engine to stop, despatched a runner to the battery two hundred yards away. He dared not flash a signal, because the light would, in all probability, be seen by the enemy. The orderly having disappeared in the darkness, the lieutenant turned his attention attention to the train, in order to assure himself that all was correct. Two men were stationed at the first truck to effect the coupling; one other was acting as guard on the last doddering skeleton of a large van. His duty was to signal the engine as soon as his van had passed the boundary switch, and then pray hard that his perilous perch would hold together till they reached safety. All was in order, but why the delay? Five minutes had passed, and no sign of life from the battery. Impatiently the lieutenant walked in the direction of the platform, a vague uneasiness in his mind. Hardly had he reached the shadow of the buildings than a groan reached his ears. A moment later he nearly stumbled over the prostrate unconscious body of the runner. A brief examination showed him merely stunned by a stray bullet striking his helmet, 80 the lieutenant hurried on to the battery. A third time the enginedriver was in the act of swearing, when suddenly a leaping, blinding flash, followed instantly by a deafening roar, came as a surprise and a relief simultaneously. Within a few seconds the torch winked again, and the engine was moving, the driver still peering ahead, advancing cautiously, feeling his way foot by foot through the gloom towards the train. The flame and orash of the guns was very near now, when suddenly a hoarse voice olose below. . . . Instantly the brakes-just in time; with a faint click and gentle bump the coupling was made. And now the most critical stage. Would the trucks stand the strain? If one broke down the whole scheme must be abandoned, for to-night in any case. The engine reversed gear, and gently, gingerly pulled at the first truck. The track oreaked, strained, moved, and passed the whispered jolt down the whole train. The watchers waited, tense with excitement. The enemy was being roused by the gun-fire, and rockets were leaping up in quick succession. In the battery position the din had died down-the guns were covered up,-and in the dug-out cellar the lieutenant of sappers and the English officer clinked glasses. It was two o'clock, and the rain was still falling. Slowly gently-yard by yard they orept away-those old trucks, not & wheel squeaked or jammed. Slowly they gathered speed, and a faint rumbling began. Would the Huns hear? But the guns were doing their share splendidly, and a continuous roar drowned all sound of the now fast-vanishing train. One by one they limped over the boundary switch till the last van had passed it. The guard, sitting on the floor, his legs swaying over the edge-for "Pardon, m's'r? you-you there was no side left-and-speak too fast! I must go. olinging to a broken piece Au revoir." "A votre santé, m's'r." "Here's luck-and jolly well done, old boy. How much did you say? Eight hundred thousand franos, in spite of the damage. eh? Some haul." 2 L VOL. CCIV.NO. MCCXXXVI. are THE UNKNOWN COLT. A STORY OF THE GALWAY PLATE. BY JAS. R. MARTIN. MR LUCIUS O'DEARA, as he appeared on the race cards, but who was more correctly and generally known Johnny Deery, had had a bad day to use his own words, "The divil a worse." It was not the mere loss of the money that troubled him so completely, although that was a terrible thing; but that is a catastrophe that the best of good sportsmen who make the most careful and intricate "arrangements" sometimes subject to, and must be borne with Spartan heroism. The sting of his position lay in the fact that, when he told his tale to a group of friends with whom he had been racing for some years with varied fortune, he found a most unsympathetic audience; and Ned Lalor, his particular chum, had evidently caught the voice of the meeting when he told him with emphasis, "The divil mend you!" Miles Doyne, his boon companion in many a racing turn, had taken up the parable and spoken to him with such unction and fervour, and in such highly ornamented and picturesque language, that it hardly required his final taunt of "What the divil was the use of having anything to do with a man who wouldn't tell you the truth, whether he was going to lose or going to win?" to leave Johnny absolutely speechless. The group of his quondam friends added a few well-chosen embellishments, and turned their backs on him, leaving him feeling singularly alone in the world. He made for the stand, which was rather empty at the moment, and, taking up a position in the top corner, turned up the collar of his waterproof-it was raining a little and faced the world alone, with as truculent a demeanour as he could at the moment command. His misfortunes were not unnoticed. A fresh looking girl, wearing blue flowers in a big hat, and dressed in what her father described as "five pounds' worth of a skirt on her back," followed him with sympathetic eyes, and, abandoning her own private programme which was one of vigorous and somewhat boisterous flirtation as occasion offered essayed to play a woman's part to this defeated knight. And here let me say that if this girl spent her money adornment, she earned every penny of it; and her father, whilst criticising her extravagance, had to admit that there was not a "finer warrant to milk a cow or do anything at all on the farm to be found in the province of Connaught," ―a statement that he often made when the fair or market was over and nothing remained but gossip and drinking. And the boys on their way home would often eay that it was the "divil's own pity that the likes of a girl like Mary Burke would be ever and always following after a lad like that Johnny Deery." She now approached him, well knowing the difficulty and danger of her task, and her endeavour was at first doubtful. "Ah, Johnny," she said, "don't mind whatever they said to you." Mr O'Deara's brow clouded. "Never mind them, Loosias," she added quickly. The cloud lifted. "Sure, if you did win the race itself, what call had they speak to you the way they did? Hasn't every one a right to win if he can? And you rode well," added the girl. Johnny's eye turned on her with favour. "Sure," she went on, "wouldn't it be better for you to win whenever you can, and not be mixing at all with them lads?” Johnny looked at her musing, as a veteran general who finds himself suddenly opposed to a force for which he is no match might consider the bold proposals of an inexperienced junior-there might be something in it. "They are a pack of dirty thieves," the girl added at the end of her discourse. "They are that," said Johnny darkly, evidently referring to some back number of blackguardism with which this story is not connected. The girl continued to talk, and Johnny listened with an ever-clearing brow; the sense of defeat and loneliness dropped in a measure from him, and he began to think that somehow, he did not quite see how at the moment, he might get on his legs again and face his enemies as man ought to. A great Irishman once said: "I would not give a pin for a friend who will stand by you when you are in the right; what I want is a friend who will stand by me when I am in the wrong." It can hardly have have escaped that very astute observer that this is woman's normal attitude. A man sins against the laws of his class, and, if there is no woman at hand to restore his self-respect, he sinks from that class and his ruin has begun. Men turn their backs on him with contempt or contemptuous pity, and he becomes a "wrong 'un." It is given to woman to see what is lost to the other sex, the possibility of good that exists, or perhaps to recognise that the evil is but an injurious growth that can be excised by self- respect. She often holds out her hand to one who would otherwise have sunk; he gets his foot on dry land again, and has another and a better try. Johnny began to feel restored by the conversation |