ntually stormed the Stronghold of Honour and
Splendour!"

For a moment there was an impressive, brooding silence, broken
presently by the Little Chap. "And what was the soldier's name,
Daddy?"

Recalled from his revery, the father answered:

"_He was known, Son, as Tommy Atkins_."

The Little Chap's brow was puckered in thought. At last he laughed
delightedly and clapped his hands. "Was the soldier, Daddy, one of the
hatter's family--the poor old hatter who was thrown out of the Abbey?"

The Big Chap lifted the child from his lap and placed him on his feet.
Then he picked up a brush and turned to his painting.

"I like to think so, Son. But only God knows."

THE GETAWAY

By O.F. LEWIS

From _Red Book_

Old Man Anderson, the lifer, and Detroit Jim, the best second-story
man east of the Mississippi, lay panting side by side in the
pitch-dark dugout, six feet beneath the surface of the prison yard.
They knew their exact position to be twenty feet south of the north
wall, and, therefore, thirty feet south of the slate sidewalk outside
the north wall.

It had taken the twain three months and twenty-one days to achieve the
dugout. Although there was always a guard somewhere on the north wall,
the particular spot where the dugout had come into being was sheltered
from the wall-guard's observation by a small tool-house. Also whenever
the pair were able to dig, which was only at intervals, a bunch of
convicts was always perched on the heap of dirt from various
legitimate excavations within the yard, which Fate had piled up at
that precise spot. The earth from the dugout and the earth from these
other diggings mixed admirably.

Nor, likewise because of the dirt-pile, could any one detect the job
from the south end of the yard. If a guard appeared from around the
mat-shop or coming out of the Principal Keeper's office, the convicts
sunning themselves on the dirt-pile in the free hour of noon, or late
in the afternoon, after the shops had closed, spoke with motionless
lips to the two diggers. Plenty of time was thus afforded to shove a
couple of boards over the aperture, kick dirt over the boards, and
even push a barrow over the dugout's entrance--and there you were!

One minute before this narrative opens, on July 17th, a third convict
had dropped the boards over the hole into which Old Man Anderson, the
lifer, and Detroit Jim, had crawled. This convict had then frantically
kicked dirt over the boards, had