ace. I am
paralyzed with fear, so I cannot stand. When I can walk, I leave, for
I think maybe that only in Germany do I hear the guns. For twenty
years I live in Spain. Still do I hear the guns.

"I go to France, but yet every night at the same hour freezes my blood
and I hear the death volley.

"I come to America, which I have hated, yet never a night is missed.
It is at the same hour. What I hate comes to me. Whatever I fear is
mine. To run away from something is for me to meet it. My estate is
gone; money I have not. I sink like a man in a quicksand, down, down,
down. I come here. Lower I cannot.

"One day in 'the Bend', where das Gesindel live, I see the little
girl--she of the golden hair who wiped my stain away.

"But she is dead. I know for sure the face. What it means I know not.
Again I fall as dead.

"I have one thing in the world left--only one; it is my
scissors-grinder. I sell it and give all the money to bury her. It is
the first--it is the only good I ever did. Then, an outcast, I go out
into the world where no pity is. I sit me down in a dark alley;
strange is my heart, and new.

"It is time for the guns--yet is my blood warm! I wait. The volley
comes not!

"The hour is past!

"'My Gott, my Gott!' I say. 'Can this be true?' I wait one, two, three
minutes; it comes not. I scream for joy--I scream loud! I feel an iron
hand on me. I am put in prison. Yet is the prison filled with
light--yet am I in heaven. The guns are silent!"

One day a big letter with several patches of red sealing-wax and an
aristocratic monogram arrived at the bunk-house. Nearly two hundred
men handled it and stood around until the Graf arrived. Every one felt
a personal interest in the contents. It was "One-eyed Dutchy," who
handed it to the owner, and stood there watching out of his single eye
the face of his former master. The old man smiled as he folded the
letter and put it into his pocket, saying as he did so: "By next ship
I leave for Hamburg to take life up where I laid it down."

* * * * *

The only man now living of those bunk-house days is Thomas J.
Callahan. He has been attached for many years to Yale University and
doing the work of a janitor. Many Yale men will never forget how "Doc"
cared for Dwight Hall. He is now in charge of Yale Hall. The
circumstances under which I met Doc were rather peculiar.

"Say, bub," said Gar, the bouncer, to me one day, "what ungodly hour
of th