ing, with his anxious
face turned to the clock, until at length, unable to endure the strain
any longer, and not without a sportsmanlike idea of being in at the
death, he made his way to the station, and placed himself behind a
convenient coal-truck.

He waited impatiently, with his eyes fixed on the road up which he
expected the captain to come. He looked at his watch. Five minutes to
eight, and still no captain. The platform began to fill, a porter seized
the big bell and rang it lustily; in the distance a patch of white smoke
showed. Just as the watcher had given up all hope, the figure of the
captain came in sight. He was swaying from side to side, holding his hat
in his hand, but doggedly racing the train to the station.

"He'll never do it!" groaned the pilot. Then he held his breath, for
three or four hundred yards behind the captain Mrs. Pepper pounded in
pursuit.

The train rolled into the station; passengers stepped in and out; doors
slammed, and the guard had already placed the whistle in his mouth, when
Captain Crippen, breathing stentorously, came stumbling blindly on to
the platform, and was hustled into a third class carriage.

"Close shave that, sir," said the station-master as he closed the door.

The captain sank back in his seat, fighting for breath, and turning his
head, gave a last triumphant look up the road.

"All right, sir," said the station-master kindly, as he followed the
direction of the other's eyes and caught sight of Mrs. Pepper. "We'll
wait for your lady."

* * * * *

Jackson Pepper came from behind the coal-truck and watched the train out
of sight, wondering in a dull, vague fashion what the conversation was
like. He stood so long that a tender hearted porter, who had heard the
news, made bold to come up and put a friendly hand on his shoulder.

"You'll never see her again, Mr. Pepper," he said sympathetically.

The ex-pilot turned and regarded him fixedly, and the last bit of spirit
he was ever known to show flashed up in his face as he spoke.

"You're a blamed idiot!" he said rudely.

A CASE OF DESERTION

The sun was just rising as the small tub-like steamer, or, to be more
correct, steam-barge, the Bulldog, steamed past the sleeping town of
Gravesend at a good six knots per hour.

There had been a little discussion on the way between her crew and the
engineer, who, down in his grimy little engine-room, did his own stoking
and everything el