te a few lines upon it, pushed his way to the stage,
and thrust what he had written into Mr. Grayson's hands. The speaker,
stopping to take a drink of water, read this note:

"DEAR MR. GRAYSON,--The Denver Express is two hours and a half
late. For God's sake speak until it comes; you will hear it at
three, when it pulls into the station. It is a matter of life and
death, and while you are speaking don't take your eye off the
little man with the whiskers, who has been with us all day, and who
always stands in front and looks up at you. I'll explain everything
later, but please do it. Again I say it's a matter of life and
death.
"JOHN HARLEY."

Grayson looked in surprise at Harley, but he caught the appealing look
on the face of the correspondent. He liked Harley, and he knew that he
could trust him. He knew, moreover, that what Harley had written in the
note must be true.

Grayson did not hesitate, and, nodding slightly to Harley, turned and
faced the crowd, like a soldier prepared for his last and desperate
charge. His eyes sought those of the little man, his target, looking up
at him. Then he fixed Plover with his gaze and began.

They still tell in the West of Jimmy Grayson's speech at Weeping Water,
as the veterans tell of Pickett's rush in the flame and the smoke up
Cemetery Hill. He had gone on the stage a half-dead man. He had already
been speaking nineteen hours that day. His eyes were red and swollen
with train dust, prairie dust, and lack of sleep. Every bone in him
ached. Every word stung his throat as it came, and his tongue was like a
hot ember in his mouth. Deep lines ran away from his eyes.

But Jimmy Grayson was inspired that night on the black prairie. The
words leaped in livid flame from his lips. Never was his speech more
free and bold, and always his burning eyes looked into those of Plover
and held him.

Closer and closer pressed the crowd. The darkness still rolled up,
thicker and blacker than ever. Grayson's shoulders sank away, and only
his face was visible now. The wind rose again, and whistled around the
little town and shrieked far out on the lonely prairie. But above it
rose the voice of Grayson, mellow, inspiring, and flowing full and free.

Harley looked and listened, and his admiration grew and grew. "I don't
agree with all he says," he thought, "but, my God! how well he says it."

Then