d went
back into the gloom. The boy was also sound asleep in his chair.
The lantern light flared and fell again as water leaps in a stopping
fountain. As it dashed upon the face of Riggs I saw his eyes half-open.
I went close to his chair. As I did so the light went out and smoke rose
above the lantern with a rank odour.

'Riggs!' I called but he sat motionless and made no answer.

The moonlight came through the dusty window lighting his face and
beard. I put my hand upon his brow and withdrew it quicidy. I was in
the presence of death. I opened the door and called the sleeping boy. He
rose out of his chair and came toward me rubbing his eyes.

'Your master is dead,' I whispered, 'go and call an officer.

Riggs's dream was over--he had waked at last. He was in port and I doubt
not Annie and his mother were hailing him on the shore, for I knew now
they had both died far back in that long dream of the old sailor.

My story of Riggs was now complete. It soon found a publisher because it
was true.

'All good things are true in literature,' said the editor after he had
read it. 'Be a servant of Truth always and you will be successful.'

Chapter 37

As soon as Lincoln was elected the attitude of the South showed clearly
that 'the irrepressible conflict', of Mr Seward's naming, had only just
begun. The Herald gave columns every day to the news of 'the coming
Revolution', as it was pleased to call it. There was loud talk of war at
and after the great Pine Street meeting of December 15. South Carolina
seceded, five days later, and then we knew what was coming, albeit, we
saw only the dim shadow of that mighty struggle that was to shake the
earth for nearly five years. The Printer grew highly irritable those
days and spoke of Buchanan and Davis and Toombs in language so violent
it could never have been confined in type. But while a bitter foe none
was more generous than he and, when the war was over, his money went to
bail the very man he had most roundly damned.

I remember that one day, when he was sunk deep in composition, a negro
came and began with grand airs to make a request as delegate from his
campaign club. The Printer sat still, his eyes close to the paper, his
pen flying at high speed. The coloured orator went on lifting his
voice in a set petition. Mr Greeley bent to his work as the man waxed
eloquent. A nervous movement now and then betrayed the Printer's
irritation. He looked up, shortly, his face kin