to which the trapper had alluded parted with a crash. The boat careened, swayed, swooped suddenly aside, and the young man, unable to recover his balance, fell headlong into the lake. The trapper was now thoroughly roused. The boats were within a hundred rods of the home line and the lad full ten astern. The roar of the crowd was deafening. The professionals were pulling grittily. The old man's eyes fairly gleamed. Through the roar of the multitude, who were literally frantic with excitement, his ear caught the voice, “ John Norton, now is your time, pull !”

The old man gathered himself for a supreme effort. His blood was up and the lion in him fairly roused.

Never before was such a stroke pulled and never before was such a catastrophe. The blades were too broad and strong to yield ; the boat was too heavy to get away quickly enough; his oars too strong to part at the stroke; his tremendous effort tore the rowlocks from the gunwales as if they had been made of paper and the old man measured his length in the bottom of the boat.

The catastrophe was so sudden and so unexpected in its character that it hushed the roar of the multitude as if an awful visitation had terrified them into silence. Even the professionals intermitted a stroke and the lad turned his face about. The old man had risen and was standing erect in his boat still holding the huge oars in his mighty hands. His eyes flamed and his face was bloodless with unutterable rage; he shook the heavy oars in the air as if they had been reeds, and shouted with a voice that shook the air like the roar of the desert lion challenging combat: “Lad, now pull for John Norton's sake and save his gray hairs from shame. Pull with every ounce of strength that God Almighty give ye or the honor of the woods be gone."

It seemed as if the strength of the trapper, through the medium of his awful appeal, had actually been imparted to the lad. His head got suddenly erect upon his shoulders, his body straightened as if fashioned into perfect symmetry. His stroke lengthened to the full reach of oar and arm. The oars bent like whipsticks. The flash of the blades in the recovery was so quick that the eye barely caught the gleam. His boat sprang, flew, flashed, and as it jumped past the trapper, the old man again suddenly shook his oars and shouted, “Go it, lad: the honor of the woods is on ye. Ye'll beat 'em yit, sure as judgment day!”

Except the voice of the trapper, not a sound was heard; the feeling was too intense.

One of the professionals threw the oars; the others pulled in grim desperation; their faces white as chalk but grit to the last. They pulled

but pulled in vain, for the boat caught them within fifty feet of the landing and shot across half a length in front.

The race was over and the “honor of the woods” was saved.

The Inmate of the Dungeon.

W. C. MORROW.

Adapted from “The Ape, The Idiot, and Other Stories,” published by J. B. Lippincott Company. Used by special permission of the author and publishers.

The Board of State Prison Directors was sitting in session at the prison. The chairman-a nervous, energetic man-glanced at a slip of paper in his hand and said to the warden :

“Send a guard for convict No. 14,208."

The warden bowed stiffly and directed a guard to produce the convict. He was a tall, fine-looking man, well-bred and intelligent. Though ordinarily cool, he was unable to conceal a strong emotion, which looked much like fear.

The convict shambled in painfully and laboriously, as with a string he held up from the floor the heavy iron ball which was chained to his ankles.

There had been no time to prepare him for

presentation to the Board. The dingy suit of prison stripes which covered his gaunt frame was frayed and tattered ; his hair had not been recently cut to the prison fashion, and, being rebellious, stood out from his head like bristles ; and his beard, which, like his hair, was heavily dashed with gray, had not been shaved for weeks. His forehead was massive, his head of fine proportions, his jaw s,uare and strong, and his thin, high nose showed traces of an ancestry that must have made a mark in the world at some time in history.

Upon stumbling weakly into the room, faint with the labor of walking, he dropped the ball, which struck the floor with a loud sound, and his long, bony fingers tore at the striped shirt over his breast. A groan escaped him, and he would have sunk to the floor had not the guard caught him and held him upright. In a moment it was over, and then, collapsing with exhaustion, he sank into a chair.

The chairman turned sharply to the guard. “Why did you manacle this man,” he demanded, “when he is evidently so weak, and when none of the others were manacled ?”.

“Why, sir,” stammered the guard, “surely you know who this man is; he is the most dangerous and desperate "

“We know all about that. Remove his man

The guard obeyed. The chairman in a kindly manner said, “ Do you know who we are ?"

“No."

“We are the State Prison Directors. We have heard of your case and we want you to tell us the whole truth about it.”

“I suppose you want me to make a complaint. I've no complaint to make.” The chairman rose, passed around an intervening table, went up to the convict and laid a hand on his gaunt shoulder.

“I know," said he, “ that you are a patient and uncomplaining man, or we should have heard from you long ago. There are fifteen human beings in this prison, and they are under the absolute control of one man. If a serious wrong is practised upon one, it may be upon others. I ask you in the name of common humanity to put us in the way of working justice in this prison. Speak out, therefore, like a man, and have no fear of anything."

The convict was touched. “There is nothing in this world that I fear. I will tell you all about it.

“I was sent up for twenty years for killing a man. I hadn't been a criminal, but he had robbed me and wronged me. I came here thirteen years ago. I worked faithfully, sir; I did everything they told me to do. I did so well that my credits piled up and after I had been