and expressed great pleasure at hearing that
Shem had "died like a Kentucky man, clear
grit," and that I had come up in time to save
his scalp. But in a few minutes, nature
conquered. The old man's bronzed features worked
and twitched, and tears trickled from his aged
eyes, as he sobbed out, "Shem! dear boy
Shem! 'twas I that oughter be dead, not he."

At last the weary ride was over: we had
passed outlying farms guarded by a strong
stockade, then the farms grew thicker and the
stockades were dispensed with, and at last the
roofs of a village, called by courtesy a town,
came in view. Gladly did I dismount, gladly
did I shake the hard hand of the last rider of
the Express Company! Leaving that honest
fellow puzzling over the cabalistic flourishes
of a ten-dollar note I presented to him, I
hired a pair-horse waggon of light build, and
set off at once. The waggon bore me on
until I exchanged it for a coach, the coach did
me the same good office until I heard the snort
of the steam-horse, and took my ticket by railway.
How delicious, how snug and luxurious was
such a mode of travel, after so much hard
saddlework! Corduroy roads seemed smooth, and
American railroads not in the least addicted to
cause the trains to jerk or rock. The gliding
motion was charming, and I made amends for
lost time, by sleeping in a manner which
provoked more than one fellow-traveller, eager to
know my business and station in life.

I had already telegraphed to New York briefly
thus:

"Has the Californian mail, via Panama, arrived?"

Briefer still was the answer:

"No."

That was right, so far. My toil was not
yet purposeless. I might hope to be in New
York before Dr., or Colonel, Joram Heckler.
The victory, to be sure, was not yet won.
The valuable papers remained in the scoundrel's
keeping. But my presence in New York
would be unsuspected by him, and any overt act
on my part would have the effect of a surprise.
I was too exhausted, to devote myself to spinning
air-drawn schemes for outwitting the
intriguer. I should have need of all my faculties
when the tug of war began, and I must sleep now.
Sleep I did, over miles and miles, over leagues
and leagues, of the iron way: resting obstinately,
and being as passive as possible.

"Massa get out? Dis New York, sare."

Some one was shaking me by the arm: some
one else held a lantern to my face. A black
man and a white. The conductor, and a negro
porter.

"I'm going to the Metropolitan Hotel. I
want a hack: no luggage. Has the Californian
mail arrived?"

"Yes, it has," said a newsvendor, who stood
by, with aheap of journals under his arm; "got
all the news here. Herald, Tribune, Times.
Which will you have?"

I bought one of the papers, and glanced at the
list of arrivals viâ Panama. So much gold dust,
so much bullion, distinguished European
traveller, postmaster-general, Signora Cantatini,
Colonels Thom, Heckler, &c. The driver of the
hack-carriage was an Irishman, as usual, and,
luckily, not a new arrival. He readily conducted
me (at that late hour all other stores and shops
were closed) to the emporium of a Jew dealer in
ready-made clothes, who was willing to turn a
cent even at irregular time. I purchased a new
suit, linen, a portmanteau, and so forth, and
shaved off my stubbly beard with razors
supplied by the Jew, and before the Jew's private
looking-glass. My driver drove quite a trim,
ordinary-looking gentleman to the Metropolitan
Hotel, instead of the shaggy fiannel-shirted
Californian who had first engaged him.

Before I engaged a room, I civilly asked the
bookkeeper to let me look at the addresses of
guests: I was expecting my brother, I said,
from Albany. I took good care to say nothing
of Heckler or California, and the bookkeeper
had no suspicion that my voyages had
commenced at any more remote spot than
Philadelphia or Baltimore. Yes—Heckler's name
was down.

I had guessed he would put up at the
Metropolitan, for I had heard him mention the house
approvingly in conversation. I hung about the
bar and the staircases until I happened to hear
that he had gone to bed. Then, I withdrew to
think over my own plan of operations. I own I
was puzzled. I tossed and tumbled uneasily on
my pillow. While hurrying onward it had
appeared as if I had but to arrive in time, and the
difficulty was at an end; but now, what was I
to do? The battle had yet to be fought. What
should I do? In the morning, no doubt,
Heckler would repair to the bank, to present
the forged cheque, if not to get the bills
discounted. I must stop him. But how?
Should I go to the police, and return with
the police myrmidons? Not to be thought
of! Scandal, exposure, must follow such a step;
nay, in the eyes of the law, Heckler might seem
an innocent man, and I a false accuser. I next
thought of confronting him boldly, and forcing
from him, with a pistol at his head, if need be,
the property of the firm. But this was too
Quixotic a proceeding to be adopted in a first-
rate hotel in New York. I was at my wits'
end.

Heavens! What a smell of burning, and how
stifling and thick the air! Smoke! The house
is on fire. Up I sprang, and flung on my clothes
in hot haste. "It's an ill wind that blows no
one any good." I thought of Joram Heckler
as I rang my bell to alarm the people.

"Fire! fire!" The awful cry broke upon the
ears of the sleepers, like the trump of doom.
Dark clouds of volleying smoke poured along
the corridors, flecked here and there by thin
ribbons of flame that licked the walls and floors
like the tongues of fiery serpents. Shrieks were
heard; doors were burst open; men, women,
children, rushed out, half-dressed and screaming.
There was panic terror and wild confusion.
The fire gained ground, the smoke was