"Strike!" exclaimed the judge.

The executioner struck the axe on the
floor; an assistant on the opposite side lifted
at the same moment a wet towel, and struck
it across the neck of the recumbent criminal.
A loud laugh announced that the joke had
at last come to an end.

But Downie responded not to the uproarious
merriment—they laughed again but still he
moved not—they lifted him, and Downie was
dead!

Fright had killed him as effectually as if
the axe of a real headsman had severed his
head from his body.

It was a tragedy to all. The medical
students tried to open a vein, but all was
over; and the conspirators had now to
bethink themselves of safety. They now in
reality swore an oath among themselves; and
the affrighted young men, carrying their
disguises with them, left the body of Downie
lying in the hotel. One of their number
told the landlord that their entertainment
was not yet quite over, and that they did
not wish the individual that was left in the
room to be disturbed for some hours. This
was to give them all time to make their
escape.

Next morning the body was found.
Judicial inquiry was instituted, but no satisfactory
result could be arrived at. The corpse of poor
Downie exhibited no mark of violence internal
or external. The ill-will between him and the
students was known: it was also known that
the students had hired apartments in the hotel
for a theatrical representation—that
Downie had been sent for by them; but
beyond this, nothing was known. No noise
had been heard, and no proof of murder could
be adduced. Of two hundred students at the
college, who could point out the guilty or
suspected fifty? Moreover, the students were
scattered over the city, and the magistrates
themselves had many of their own families
amongst the number, and it was not desirable
to go into the affair too minutely. Downie's
widow and family were provided for—and
his slaughter remained a mystery; until, about
fifteen years after its occurrence, a gentleman
on his death-bed disclosed the whole
particulars, and avowed himself to have belonged
to the obnoxious class of students who
murdered Downie.

CHIPS

WHAT GODFATHERS HAVE DONE FOR OMNIBUSES.

We are often puzzled to know what our
godfathers have done for us: we know
exactly how much they promised—we have
even grateful glimpses of a silver mug;
but we are at a loss to know the precise
amount of moral culture —the particular
quality of instruction with which they favored
us. Omnibuses labour under the same
disadvantage as that of which individuals
complain. But those have godfathers who
positively do them harm, by painting upon
the panels they are to wear through life, names
the most romantic and the most absurd. I
came to London in ignorance of its streets
and its suburbs. I knew nothing of Vauxhall;
I was a stranger to the charms of Greenwich;
I had only dreamt of Blackwall and
whitebait; and my notions concerning the
direction of Camden Town were of the haziest.
I was told that I need not fear, inasmuch as,
by keeping in the principal thoroughfares, I
should always find omnibuses that would
convey me to any quarter of the great city.
But I soon discovered that I had been
misled.

The first day I walked along the Strand, I
was bound for St. John's Wood, and was
told that I had only to look out for an
omnibus proceeding to this suburb to effect
my object. Accordingly I looked about.
First came by the Favourite, but why the
favourite? Had it won an omnibus race, and
was now bound on another? Then followed
Jones! Jones!—by its speed it seemed to be
bound for the whereabouts of Davy Jones:
but why Jones? Is Jones a great public
character who has given his name to a
London suburb? I had not recovered my
surprise at the Jones omnibus before the
Times appeared. It was a green omnibus,
on its way, I learnt, on minute investigation,
not to Blackfriars, but to Westminster Bridge.
Its peculiar relation to the present state
of affairs in this or any other country, I could
not apprehend. Close behind the Times came
the Shepherd—I thought that meant for
Shepherd's Bush—but I am not clear on the
matter even now. The Shepherd was
followed by the Paragon of omnibuses—a very
dusty vehicle. Presently the Atlas came in
sight. I thought this belonged to a company
plying to the most classical part of London,
but it flew past with its bright-green panels;
and I resolved to make my way to Fenchurch
Street there to proceed per train to Camden
Town, whence I would walk to St. John's
Wood. This I achieved by the aid of a new
cheap omnibus, christened Bank, in
unmistakeable letters on one of its panels. On my
way to Fenchurch Street, I noticed many other
omnibuses, strangely and foolishly christened.
There was the Tally-ho! Surely, I thought,
this must be a vehicle which carries the
sporting cockney to the meet of the Brixton
harriers or to the Camden fox-hounds that
uncover at the Mother Red Cap. There was
the Enchantress—which I set down at once
as in the possession of some suburban temple
of the Muses. There was the British Queen—
of course an omnibus running to Buckingham
Palace. There was the Nelson—bound, of
course, for the Nelson column at Charing
Cross. These were my decisions: but on
inquiry I found that the British Queen