Paddy The Leaper's Probation

Patrick O'malley is to-day as much a fixture of the cinder-path as one of the posts at the finish. And yet, strange as it may seem, he attained his present honorable position only after a long and trying probation.

He won his spurs by enduring patiently and successfully such tests and trials as would have discouraged many a brave knight of old. In fact, had Paddy lived in the days when a stout heart and a strong arm were the two best cards in the game of life, he would have been the king of Ireland at least.

Now, if in telling this tale I occasionally make a clumsy effort to be funny, be sure it is with the most respectful intentions toward Mr. O'Malley, who is perhaps the best friend I have on earth, barring none. Indeed, he will laugh more heartily than any other when he reads about himself in this book.

Pat put in his first appearance early in the spring of 188-, the year the track was rebuilt. He was just over, and well I remember how he looked in his moleskin trousers and rough coat, with the queer hat on his head, and the odd little neckcloth tied tight around his neck. He stood close to six feet, was well put together; his hair was carroty, his face red and freckled, and his eyes were small, and blue, and bright. He was engaged as a day-laborer, wheeling dirt, shovelling, raking, and I know not what else; but busy he was from seven o'clock in the morning until six at night. He did the work of two men, for he had not learned, like the others, the knack of loafing gracefully, and earned their ill-will because of his extraordinary efforts. They badgered him unmercifully.

Pat stood it well enough for a few days, for he thought perhaps it was the habit of the new country, and meant in good nature. But one noon-hour when he opened his dinner- pail he found his lunch gone, and in its place a couple of quarts of cinders from the track.

He was a hungry man, after five hours' hard work; his mouth was watering for a juicy piece of corned beef and cabbage; and he had been thinking all the morning of a large wedge of pie which decorated the top of the pail. He was hit in a tender spot, declined to see the joke, rolled up his sleeves, and offered to whip the man who did it, if he was man enough to stand on his feet. This challenge bringing no response but laughter, he singled out the biggest fellow in the gang, and fetched him a blow on the chin that landed him on his back. It was a warning which they took only in part, but they confined their persecutions to an irritating nagging to which he paid little attention.

Indeed, I think Paddy would have been contented to have continued as he was to the age of seventy, for the pay seemed fabulous to him, and he was living in a shower of luxuries, with meat every day, and a palatial room, eight by ten, in which to spend his nights and Sundays.

But unfortunately the labor of track-making would not last forever; one by one the men were discharged, until by the first of May there were only a half-dozen left, Paddy among them, and they were expecting to be paid off in a couple of weeks, or sooner.

Now there was something about the atmosphere of the college grounds, and particularly the cinder-path, that suited Paddy's constitution wonderfully, and when it reached his ears that one man would probably be retained for regular work until winter, and perhaps a snug berth in the gymnasium might follow, he made up his mind to have that job.

I am not sure that he made a vow, as would a knight of the fourteenth century; but he did the same thing in his own way, and resolved, come what might, if mortal man might compass it, no labor or trial would he avoid, no care would he neglect, until "that job" was his.

He began by ingratiating himself with every man who wore a running-shoe, — not a difficult task, for they all liked him, and found in his words and acts a never-failing source of amusement. He had also that rare tact which makes an Irish gentleman the most fascinating on earth. With Paddy it showed itself in a never-failing good nature, a ready hand, and a wonderful faculty for remembering names and faces.

The boys soon found out which way his ambition pointed, that he was entirely devoted to it, and a gay life they led him forthwith.

They first told him that the man who did the most work would get the "job," and that I was keeping run of them. At this Paddy redoubled his exertions. He glued one eye on the compatriot whom he most feared, and for his every shovelful Pat tossed two; for every pull of the rake he went him one better; and trotted around with his barrow of dirt as if he was entered in an old- fashioned "wheelbarrow race."

The other eye he kept on me, and would not once have missed touching his hat had I passed him one hundred times in the day.

Now Paddy was as strong as a bull, inclined to be beefy, and his extraordinary exertions undoubtedly brought him into condition to undergo successfully the test that followed.

One morning George Mitchell, an inveterate joker, with a face as serious as any judge on the bench, got hold of him, and gave him the following confidential information : It was as good as settled that he (Paddy) was the best man of the gang, but this would do him no good, as it'had been decided that the job should be given to one who knew a little about athletics, and was something of a performer as well. I had a man in mind who was a good hand with rake and roller, and who could also take off his coat and show a clean pair of heels over the track.

Paddy listened to this with his mouth open, then straightened himself up, and with an air of great confidence said, " Faith, an' 'tis a runner he is? You'd not say that same with Patrick O'Malley forninst him. Tis a hundred yards in the mile I'll give him, and not a fut less ! "

At this very bold and sweeping proposition, Mitchell expressed his surprise and approval. He agreed to act as Paddy's representative, and arranged for a match that very evening; the distance a quarter, Pat to concede twenty-five yards to his unknown antagonist, and the prize was understood to be "that job."

There was a heap of fun at the noon-hour in trying Pat with an old running-suit and a pair of spiked shoes; but his feet were too large to be fitted, and he demurred at the scanty clothing in a fit of modesty which was side-splitting.

When the six o'clock bell rang he dropped the handle of the heavy roller at which he had been pulling for several hours, kicked off his shoes, and took his place at the mark.

Now, it must not be thought that I was in any way connected with these practical jokes, for they were kept from my ears as much as possible. Only in Paddy's last and crowning test was I at .all concerned, and then not with malice aforethought.

On the evening when Paddy first showed his paces on the track I did arrive just before he started, and had more than half a mind to stop the contest. I saw they had Tom Furness on the twenty-five yard line, for they had worked him in as the rival claimant for "that job." He had set himself in a desperately earnest attitude, and was acting his part to perfection, for Tom of all men dearly loved a joke. Now, Tom was the best "quarter-miler" in college (there were not many better anywhere), and he ought to have given Paddy fifty yards at least to ensure a race. Paddy knew nothing about Tom, for he never appeared on the track until later in the season, and this made the deception easy.

The plan was for Furness to let the Irishman pass him, open up a big gap, and then Torn was to run poor Paddy off his feet. None of the boys questioned its accomplishment, and were anticipating a good laugh when Paddy came pumping down the stretch with "bellows to mend."

There was quite a crowd of spectators gathered at the start, and they were giving Paddy such fool advice as to " Start quick, and run the heart out of him," "Push the beggar off the track," and I know not what else, for they were all talking together. George Mitchell was the most conspicuous of the advisers, and as he talked Paddy would nod his head, and say, "Thank you kindly, sir," or "Faith, 'tis right you are."

I can see Paddy as he looked that night, with his foot on the mark, his hand out, and straining for the start. He wore a checked gingham shirt, moleskin trousers rolled up to the knees, and his arms and head were bare. I can see too his flushed face, with its look of determination and confidence. The good old Celtic blood was at fever heat, and had it been a fight I should have backed him for a winner; but with a runner like Tom Furness, and giving twenty-five, his chance was none at all.

The sun was low, and the air so still it hardly stirred the long branches of the elms; in fact, the smoke of the pistol rose almost straight above the starter's head.

Paddy was not a good one to steal on the pistol, and he lost a half-second at least. Then he gave a leap and was off", showing the most astonishing gait that ever circled a track. He had not taken a dozen strides before he had earned the title he will carry to his grave of "Paddy the Leaper." Nothing like it have I ever seen. Perhaps a kangaroo in distress may show a style resembling it, but surely nothing else that walks on two legs.

It was a series of leaps, the right leg stepping short, the left long, the arms jerking, and the head bobbing in unison, — a "steady-by-jerks" gait, sure enough. Where he learned it, unless in cross-country running over a bog, is more than I can guess.

As for Tom, he acted his role to perfection. He ran in beautiful form, but, apparently doing his best, was unable to keep Paddy from gaining, and indeed the latter was showing an astonishing speed considering the way he ran. It was amusing enough to see the anxious expression on Tom's face as Paddy drew up and passed him. The latter swung into the stretch, a good ten yards to the good, his face beaming and confident. He was throwing away no chances, however, and the moment Tom started to run him down, he answered with a spurt of astonishing vigor, considering the distance he had come and the speed at the start. How he did work, bumping along, in a strange contrast to Tom's clean performance; but all the same, do all he could, Tom missed catching him by a scanty yard, and Paddy had no sooner broken the worsted, than he set up a shrill yell to show that his wind was still good, though he was badly done up, and nothing but his grit had pulled him over. He received the congratulations which were showered upon him with a very open and unconcealed satisfaction.

The joke was certainly on Tom, who enjoyed it as much as anybody, and agreed that "everything was on him," if the boys would follow him in town.

When on the following morning I disabused Paddy of his false hopes, and told him that while he was a good man to work, he was not at all qualified for the position he wanted, I expected that he would lose heart, and give up the "quest." But in this I was mistaken; I did not understand of what material Paddy was manufactured. He kept pegging away as before, trying to please everybody, anticipating our wants, and burdening me with attentions.

The boys stuck to him, and the practical jokes which Paddy endured I cannot begin to remember, and of most of them I suppose I never heard. He was drenched from the fire hydrant, received a shock from an electric battery, and was knocked groggy by the football dummy in the basement, which they persuaded him to tackle.

He appeared one morning dressed in his Sunday suit of black broadcloth, and with a white shirt and collar. In this festive costume he labored all day, the starch in the collar, and shirt losing courage more and more as the sun grew hot, until at night he was a ghastly wreck. This strange performance was the result of Mitchell's tip, that he must dress better or he would have no show for "that job."

Now, you must not think that Paddy was anybody's fool. He was green enough, but began to pick up in a wonderful fashion after the boys got at him. He became more and more handy and useful, until I began to think I might do worse than to keep him after all, though not a hint did I give him of the possibility.

It was on a Saturday night, when I had nearly made up my mind to give him a trial, that Paddy had his experience with the "ghostly hurdler," his last and crowning test, — a test that made nothing of all that had preceded, and that tried Paddy's soul almost to the limits of its endurance. Indeed, the rough horse play and physical trials through which Paddy went, I more than half believe he enjoyed as well as the boys, and he probably blundered into traps which he clearly saw, and did not care to avoid, if they gave anybody any satisfaction.

But with all Pat's courage he was as arrant a coward as ever breathed when the powers of the unknown world were arrayed against him. He believed most firmly in banshees, spooks, goblins, and little people. Now he was to be assailed where his soul was weakest.

I was at work in my little office at the gymnasium, making out some physical development charts, — a tedious task which I did not enjoy, and was anxious to finish. The clock had struck nine, ten, and eleven since I had taken my seat at the desk, and the minute- hand was swinging round the track to twelve, like a tired runner on his last lap. The charts showed the usual small percentage of well-developed bodies, some with no development at all, and the larger part entirely out of proportion, as was shown by the lines zigzagging in a crazy fashion from the thirty mark to the eighty. Here was a splendid pair of legs carrying around a feeble body, and arms not worth mentioning. Here was a trunk like a coal-heaver's, and with it a pair of legs measuring only ten inches at the calf, and fourteen and one-half at the thigh.

In some cases the unbalanced proportions approached deformities, as in the chart of a freshman by the name of Mason. His height was but a little over six feet, yet his leg measurement was astonishing, bettering any record in my book by nearly two inches. This extraordinary length of leg was of course taken from the body, which was like that of a boy of twelve, and upon his first appearance on the track he was given the very appropriate alias of " Two Pieces." He certainly had appeared when running as if there was not much more in the game than an unattached pair of legs, and with one more would have been the complete picture of the well-known heraldic device appropriated by the Isle of Man.

"Two Pieces," like many another freshman, had suffered an extremely dangerous attack of athletic fever, choosing the high hurdles for his special efforts. But although he could almost step them in his stride, without any lift at all, he was so deathly slow between, that he did poorly enough. He trained, however, in a desperate fashion, and was half daft with the idea that he would some time startle the fancy and fracture the record. Early and late " Two Pieces" might be seen taking his flights over the hurdles, his left leg tucked under him, like a startled crane, his right dragging after, and every other stick tumbling if he tried to make time faster than a good walker.

It so happened that Mason's was the last card, and I finished it only a few minutes before midnight. At this hour all was silent but the ticking of the clock and the snapping of the wood fire on the grate. I was just preparing to take my departure when suddenly the oppressive silence of the midnight was broken by the most horrible yell that ever assailed my ears. It fairly curdled

my blood, so full of the agony of fear was it, and I sat still and held my breath until a second and a third, not less hideous, reached my ears, and then I gathered myself together, rushed to the window, and threw up the curtain.

By this time all was silent again, and I half wondered if I had only imagined the' cry. I looked out over the field and track, seeing nothing but the shifting shadows, more bewildering than absolute darkness, which a half moon throws through broken clouds. It was a particularly ghastly light; there was not a thing stirring, not even the wind, until suddenly the bending figure of a man at extreme speed emerged from the gloom, sprang up the steps with a single leap, and a second later the huge door beneath my feet was shaken in a furious fashion.

I confess to a feeling of relief as I thought of its two-inch oak plank, nail studded and heavy hinged, and knew that the assailant, whoever he was, could not gain entrance with anything less than an old-fashioned battering- ram. I was also a bit startled, for I could not at all make 'out what the trouble was. The door-shaking continuing, accompanied by the kicks of a heavy foot and a series of yells, I seized the heavy poker from the hearth and hurried down-stairs.

When I reached the door I hesitated a moment, wondering if the man was mad, and then tried to turn the key with my left hand, holding the poker firmly in my right. In this I was unsuccessful, so tightly was the door pressed by the frightened man outside. I shifted the poker to my left hand, and put my shoulder against the door; there was the sharp click of the opening lock, and the next second I was hurled like a bolt from a catapult by the heavy door.

As I landed on my back, " Paddy the Leaper " appeared with the suddenness of a "Jack-in-the-box." He slammed the door after him, threw the bolt with a single motion, and, slapping himself on the floor, pressed his broad back against the door, as if he feared the fastenings would not hold.

For several seconds we neither of us spoke, and a blooming tableau we must have been: both sitting bolt upright, our feet almost touching, Paddy's red face blanched and mottled with fear, and mine undoubtedly blank and vacant with surprise. Paddy's closely cropped red hair was always on end, and now, with the accompaniment of eyes rolling half out of their sockets, and white, trembling lips, he was the very image of Fear. I could hardly believe my eyes, or that this was the same " Paddy the Bold" who was willing to face a dozen men, and give Tom Furness twenty-five yards in the " quarter."

Remember we were in the vestibule, not more than a dozen feet square, and there was a dim and ghastly light from the flame of a single gas-jet, turned as low as possible.

I came to myself first, and was beginning to ask the crazy bog-trotter what was the matter with him, when he suddenly found tongue, and broke in with a husky " The saints save us ! Howly hiven hilp us ! Fer the luve av God, Misther Brown, git up an' put yer fut ag'in the dure."

I slung the poker into the pit of his stomach, got on my feet, and gave him a clip on the head with the flat of my hand that would have felled a man with an average thickness of skull. The blow from the poker resulted only in a grunt, and while that of my hand relieved my feelings a bit, it seemed to help Paddy's addled brains not at all. He caught me by the leg, pulled me down, and sat me up against the door by his side as if I had been a wax doll, saying in a maundering and contented fashion, " Faith, thin, Misther Brown, 'tis now we have it, an' safe we are."

"Safe, are we? I'm safe enough; but as for you, you howling idiot, if you lay your hand on me again, you'll wish you'd stayed outside."

At this, Paddy started crooning again, like a tomcat on a fence; he rocked his huge carcass, crossed himself without intermission, and called on all the saints in the calendar. I was convulsed with wonder, laughter, and anger— the latter most in evidence—atthe undignified part I was playing, in being set up like a dummy by my crazy companion. I got on my feet again, and with my arms akimbo stood studying him a full minute, doubtful what to do, and somewhat anxious for his reason.

Suddenly he looked up to me and asked in a loud whisper, " For the luve av hiven, Misther Brown, tell me, what was it ? "

" What was it? " answered I. " What was what?"

" Sure, it was," said he; and at this remarkable dialogue seemed perfectly satisfied, began to croon and rock again, and lapsed into a state of " innocuous desuetude," as before.

Deciding, at last, that the time for heroic measures had arrived, I took hold of Paddy's collar with both my hands, shook him violently for a few seconds, and then began to bang his head against the door. It did not take many raps against the hard oak to bring into the vacant face a hint of reason, and, at last, with a good blow of my fist, which bowled him over, I told him either to tell me at once what the trouble was, or I would open the door and throw him out.

This last threat was enough, and he raised himself to the perpendicular again, lifting his hands with a gesture, half resistance and half petition, saying in an appealing fashion, " Sure, you'd not hev the black heart to do it; an' 'tis God's truth I'll tell."

He told his story as follows in a hoarse whisper, growing a little louder toward the end of the tale: " 'Tis guilty av nothin' I am at all; 'twas walkin' home I was, all innocent an' aisy loike, afther a bit ava picnic at Larry Costigan's, the same thot lives forninst the junk-shop by the river. I lift the sthreet, tuk a cut acroost the tennis-courts to save me toime (fer late it was, an' Mrs. Dooley, me boardin' misthress, locks the dure at 12), an' was a-follerin' the track along the stritch, whin on the suddint I heard futstips behindt, an' whin I turned me head I saw (howly hivin guard her own) a big, white spook a-follerin' in me track."

At this Paddy went back to his crooning and crossing again, and I was obliged to administer another blow, and take a step toward the door, with a significant glance at the lock, to bring him back to a state of relative sanity. He gathered his senses together,

and with a mighty gulp went on with his story.

" 'Twas in a long white robe it was, an' afther me it came; not a-flyin', nor a-glidin' loike, nor runnin' flat at all, but (an' 'tis the truth I'm tellin'), but a-hurdlin' loike, though nothin' was it jumpin', but impty wind alone. Ivery toime it lept, me brith lift me, an' I was that gone, I cud not move me fut, though plain I saw it comin' on me. Right forninst me was it, an' another sthride an' the spook wud hev had me in his grip, whin me brith came ag'in, I gev a shout, an' lit out, with the spook afther. Fer awhile he hild his own, but I drew ahid, fer he was a-hurdlin' all the toime to me a-runnin' flat, an' neither spook nor divil can give such odds to a good man loike Patrick O'Malley."

This last sentence was given with a toss of the head and an emphasis that showed Paddy in something like his usual form, and I saw he was gradually getting back his heart again.

He ended with, "I think the spook sthopped at the stritch, for his robe was a- flappin', and a-flappin', an' whin I swung round the turn 'twas there I heard no more, the saints be praised; and nothin' more kin I tell ye, an' all hev I told; an' please, Misther Brown, fer the luve av hivin don't open the dure."

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I had not interrupted the story, for I saw that Paddy was growing calmer all the time. When he finished, however, he still sat trembling against the door; would, probably, have fought like a tiger before he was moved, and I was not looking for trouble with a man half out of his senses, and weighing a good twenty pounds more than myself. So I began to argue with him, talking in quiet tones. Paddy relaxed a little as if open to reason, but at the same time well on his guard.

" Did you say, Paddy," I began, " that you heard the footsteps on the track, and the flapping of the long, white robe? "

" Faith, I did," said Paddy, " and plain it was."

" I suppose the spook was hard to see, appearing and disappearing, and transparent all the time, so you could look through him, like a whiff of smoke from your pipe," I continued.

" An' 'tis there you're wrong," he answered gravely, and rather proud of his superior wisdom. " 'Twas plain I saw, and plain I heard; from the toime I set eyes on the thing, whin I furst turned me hid, all the toime 'twas a-comin' on me, I saw it just as plain as I see you, barrin' the dark, and no more could I see through it thin through yerself, there where yer stand. Faith," with a shudder at the thought, " 'twas full as near it was to me, before me brith came, an' I got me stringth to yill; an' did yes hear me cry at all, at all, Misther Brown?"

" Yes, Paddy," I answered, " I certainly heard you yell, and if there is any Comanche Indian can beat you, he's a wonder. You're very sure the spook was not transparent, and that he made a noise when his feet touched the cinders, and the robe flapped in the wind?"

" Tis sure I am."

"Well, you blooming idiot," said I, changing my tone abruptly, " did you ever hear of a ghost that cast a shadow, or who made a noise with either feet or robe? "

" I hev not," he answered, with a stubborn shake of his head; " but 'tis little av ghosts I know, an' liss I want; but till me, thin," he said, with his head on one side and an argumentative twist to his mouth,— " till me, thin, if 'twas no spook, what was it?"

" Nothing at all but the working of Larry Costigan's benzine whiskey in that thick skull of yours; or perhaps the boys have put up another game on you."

"The byes it may be, thin," he said, with an assumption of injured innocence, " but the whiskey 'tis not. Only three drinks did I take, and thot by way av frindship ; a karfee cup it was, an' not half full at that. 'Twas not enough to kape the night out, lit alone daze me hid. Perhaps 'tis drunk you think I am; well, that I'm not I'll prove to yes."

With this Paddy rose to his feet, and planting one foot on a crack of the floor, he walked across the hall to the opposite side, as gravely as possible, putting one foot straight in front of the other. He had come to his senses enough to realize that if I thought him the worse for liquor, it would hurt his chances for "that job," and he walked as carefully as if he had been Blondin on a tight rope, and Niagara Falls was waiting to engulf him if he made a false step. Paddy's temporary forgetfulness of his ambition was the best indication of his intense fear, for not once before had he let it out of his mind since he started on his " quest."

As he walked away, I slipped to the door, saying soothingly as I unlocked and opened it, "Well, Paddy, you're sober enough; it must be the boys, and we'll go out and catch them at their tricks."

" Sure we will that," he said rather doubtfully ; " but 'tis no spook at all, for they makes no noise whin they walks?"

I assured him I would stake my professional reputation on it, and taking his arm in mine, we sallied forth. I was determined to ferret out the mystery, for such it was to me. Paddy was certainly not drunk enough to see things, and what had given him the impression of a ghostly athlete topping the phantom hurdles at midnight I could not imagine.

When the door shut after us, for a few moments I could see nothing; but when my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, we started across the field to the other side of the track, where was the straightaway over which Paddy had seen the spook " a-hurd- lin'."

When we reached it, for a few seconds we could see nothing unusual, but a little later we suddenly discovered at the same time a white figure near the finish coming toward us where we stood, perhaps thirty yards from the start. I knew we saw it at the same time, for although Paddy said nothing, his hand tightened on my arm, and he would have undoubtedly bolted then and there had I not held on to him.

Now, I will confess that I was a bit surprised and startled, for I thought that the only ghost was probably in Paddy's brain. When I saw the tall, white figure loom up in the darkness, I did feel a little queer, and remembered some blood-curdling stories

with which a lazy nurse once kept me in bounds when I was a little lad of seven summers.

I could see the ghost plainly enough as he came toward us in the gloom, following along the other side of the track, walking as a hurdler would when the sticks were up and he was going to the start. I felt a bit queer, I say, for there was no such noise as Paddy had described. Indeed, the spook made no noise at all that I could distinguish ; to which fact Paddy called my attention in a husky, " Sure, 'tis a torobred spook, an" no mistake; an' faith, Misther Brown, I think we could see it better from furder off."

I quieted Paddy as best I could, and kept a good grip on his arm. The moon just now coming out of the clouds, we could see the tall, white figure plainly enough, the white robe ghastly in the light, and I thought I could hear a slight flutter from the draperies as the wind blew them. The spook looked taller than mortal man, and when he paused at the start, showed a most portentous figure, as if the flesh had left the bones, and nothing but a skeleton was within.

He was quiet but a few seconds, and Paddy gave a grip to my arm when the ghostly hurdler got on the mark, set himself for the start, put out a long spectral arm, and then suddenly, as if at the sound of the pistol, he was off.

Three strides he took, and then up he came, lifting in the air as over an imaginary hurdle, and as he rose I could hear Paddy's breath as if drawn by a suction-pump.

The spook landed with a great flutter, the white robe making a tremendous flapping, and the steps sounding crunch, crunch, crunch on the cinders. Although there was not the sign of a stick up, he hurdled sure enough, and so naturally, that I strained my eyes to discover something more than the " impty wind." As he approached the second imaginary hurdle the moon came out clear, and I could see him tuck a bare foot under him, rise clumsily, and come down with an amazing display of skeleton legs. A great noise he made, and it reassured me. I was sure one of the boys was acting the r61e, and discovered something strangely familiar in the peculiar gait of the ghostly hurdler.

As it came close to us, Paddy began to tremble, and was gathering himself to break away and run, when a sudden fancy took me, and I said, " Tackle the ghost, Paddy, and the job is yours," at the same time letting go my hold on his arm."

He hesitated but a second, just long enough to realize what I had said, and then he was at the spook like a flash, and of all the " mix-ups " I ever saw, that which followed was the worst.

You have seen a Punch and Judy show, and remember the wonderful struggle between Punch and the devil? Well, that between Paddy and the "ghostly hurdler" was just such another. First Paddy's black coat was uppermost, and then the spook's white robe, and which would have stayed there I cannot tell, for I pulled them apart before either had won out. When they got on their feet, and I had a good look at them, I gave a shout, for they were effigies sure enough.

On one side was Paddy, a ragged piece of white cloth in his right hand, his left clenched and held in front of him, in case there should be a renewal of hostilities. His coat was split open in the back, also one knee of his trousers, and his cheek was scratched as if a giant tomcat had clawed him.

On the other side of me, and facing Paddy, with a look of injury on his pale face, was, of all men, " Two Pieces" himself. His nose was bleeding freely, where Pat's big fist had got in a blow, and he was clad only in his night-shirt, most of which had been torn off in the struggle.

After recriminations, explanations, and apologies, I found that " Two Pieces" had undoubtedly been so excited by his dreams of success on the cinder-path that they had brought back an attack of sleep-walking, to which he said he had been addicted when a boy. He remembered nothing between his going to bed and the waking up in a life and death struggle with Paddy, and we got him back into his room, not much the worse for wear. After we had tucked him safely in bed, we started back across the field to the gymnasium, for Mrs. Dooley's door was now bolted beyond a doubt.

I opened the door against which Paddy had leaned a short half-hour before; we crossed the vestibule where I had heard his startling story, and under the stairs I pointed out an old tumbling mattress, which would make a comfortable resting-place for the night.

I then took slowly from my ring the key to the outside door, and handed it to Paddy without a word.

He knew well what it meant, and his face flushed red with pleasure. No knight of old after his vigil at arms received his golden spurs with greater pride. He stumbled over a few words of thanks, and I left him to the contemplation of his success, alone with his glory.

The days of his probation were past. " That job" was his at last.