Too bad-flick-it's changed again-it's Madeline on the doorstep -she's fallen asleep-oh, say, look at that man coming near to her on tiptoes, and peeking at her-why, it's Edward, it's the Roo-but he doesn't waken her-what does it mean? What's he after? Flick, flick

Hullo-what's this?-it's night-what's this huge dark thing all steel-with great ropes against the sky-it's Brooklyn Bridge—at midnight-there's a woman on it! It's Madeline-see! see! She's going to jump-stop her! Stop her! Flick, flick

Hullo! she didn't jump after all-there she is again on the doorstep-asleep-how could she jump over Brooklyn Bridge and still be asleep? I don't catch on-or, oh, yes, I do she dreamed it-I see now, that's a great scheme, eh?-shows her dream

The picture's changed-what's this place a saloon, I guess—yes, there's the bartender, mixing drinks-men talking at little tablesaren't they a tough-looking lot?-see, that one's got a revolver-why, it's Edward the Roo-talking with two men-he's giving them money -what's this?

GIVE US A HUNDRED APIECE AND WE'LL DO IT.

It's in the street again-Edward and one of the two toughsthey've got little black masks on-they're sneaking up to Madeline where she sleeps-they've got a big motor drawn up beside themlook, they've grabbed hold of Madeline—they're lifting her into the motor-help! Stop! Stop! Aren't there any police?-yes, yes, there's a man who sees it-by Gee! It's John, John Hold fast-grab them, John -pshaw! they've jumped into the motor, they're off!

Where is it now?-oh, yes-it's the police station again-that's John; he's telling them about it-he's all out of breath-look, that head man, the big fellow, he's giving orders

INSPECTOR FORDYCE, TAKE YOUR BIGGEST CAR
AND TEN MEN. IF YOU OVERTAKE THEM,
SHOOT AND SHOOT TO KILL.

Hoorah! Isn't it great-hurry! don't lose a minute-see them all buckling on revolvers get at it, boys, get at it! Don't lose a secondLook, look-it's a motor-full speed down the street-look at the houses fly past-it's the motor with the thugs-there it goes round

the corner-it's getting smaller, it's getting smaller, but look, here comes another-my! it's just flying-it's full of police—there's John in front

Flick!

Now it's the first motor-it's going over a bridge-it's heading for the country-say, isn't that car just flying- -Flick, flick! It's the second motor-it's crossing the bridge too-hurry, boys, make it go!— Flick, flick!

Out in the country-a country road-early daylight-see the wind in the trees! Notice the branches waving? Isn't it natural?—whiz! Biff! There goes the motor-biff! There goes the other one-right after it-hoorah!

The open road again-the first motor flying along! Hullo, what's wrong? It's slackened, it stops-hoorah! it's broken down-there's Madeline inside-there's Edward the Roo! Say, isn't he pale and desperate!

Hoorah! the police! the police! all ten of them in their big car-see them jumping out-see them pile into the thugs! Down with them! Paste their heads off! Shoot them! Kill them! Isn't it great—isn't it educative-that's the Roo-Edward-with John at his throat! Choke him, John! Throttle him!

Hullo, it's changed-they're in the big motor-that's the Roo with the handcuffs on him.

That's Madeline-she's unbound and she's talking; say, isn't she just real pretty when she smiles?

YES, JOHN, I HAVE LEARNED THAT I WAS WRONG TO PUT MY ART BEFORE YOUR LOVE. I WILL MARRY YOU AS SOON AS YOU LIKE.

Flick, flick!

What pretty music! Ding! Dong! Ding! Dong! Isn't it soft and sweet!-like wedding bells. Oh, I see, the man in the orchestra's doing it with a little triangle and a stick-it's a little church up in the country -see all the people lined up-oh! there's Madeline! in a long white veil -isn't she just sweet!-and John—

Flick, flack, flick, flack.

BULGARIAN TROOPS ON THE MARCH.

What! Isn't it over? Do they all go to Bulgaria? I don't seem to understand. Anyway, I guess it's all right to go now. Other people are going.

Little Jean-Marie-Michel Jumière had been drafted from the Breton village of Plougastel-away from home and from his Little Mother and his beloved Rosalie; not into the navy as he had hoped, but into the infantry. In the barracks at Paris he was unhappy. Learning to drum was no great hardship to Jean-Marie, or Little Tapin, as he was called. It was something at least to be in the open air. And he was the first to be assigned a place in the regimental band. "What cramped and crushed his tiny little heart, what clouded his queer, quizzical eyes, was nothing less than Paris, beautiful, careless Paris, that laughed, and danced, and sang about him, and had never a thought for Little Tapin, with his funny freckled face, and his ill-fitting uniform of red and blue, and his coarse boots, and his ineradicable Breton stare." He formed a plan to desert and return to Plougastel.

One day, for the third time since joining the regiment, Little Tapin was detailed as drummer to the guard at the Palace du Louvre. At seven o'clock he was ordered to go and drum the belated voyons out of the garden. Marching to the end of the garden, he stood for a moment, deep in his dream of Plougastel.

The Army of France

THE mid-August afternoon had been oppressively warm, and now a thin haze had risen from the wet wood pavement of the Place de la Concorde, and hovered low, pink in the light of the setting sun. Directly

before Little Tapin the obelisk raised its warning finger, and beyond, the Champs Elysées, thickly dotted with carriages, and half veiled by great splotches of ruddy-yellow dust, swept away in a long, upward curve toward the distant Arc de l'Etoile.

But of all this Little Tapin saw nothing. He stood very still, with his back to the basin, where the fat goldfish went to and fro like lazy sentinels, on the watch for a possible belated little boy, with a pocket full of crumbs. He was still deep in his dream of Plougastel, so deep that he could almost smell the salt breeze rollicking in from the Goulet, and hear the chapel bell sending the Angelus out over the strawberry fields and the rock-dotted hillside.

After a minute, something-a teamster's shout, or the snap of a cocher's whip-roused him, and he glanced around with the same halfsensation of terror with which he had wakened in the night to hear the guards shouting "Le Mans!" and "Chartres!" Then the reality came back to him with a rush, and he grumbled to himself. Oh, it was all very well, the wonderful French army, all very well if one could have been a marshal or a general, or even a soldier of the line in time of war. There was a chance for glory, bon sang! But to be a drummer—a drummer one metre seventy in height, with flaming red hair and a freckled face-a drummer who was called Little Tapin; and to have, for one's most important duty, to drum the loungers out of a public garden! No, evidently he would desert.

"But why?" said a grave voice beside him.

Little Tapin was greatly startled. He had not thought he was saying the words aloud. And his fear increased when, on turning to see who had spoken, he found himself looking into the eyes of one who was evidently an officer, though his uniform was unfamiliar. He was plain-shaven and very short, almost as short, indeed, as Little Tapin himself, but about him there was a something of dignity and command which could not fail of its effect. He wore a great black hat like a gendarme's, but without trimming, and a blue coat with a white plastron, the tails lined with scarlet, and the sleeves ending in red and white cuffs. White breeches, and knee-boots carefully polished, completed the uniform, and from over his right shoulder a broad band of crimson silk was drawn tightly across his breast. A short sword hung straight at his hip, and on his left breast were three orders on red ribbons,— a great star, with an eagle in the centre, backed by a sunburst studded with brilliants; another eagle, this one of white enamel, pendant from a jeweled crown, and a smaller star of enameled white and green, similar to the large one.

Little Tapin had barely mastered these details when the other spoke again.

"Why art thou thinking to desert?" he said.

"Monsieur is an officer?" faltered the drummer,-"a general, perhaps. Pardon, but I do not know the uniform."

“A corporal, simply-a soldier of France, like thyself. Be not afraid, my little one. All thou sayest shall be held in confidence. Tell me thy difficulties."

His voice was very kind, the kindest Little Tapin had heard in three long months, and suddenly the barrier of his Breton reserve gave and broke. The nervous strain had been too great. He must have sympathy and advice—yes, even though it meant confiding in a stranger and the possible discovery and failure of his dearly cherished plans.

"A soldier of France!" he exclaimed, impulsively. "Ah, monsieur, there you have all my difficulty. What a thing it is to be a soldier of France! And not even that, but a drummer, a drummer who is called Little Tapin because he is the smallest and weakest in the corps. To be taken from home, from the country he loves, from Brittany, and made to serve among men who despise him, who laugh at him, who avoid him in the hours of leave, because he is not bon camarade. To wear a uniform that has been already worn. To sleep in a dormitory where there are bêtes funestes. To have no friends. To know that he is not to see Plougastel, and the sweetheart, and the Little Mother for three years. Never to fight, but, at best, to drum voyous out of a garden! That, monsieur, is what it is to be a soldier of France!"

There were tears in Little Tapin's eyes now, but he was more angry than sad. The silence of months was broken, and the hoarded resentment and despair of his long martyrdom, once given rein, were not to be checked a second time. He threw back his narrow shoulders defiantly, and said a hideous thing:

"Conspuez l'armée française!"

There was an instant's pause, and then the other leaned forward, and with one white-gloved hand touched Little Tapin on the eyes.

Before them a great plain, sloping very gradually upward in all directions, like a vast, shallow amphitheatre, spread away in a long series of low terraces to where, in the dim distance, the peaks of a range of purple hills nicked and notched a sky of palest turquoise. From where they stood, upon a slight elevation, the details of even the farthest slopes seemed singularly clean-cut and distinct, the groups of