He remembered the words long after the librarian had gone; and sighing, he again took up the long roll of paper lying upon his desk.

Inasmuch as she was sorely wronged, beaten, tortured-" Oh, that was an old story; yet it read well, too, that old, old petition with that old, old plea-charity. It was a hard thing,—to hold life in his hand and refuse it. Those old threadbare stories had well-nigh wrought his political ruin. The papers had sneeringly nicknamed him "Tenderheart," and compared him, with a sneer, to that old sterling hero, Andrew Jackson, whose statue loomed like a bronze giant in the gathering twilight.

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Papers! Papers! Wanter paper, mister?'

A thin little face peered in at the door, a face so old, so strangely unchildlike, he wondered if it were not the face of a man fastened upon the misshapen body of a child. "Yes, I want a Banner."

The boy had bounded forward at the welcome "Yes," but stopped at the remainder of the sentence, while an expression of regret and disgust crossed his little old-young face.

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'Don't sell that sort, mister; none o' our club don't. It's-low-lived."

"What?

You don't sell the Evening Banner, the only independent journal in the city?"

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'That's about the size on't," he said as he edged himself, a veritable bundle of tatters, a trifle nearer the open grate.

And so you refuse to sell the Banner.

Why is that? ""Taint no good," was the reply. None o' us likes it. Yer see, cully, it sez mean things, lies, you know, about a friend o' mine.'

And so the Banner abuses your friend? And what does it say of him?”

"Aw, sher! it called him a mugwump, an' it said ez ther' wa'n't no backbone to him, an' ez he wuz only fitten to set

the pris'ners loose, an' to play the fiddle. about a feller named Ole Poplar—”

An' it said a lot

What!"

'Poplar? Ben't it poplar? Naw, cedar;-ash, hick'ry -that's it! Hick'ry. Ole Hick'ry. It said a lot about him; an' it made the boys orful mad, an' they won't sell

"Aw, he aint my friend perzactly. He's Skinny's though, an' all the boys stan's up for Skinny."

And who is Skinny?"

'Say, cully, wher' was you raised? Don't you know Skinny?"

The Executive shook his head. "Is he a newsboy? "He wuz-He wuz a newsboy-till yistiddy. We buried uv him yistiddy."

"And this man whom the Banner abuses was Skinny's friend."

Yes. This here wuz Skinny's route. I took it yistiddy. Yer see Skinny didn't have no mammy an' no folks, anʼ no meat onter his bones,—that's why we all named him Skinny. He wuz jest b-o-n-e-s. An' ther' wuz nobody ter tek keer - uv him when he wuz sick, an' he jest up an' died."

Tell me about this friend of Skinny's."

"The Gov'ner?"

"Was it the Governor ?

Say, is ther' anybody else can pardon out convic's? Say, cully, does you know the Gov'ner?'

Yes; but go on with your story. Tell me all about Skinny and his friend.”

"Me an' him wuz on the pris'n route, till-yistiddy. Least I wuz ther' till yistiddy. Skinny tuk this route last year. He begged it fur me when he―come ter quit, because I ben't ez strong ez-Solermun, you know. Wa'n't he the strong un? Solermun or Merthusler, I furgit which. But 'twuz when we wuz ter the pris'n route I larnt about

Skinny's friend, the Gov'ner, you know. First ther' wuz ole Jack Nasby up an' got parelized, an' wa'n't no 'count ter nobody, let 'lone the State. He suffered awful too, an' so'd his wife. An' one day Skinny said he wuz goin' ter write a pertition an' git all the 'fishuls ter sign it, an' git the Gov'ner ter pard'n ole Nasby out. They all signed it—one o' the convic's writ it, but they all tol' Skinny ez 'twuz no use, 'cause he wouldn't do it. An' one day, don't yer think when ole Nasby wuz layin' on the hospittul bunk with his dead side kivered over with a pris'n blankit, an' his wife a-cryin' becase the ward'n war 'bleeged ter lock her out, the Gov'ner his se'f walked in. know, got it in the war. Cried! What yer think o' called the man's wife back, an' pinted ter the half-dead convic', an' told her ter 'fetch him home.' Did!

He wuz sorter lame his se'f yer An' what yer reckin he done? that, cully? Cried; an' then he

An' the

nex' day if the Banner didn't tan him! Yer jest bet it did."

But the best uv all wuz about Ole Bemis. Bemis wuz a banker; a reg'lar rich un.

Yer see,

An' the Banner said he orter to be hung, an' would be if the Guv'ner'd let him. But if he'd cry a little the Guv'ner'd set him on his feet agin, when the cotes wuz done with him.' But the cote said he mus' hang, hang, hang. An' then whatcher reckin? What do yer reckin, cully? The nex' day down come a little yaller-headed gal ter the jail a-kerryin' uv a pard'n. An' they said the little gal come up ter see the Gov'ner, an' he wouldn't see her at first. But she got in at last, an' begged an' begged fur the ole man 'bout ter hang. "But the Gov'ner wouldn't lis'n, till all 't once she turned ter him an' sez she, 'Have you got a chile?' An' his eyes filt up in a minute, an' sez he, Olivet.' That's the graveyard, yer know. his sec't'ry man. An' the man sez, 'Is it wise?' An' then the Gov'ner stood up gran' like, an' sez he, 'Hit's right; and that's enough.' Say, cully, whatcher think o' that? An' whatcher lookin' at out the winder?

One, at Mount
Then, he called

Say, cully, does the firelight hurt yer eyes, makes 'em water? They looks like the picture o' Skinny's man. Oh, but hit's a good picture. It's a man, layin' in bed. Sick or somethin', I reckin'. An' his face has got a kind o' glory look. An' in one corner is a big, big patch o' light. An' plumb square in the middle uv it is an angul: a gal angul, I reckin, becase it's orful pretty. An' she has a book, a gold un; an' she's writin' down names in it. An' the man in the bed is watchin' uv her, an' tellin' uv her what ter do; for down ter the bottom ther's some gal'-writin'. Skinny figgered it out an' it said, 'Write me as one who loves his fellow men.' Aint that scrumptious?'

When

"Say! yorter knowed Skinny. He wuz the nicest boy yevver did see. He knowed ever'-thing, he did. He wuz a plumb good un. I wish you could see Skinny's picture anyhow. He set a sight o' store by it, Skinny did. he wuz a-dyin' he turned ter me, the Gov'ner so's I can see him.' sez, sorter smilin', sez he, Skip?' he-so soft yer jest could a-heerd it; one who loves his fellow men. An' that wuz the las' word he ever said on this earth.’

an' sez he, 'Skip, hang An' when I done it, he Sez I, 'Skinny.' Sez sez he, 'Write me ez

There was a sound of heavy footsteps coming down the gray stone corridor—a creak, groan, and bang. "What's that?" asked the newsboy, starting up. "That is the porter, closing up for the night. The tatters stood as near upright as tatters may. paper sold; he remembered it too late.

Not a

The Executive smiled. "Never mind the change," said

he, and be sure you bring me to-morrow's Herald."

"Say! who be you anyhow?"

"I am the Governor of Tennessee, Skippy."

There was a low soft whistle, a hurried shambling, and the ponderous door closed behind him.

The Governor arose and began to put away his papers. "Inasmuch as she was sorely wronged "-his eye fell upon a line of the woman-murderer's long petition. Was this a case for clemency? The crisp paper rattled strangely as he unrolled it, and fixed his own name, together with the great seal of the State. The critics might lash to-morrow; but to-night-he lifted his face to the starless sky and said: 'Write me as one who loves his fellow men.

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THE FIGHT OFF SANTIAGO

By HENRY CAROT LODGE, Lawyer, Editor, Author; Member of Congress from Massachusetts, 1886-93; Senator, 1893-. Born in Boston, Mass., 1850.

Taken, by permission of the publishers, from Lodge's "The War with Spain." Copyright, 1899, by Harper & Brothers, New York.

The details [of the fight off Santiago], the number of shots, the ranges, the part taken by each ship, the positions of the fleet-all alike have begun to fade from recollection even now, and will grow still dimmer as the years recede. But out of the mist of events and the gathering darkness of passing time the great fact and the great deed stand forth for the American people and their children's children, as white and shining as the Santiago channel glaring under the search-lights through the Cuban night.

They remember, and will always remember, that hot summer morning, and the anxiety, only half whispered, which overspread the land. They see, and will always see, the American ships rolling lazily on the long seas, and the sailors just going to Sunday inspection. Then comes the long thin trail of smoke drawing nearer the harbor's mouth. The ships see it, and we can hear the cheers ring out, for the enemy is coming, and the American sailor rejoices mightily to know that the battle is set. There is no need